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16:30 – Baghdad. Halloween. There is a greater sense of unease in the palace, despite the respite offered by the cooler temperatures the past few days. One of our many enemies, Al Qaida, has been pamphleteering Baghdad for the past few days, calling for a mass attack tomorrow, the “Day of Resistance”. The most common rumor is that they intend to send five hundred men against us, in scattered packs across the Green Zone wall, then onwards towards the palace, where they will kill every thing in sight until they are wiped out by Coalition forces.
The Army seems to be taking this threat seriously, as more and more of them are carrying their weapons. Officers as well, even those who you thought had thrown off the practice long ago, are strapping on the Berettas and slinging the M-16’s. The Gurkas are wearing their flak vests now, as they guard the palace entrances, and they are a bit more stern than usual. I’ve seen less of the mercenaries, but they may be out trying to head off the opposition.
We were advised to stay close to our vests and helmets for the next few days, and I am heeding this advice for the most part. As well, I asked Captain Song for the five minute lesson on M-16’s – magazine placement, feeding a round, safety, fire, three round burst. Just in case.
Of course, I have yet to be issued a weapon, but I’m sure there will be plenty around if worst comes to worst. Personally, I’m going to find the basement if there’s time, or lock myself in the office if there isn’t. Let the professionals do their jobs.
Someone told me to stay far away from the mercs and PSDs (personal security detail) if there’s trouble. They only protect what they are paid to protect, so it may be real easy to get in the way of these guys.
Someone else told me that the Gurkas would go berserk in a firefight. If they enter a room hot, the best defense is to hit the deck and stay there, as they will shoot anything standing.
Swell.
I’d prefer to be armed while locked in the office.
No one’s freaking out just yet, but there’s definitely something in the air. In thirteen minutes, Ambassador Bremer is scheduled to lead a “Town Hall” meeting in the palace Chapel to discuss the security issues. I should leave now if want a good view.
---
Bremer is around 50 years old, good looking and confident. To an SRO crowd of twelve to fifteen hundred churchmouse quiet attendees, he passed on the President’s thoughts that we are heroes already, for accepting this noble (and bizarre) assignment in service to our country. Also speaking was his deputy, Ambassador Kennedy, sunken chest and intellectual, who outlined palace-specific security measures. General Sanchez was there as well, who’s in charge of the Coalition Joint Task Force, and one of his Colonels, who is tasked with protecting the Green Zone.
Between them, they expressed their plans to protect us tonight. They have doubled the guard. Increased the armor at the gates. Upped patrol and ambush units on both sides of the wall. Gurkas have doubled up.
In case of an attack (“in case of”), Gurka air horns will sound two blasts, at which point we are to duck and cover ourselves with our helmets and flak vests until such time as we hear three blasts of the air horn. Force Protection will take care of the rest they say.
Bremer, under the watchful eyes of his Secret Service detail, then opened things up to questions. Armed military not otherwise assigned are to establish a defensive posture and comply with the rules of engagement. Civilians who are policemen in the States can carry. Civilians who are only civilians cannot. Kennedy answered this one, saying something like, “you would be a bigger threat to me than the attackers”. “… a bigger threat to HIM?” Fuck him. He’s got the god damned Secret Service to protect him. All I need is a PDW (personal defensive weapon). I won’t be offensive unless I have to! Hell, I’m gonna lock myself in an office far away from Kennedy and his personal security detachment, I’ll be no threat to him…. unless he tries to enter my locked office.
No one was particularly comforted by these speeches. Force Protection doesn’t have a clue. We left en masse for a sullen, Mexican themed Halloween chow.
Afterwards, I headed back to Baghdad Central. I sat in the comfy gilded sofa and was going to read today’s issue of Stars and Stripes, but was distracted by a magazine dedicated to aficionados of radio controlled aircraft. [Apparently, recent advances in brushless electric motors has made flying 100% electric planes and helicopters increasingly viable (although the hobbyist’s love affair with gas engines won’t be fading any time soon).]
I was further distracted by a close conversation between three British policemen bunked near me and an Army Lieutenant Colonel. The Bobbies thought it best if they deployed outside once the shit hit the fan, and tried to join in the defense of the palace. The LTC had a different plan for these men.
As they were only cops, they had very little combat training (except maybe their eighteen months in Bosnia). They should instead defend the interior of the structure and the people within. Maybe he didn’t actually include “people within”, but I would have like to have heard it. The Colonel surmised that the first Kolichnaya rocket would have little trouble breeching the exterior walls of our sleeping foyer. As the invaders (the Al Qaida invaders, not the Yankee Imperialist Dog invaders) swept through the foyer, the Bobbies were to fall back to the interior hallway and defend the stair.
At this, I recalled that there is a large magazine (not RC planes this time, but the room full of guns) at the top of the stair, turn left, ten meters, turn left, break down the door. I’m thinking of heading there before I go lock myself in the office (30 meters to the right of the top of the stairs).
This Colonel seemed more certain of the attack. Gung Ho Soldier Man. He also seemed certain that the attackers were already within the Green Zone perimeter. There are probably 5,000 Iraqi civilians living inside the outer wall. In a shining example of support for the Second Amendment, most homes are allowed one AK-47 for personal defense. With an average home size of ten, there could easily be 500 assault weapons here in the hands of the locals, besides what was hidden during the war or since the occupation. This is plenty for a massive suicide strike force.
Of the hundreds of people that enter the Green Zone daily, how many of them leave? How many remain hidden? How many are willing to die for their cause?
Maybe very few. Maybe a lot of dumb ones.
I’ll sleep with my clothes on tonight.
Read More......
2003-10-31
2003-10-29
Wednesday, 29 October 2003
12:00 – Baghdad. Mr. Waleed is having a bad week. He returned from the Donors Conference to learn that his brother had died in an automobile accident (no wonder really, considering that most drivers leave their fate to Allah and careen down the motorways like they were in Detroit or Kingston or something). This morning he heard the news that one of the Deputy Mayors of Baghdad (his close personal friend and good friend to the Coalition) had been assassinated two nights ago. This news came from the Major who accompanies me to the Ministry of Water Resources, where Mr. Waleed is highly placed. For some reason, this news was not immediately picked up by the media.
The Coalition has developed shadow ministries in the palace. These are headed by Americans and advisory in nature, but they perform much of the coordination regarding infrastructure improvements made by the Army with the Iraqi Ministries, as well as training them to act more independently and responsibly than they may have under the old regime. Some coordination I perform with these shadow ministries but, at this time, the critical coordination is with the actual ministries.
I need to go to the Ministry mostly because they can’t come to me. Security is awfully tight getting into the Green Zone, and even tighter getting into the Palace, so in this case, it is much more convenient to travel to the Ministry of Water Resources offices, currently set up in the old Ministry of Oil building. Once there, we meet with the staff and coordinate and chat and have brutally hot tea, served in little glasses on little glass saucers, while Mr. Waleed smokes and smokes.
It’s getting there, though, that’s two-thirds the fun. CPA staff does not leave the Green Zone without lots of guns. Today, it was just me going to the Ministry, but we were in two vehicles. I was in the Suburban with a Captain, Major, and Commander as shooters, each with 9mm Beretta pistols in their laps. The second vehicle had four soldiers, each with very visible M-16’s (and probably a few more pistols). Sadly for the second crew, they pulled duty in one of the few green Ford Aerostars, not exactly an urban assault vehicle, except that the sliding doors left and right must allow for good mobile operations. I’d just hate to see them show up to soccer practice in that thing, along with their body armor and helmets.
We all have to wear the flak vests and Kevlar helmets when traveling outside the Green Zone. It’s all a bit heavy, but really no worse than motorcycle safety gear. Besides, it’s the fashion here, so I fit right in, unlike my high visibility yellow riding suit.
Fuel economy was not why the Army leases these eight plus liter Suburbans. From the moment they leave the gate, they are either fully accelerating or fully braking, dodging and weaving through the mass/mess of Baghdad traffic, while the minivan trails by mere feet at times. It’s typical third world traffic here – poorly tuned and smoky old cars, plenty of honking taxis, no visible pavement markings to define the traffic lanes. The Army doesn’t honk though, or use their indicators. They just drive as fast as they can to spend as little ambushable time on the street as possible.
There are underpasses to carry through traffic beneath some of the traffic circles in town. Through these, they will sit two abreast in the tunnel itself, blocking all traffic behind them, until such time as the way ahead is completely clear of the top of the ramp. Then, full speed ahead to the top of the ramp and beyond until the next pack of cars, then rapid braking, bobbing and weaving through the gaps, and roaring ahead.
When a lane change is required, the lead vehicle will swerve into the target lane and brake, stopping all traffic behind him while the rest of the convoy changes lane in front. If a left turn is required, the lead vehicle will careen into the opposing traffic, brake hard and stop the through movement, so that the rest of the convoy can turn under his protection.
These Army drivers are good, and would give a Jamaican cabbie a run for his money. I’m not sure when I’ll get to try it myself, but it looks like great fun. The best part is, if you hit someone or something, the order is to keep moving.
During the return from my first trip outside the wall, our convoy of six was racing along the street when over the radio came another driver’s voice stating that he just hit the convoy vehicle ahead of him. The Major asked, “Why?” to which the reply was, “He wasn’t going fast enough.” The Major then asked, “Is he going faster now?”
Just get to where you’re going is the order of the day. Deal with your problems when you get there.
It’s the journey. Read More......
The Coalition has developed shadow ministries in the palace. These are headed by Americans and advisory in nature, but they perform much of the coordination regarding infrastructure improvements made by the Army with the Iraqi Ministries, as well as training them to act more independently and responsibly than they may have under the old regime. Some coordination I perform with these shadow ministries but, at this time, the critical coordination is with the actual ministries.
I need to go to the Ministry mostly because they can’t come to me. Security is awfully tight getting into the Green Zone, and even tighter getting into the Palace, so in this case, it is much more convenient to travel to the Ministry of Water Resources offices, currently set up in the old Ministry of Oil building. Once there, we meet with the staff and coordinate and chat and have brutally hot tea, served in little glasses on little glass saucers, while Mr. Waleed smokes and smokes.
It’s getting there, though, that’s two-thirds the fun. CPA staff does not leave the Green Zone without lots of guns. Today, it was just me going to the Ministry, but we were in two vehicles. I was in the Suburban with a Captain, Major, and Commander as shooters, each with 9mm Beretta pistols in their laps. The second vehicle had four soldiers, each with very visible M-16’s (and probably a few more pistols). Sadly for the second crew, they pulled duty in one of the few green Ford Aerostars, not exactly an urban assault vehicle, except that the sliding doors left and right must allow for good mobile operations. I’d just hate to see them show up to soccer practice in that thing, along with their body armor and helmets.
We all have to wear the flak vests and Kevlar helmets when traveling outside the Green Zone. It’s all a bit heavy, but really no worse than motorcycle safety gear. Besides, it’s the fashion here, so I fit right in, unlike my high visibility yellow riding suit.
Fuel economy was not why the Army leases these eight plus liter Suburbans. From the moment they leave the gate, they are either fully accelerating or fully braking, dodging and weaving through the mass/mess of Baghdad traffic, while the minivan trails by mere feet at times. It’s typical third world traffic here – poorly tuned and smoky old cars, plenty of honking taxis, no visible pavement markings to define the traffic lanes. The Army doesn’t honk though, or use their indicators. They just drive as fast as they can to spend as little ambushable time on the street as possible.
There are underpasses to carry through traffic beneath some of the traffic circles in town. Through these, they will sit two abreast in the tunnel itself, blocking all traffic behind them, until such time as the way ahead is completely clear of the top of the ramp. Then, full speed ahead to the top of the ramp and beyond until the next pack of cars, then rapid braking, bobbing and weaving through the gaps, and roaring ahead.
When a lane change is required, the lead vehicle will swerve into the target lane and brake, stopping all traffic behind him while the rest of the convoy changes lane in front. If a left turn is required, the lead vehicle will careen into the opposing traffic, brake hard and stop the through movement, so that the rest of the convoy can turn under his protection.
These Army drivers are good, and would give a Jamaican cabbie a run for his money. I’m not sure when I’ll get to try it myself, but it looks like great fun. The best part is, if you hit someone or something, the order is to keep moving.
During the return from my first trip outside the wall, our convoy of six was racing along the street when over the radio came another driver’s voice stating that he just hit the convoy vehicle ahead of him. The Major asked, “Why?” to which the reply was, “He wasn’t going fast enough.” The Major then asked, “Is he going faster now?”
Just get to where you’re going is the order of the day. Deal with your problems when you get there.
It’s the journey. Read More......
2003-10-26
Sunday, October 26, 2003
05:30 – Baghdad. My new temporary work space is a vast improvement over the old, primarily because it gives me more space – the room is twice as large, and there is one third the bodies. It’s on the second floor, so it’s only fourteen feet high. The width is the standard sixteen feet, and it’s probably thirty-two feet deep.
It’s also very nice in that it is along way from the Al Rasheed, which was hit by numerous rockets early on the 26th, killing at least one American, amputating a couple of limbs, injuring a dozen more, and (as one witness explained) causing a lot of blood. The attack could have been aimed at Assistant Secretary of Defense Wolfowitz, who was housed at the hotel at the time (and missed by less than 20 meters). The attack was timed to coincide with the lifting of the seven month curfew at the first dawn of Ramadan, the Muslim holy month.
Just the night before, I was thinking, “Tet Offensive”, as I was inspecting a Russian AK-47 offered to me by a soldier bunked nearby. This morning’s attack was hardly a massed campaign, but it certainly was offensive. Maybe I’ll try to find a pistol, just in case.
Notification of attacks in greater Baghdad, and the Green Zone especially, travels at light speed. From word of mouth in the offices and cafeteria, as well as through a daisy chain of telephone calls, to make sure that everyone is accounted for. Immediately thereafter is a rush of electro-mail stateside, to remind families not to worry.
The attacks this morning were launched from a private vehicle outside of the secure area (a series of rockets in tubes mounted on a truck rigged to look like a generator). As is usually the case, the attackers were long gone by the time the rapid response team arrived. Helicopters were everywhere for a time; flying the injured to the hospital, surveilling, and searching for targets. I had seen a number of Chinooks in days past, but I saw my first helicopter gunship this morning.
The sound of helicopters used to give me the willies, but I think I’m getting used to it now. Or benumbed. Or whatever.
Security has been tightened to the point that there is no entrance to the palace grounds except by special permission. As such, there is no one here to meet with, as scheduled yesterday, and I’ll get little done today, besides going through the motions. “Spinning wheels got to go round.” Right, Ike?
Maybe take an early lunch.
An “All Hands” electromail came ‘round this afternoon explaining that al residents of the Al Rasheed would be relocated to the palace compound over the next eight to fourteen hours. This explains why I saw soldiers setting up even more cots in the interim space that I share with the snorers. There will be no sleep tonight, I’m sure, as the newbies will be tossing and turning, beds squeaking and creaking.
Craig called an impromptu meeting after lunch. This was to remind us that, “this is a dangerous place,… he had a gun in his hand” and that we could bail at any time. As of yet, no one has taken him up on his offer. The work still offers enough potential to outweigh the risks of living here. Read More......
It’s also very nice in that it is along way from the Al Rasheed, which was hit by numerous rockets early on the 26th, killing at least one American, amputating a couple of limbs, injuring a dozen more, and (as one witness explained) causing a lot of blood. The attack could have been aimed at Assistant Secretary of Defense Wolfowitz, who was housed at the hotel at the time (and missed by less than 20 meters). The attack was timed to coincide with the lifting of the seven month curfew at the first dawn of Ramadan, the Muslim holy month.
Just the night before, I was thinking, “Tet Offensive”, as I was inspecting a Russian AK-47 offered to me by a soldier bunked nearby. This morning’s attack was hardly a massed campaign, but it certainly was offensive. Maybe I’ll try to find a pistol, just in case.
Notification of attacks in greater Baghdad, and the Green Zone especially, travels at light speed. From word of mouth in the offices and cafeteria, as well as through a daisy chain of telephone calls, to make sure that everyone is accounted for. Immediately thereafter is a rush of electro-mail stateside, to remind families not to worry.
The attacks this morning were launched from a private vehicle outside of the secure area (a series of rockets in tubes mounted on a truck rigged to look like a generator). As is usually the case, the attackers were long gone by the time the rapid response team arrived. Helicopters were everywhere for a time; flying the injured to the hospital, surveilling, and searching for targets. I had seen a number of Chinooks in days past, but I saw my first helicopter gunship this morning.
The sound of helicopters used to give me the willies, but I think I’m getting used to it now. Or benumbed. Or whatever.
Security has been tightened to the point that there is no entrance to the palace grounds except by special permission. As such, there is no one here to meet with, as scheduled yesterday, and I’ll get little done today, besides going through the motions. “Spinning wheels got to go round.” Right, Ike?
Maybe take an early lunch.
An “All Hands” electromail came ‘round this afternoon explaining that al residents of the Al Rasheed would be relocated to the palace compound over the next eight to fourteen hours. This explains why I saw soldiers setting up even more cots in the interim space that I share with the snorers. There will be no sleep tonight, I’m sure, as the newbies will be tossing and turning, beds squeaking and creaking.
Craig called an impromptu meeting after lunch. This was to remind us that, “this is a dangerous place,… he had a gun in his hand” and that we could bail at any time. As of yet, no one has taken him up on his offer. The work still offers enough potential to outweigh the risks of living here. Read More......
2003-10-25
Saturday, October 25, 2003
09:00 – Baghdad. We suffered our first casualty this morning. At about 05:45, a resounding “bang” resonated from the hallway outside of the office. Chris, our 65 year-old Dutch Transportation Engineer, had blacked out and collapsed in the hall on his way to work, loudly connecting his head with a file cabinet.
We woke the corpsman down the hall and brought his stretcher for Chris’ evacuation to the military hospital a few minutes away. By 09:00, Chris was back, a victim of dehydration. He got a couple of stitches as well, and one hell of a shiner. A little excitement to start the day, to be sure, but plenty of grind expected for the rest of the day.
Three more Baker people arrived last night, so our wee office is well beyond capacity. If our 16:00 meeting occurs as planned, Craig and Bob will join us bringing the temporary occupancy to sixteen.
I was hoping to get out of here for a while, but my 09:00 with the Ministry of Water Resources has been postponed, since all of the key players have gone to Madrid for the Donor’s Conference. Instead, I’ve got to convince the IT folks to solve my particular database problem and I need to convince the mapping people to drop everything else they are doing and assign all of their resources to the PMO. Maybe they need chocolate bars, silt stockings, or chewing tobacco? The last task is to perform a space efficiency/utility study for the office we hope to occupy within the next couple of weeks.
The new space will be ample, once we get it. Until that time, two of us have elected to move out of our office and into a piece of ACOE space on the other end of the building. It’s a long walk to coordinate face to face with the rest of the crew, but I get my own desk and a server connection, and three people won’t have to shift whenever someone enters the room.
Another Unverified Saddam Anecdote: All of his palace staff were Christian, because he thought they would be less likely to poison him or stage a palace coup.
For the surf-crazed, check out the Coalition web site at www.coalitioniraq.org. There’s little about the PMO at this time, but this should change as our exposure increases. The internal web site is a little more interesting, but you have to be here to access it. This is possible, as KBR/Halliburton is posting almost 300 positions in Iraq (they need another morale contractor). Read More......
We woke the corpsman down the hall and brought his stretcher for Chris’ evacuation to the military hospital a few minutes away. By 09:00, Chris was back, a victim of dehydration. He got a couple of stitches as well, and one hell of a shiner. A little excitement to start the day, to be sure, but plenty of grind expected for the rest of the day.
Three more Baker people arrived last night, so our wee office is well beyond capacity. If our 16:00 meeting occurs as planned, Craig and Bob will join us bringing the temporary occupancy to sixteen.
I was hoping to get out of here for a while, but my 09:00 with the Ministry of Water Resources has been postponed, since all of the key players have gone to Madrid for the Donor’s Conference. Instead, I’ve got to convince the IT folks to solve my particular database problem and I need to convince the mapping people to drop everything else they are doing and assign all of their resources to the PMO. Maybe they need chocolate bars, silt stockings, or chewing tobacco? The last task is to perform a space efficiency/utility study for the office we hope to occupy within the next couple of weeks.
The new space will be ample, once we get it. Until that time, two of us have elected to move out of our office and into a piece of ACOE space on the other end of the building. It’s a long walk to coordinate face to face with the rest of the crew, but I get my own desk and a server connection, and three people won’t have to shift whenever someone enters the room.
Another Unverified Saddam Anecdote: All of his palace staff were Christian, because he thought they would be less likely to poison him or stage a palace coup.
For the surf-crazed, check out the Coalition web site at www.coalitioniraq.org. There’s little about the PMO at this time, but this should change as our exposure increases. The internal web site is a little more interesting, but you have to be here to access it. This is possible, as KBR/Halliburton is posting almost 300 positions in Iraq (they need another morale contractor). Read More......
2003-10-24
Friday, October 24, 2003
02:00 - Baghdad. Since it’s a local target, let’s talk about the Al Rasheed Hotel.
Friday is Sunday here, and Thursday night is Saturday night, and we went on a recent Friday (before the rocket attack) to the hotel for a couple of cold Bavarians (from Holland). What followed was an event as close to a pub crawl as Baghdad is going to have.
Our first stop was the first floor bar, the Sherezhad. It’s done in black marble and blue carpet. The lighting is dim. There’s a variety of seating, from long sofas to cozy four tops, but we prefer to sit at the bar, where Jimmy (probably not his given name) does his best at interpreting our needs. Half liter beers are US$4, as is a handful of peanuts.
Down both hall and stairs, and we found the newly reopened basement bar, who’s name escapes me at this time, Al Something-or-other. Before the first war, this was the hotel’s bowling alley. At some time in between, the lanes were removed and replaced with carpet. The carpet is about the only soft thing in the place, as both bar and walls, and the remaining exposed floor are done in white marble. The effect is almost blinding and gives the establishment a sterile and uninviting presence. The coolest thing about this bar is that the locker room is still there from the bowling alley days, which can now be used to change into your drinking clothes.
As a brief aside, Brian met a guy on his C-130 flight into BIAP. This same guy was fully trained for his career in stage lighting, just the skills required in post-war Iraq. As it turns out, this stage lighting guy is now the morale contractor for this sterile and un-fun bar. We brainstormed improvements for a while but sadly, he has no control behind the bar, so we can’t work him for free drinks, despite the consulting. Well, at least the beers are only US$3 down here, so we grab a round and head up two floors.
The upper bar at the Al Rasheed also has a name that escapes me. Many just call it The Discotheque. It’s laugh out loud funny looking. Well, I could have been the only one laughing. It was loud in there, and I had consumed a couple of half liter beers.
This bar was all done in red and black, and with much less marble than the bowling alley, so it’s almost a comfortable place to sit for a spell, soothed by the gentle sounds of a DJ and his stunning collection of authentic American disco music; “Car Wash”, “Beat It”, “Stayin’ Alive”, all the classics. The first notes of “Play that Funky Music, White Boy” brought tears to my eyes.
The centerpiece of this bar is the dance floor, of course. It’s round, about ten meters across, and raised a couple of steps above the rest of the floor. There’s a low wall around it for seating which houses the flashing colored lights. A huge mirrored ball accents the entire scene. Unlike our first two stops, there were plenty of folks drinking, milling, and dancing, primarily the same folks from the CPA, and a number of young servicemen and women. Everyone seemed to be making the most of the opportunity to not work for a few hours.
On Friday, the Muslim population will take the day off, and we will continue our efforts at the PMO, trying to reconstruct this country as fast as possible.
Bad disco music at the Al Rasheed is the price we pay for this opportunity.
Unverified Saddam Anecdote: Someone told me that kitchen staff at every one of Saddam’s ninety-nine palaces would each prepare three deluxe meals a day, just in case he would stop by. When it was clear that he was not showing up, the meals would be destroyed, because to give them away would give the poor an indication as to how well he was living. Read More......
Friday is Sunday here, and Thursday night is Saturday night, and we went on a recent Friday (before the rocket attack) to the hotel for a couple of cold Bavarians (from Holland). What followed was an event as close to a pub crawl as Baghdad is going to have.
Our first stop was the first floor bar, the Sherezhad. It’s done in black marble and blue carpet. The lighting is dim. There’s a variety of seating, from long sofas to cozy four tops, but we prefer to sit at the bar, where Jimmy (probably not his given name) does his best at interpreting our needs. Half liter beers are US$4, as is a handful of peanuts.
Down both hall and stairs, and we found the newly reopened basement bar, who’s name escapes me at this time, Al Something-or-other. Before the first war, this was the hotel’s bowling alley. At some time in between, the lanes were removed and replaced with carpet. The carpet is about the only soft thing in the place, as both bar and walls, and the remaining exposed floor are done in white marble. The effect is almost blinding and gives the establishment a sterile and uninviting presence. The coolest thing about this bar is that the locker room is still there from the bowling alley days, which can now be used to change into your drinking clothes.
As a brief aside, Brian met a guy on his C-130 flight into BIAP. This same guy was fully trained for his career in stage lighting, just the skills required in post-war Iraq. As it turns out, this stage lighting guy is now the morale contractor for this sterile and un-fun bar. We brainstormed improvements for a while but sadly, he has no control behind the bar, so we can’t work him for free drinks, despite the consulting. Well, at least the beers are only US$3 down here, so we grab a round and head up two floors.
The upper bar at the Al Rasheed also has a name that escapes me. Many just call it The Discotheque. It’s laugh out loud funny looking. Well, I could have been the only one laughing. It was loud in there, and I had consumed a couple of half liter beers.
This bar was all done in red and black, and with much less marble than the bowling alley, so it’s almost a comfortable place to sit for a spell, soothed by the gentle sounds of a DJ and his stunning collection of authentic American disco music; “Car Wash”, “Beat It”, “Stayin’ Alive”, all the classics. The first notes of “Play that Funky Music, White Boy” brought tears to my eyes.
The centerpiece of this bar is the dance floor, of course. It’s round, about ten meters across, and raised a couple of steps above the rest of the floor. There’s a low wall around it for seating which houses the flashing colored lights. A huge mirrored ball accents the entire scene. Unlike our first two stops, there were plenty of folks drinking, milling, and dancing, primarily the same folks from the CPA, and a number of young servicemen and women. Everyone seemed to be making the most of the opportunity to not work for a few hours.
On Friday, the Muslim population will take the day off, and we will continue our efforts at the PMO, trying to reconstruct this country as fast as possible.
Bad disco music at the Al Rasheed is the price we pay for this opportunity.
Unverified Saddam Anecdote: Someone told me that kitchen staff at every one of Saddam’s ninety-nine palaces would each prepare three deluxe meals a day, just in case he would stop by. When it was clear that he was not showing up, the meals would be destroyed, because to give them away would give the poor an indication as to how well he was living. Read More......
2003-10-23
Thursday, October 23, 2003
15:45 – Baghdad. Ran out of work this afternoon. I saw it coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. So much of this portion of the work is data collection and, since there is little in the way of an Iraqi communications system, collection of the necessary and required data is difficult at best.
This gives me an opportunity to try and explain our reason for being.
I’ll skim through the basics: We’re an evil empire. In our ceaseless push towards global conquest and domination we invaded a sovereign nation. Now, to assuage our guilt, we are going to rebuild what we broke.
I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Really, our reasons for invasion don’t really matter at this point, nor do our motivations for reconstruction. What is almost fact is that there will be approximately $20 Billion spent here within the next four years on major construction projects, plus whatever loans and grants can be raised from the world at large (the Donor’s Conference in Madrid raised $13-19 Billion, plus a promise of tea from Sri Lanka). How this money gets spent is my concern.
As conquerors, the United States set up her own government in Iraq. Since the stated intent is to give the nation back to the Iraqi people, the new government is provisional and, since we’re trying to appear less like empire builders, we tack on the word “Coalition”, to add the global spin. Hence, the Coalition Provisional Authority, or CPA.
Under the CPA is the Iraqi Infrastructure Reconstruction Office (IIRO), charged with the reconstruction of the Iraqi Infrastructure. Within the IIRO is the Program Management Office (PMO) charged with management of the program for reconstruction. This is where the sixteen of us work (twelve hour a day is still only half a day, so it’s a pretty light gig). Our work falls into three major phases. At this point, we are coordinating with all of the actual de-Baathified Iraqi ministries, as well as their mirror organizations within the CPA, to develop wish lists for physical improvements. These lists are about $100B long, and we are tasked with paring this down to the most viable, practicable, and suitable $20B. And for this there is little data, so our prioritization exercise will be based upon our best estimates.
The second step to this process is to find a few qualified contractors to do the work. The current plan is to select only seventeen of them, one or two for each sector, and then negotiate each project as a work task in an undefined deliverable with fixed ceiling format contract. Simple. Except that we will need to scope each work task prior to negotiation, and there could be a couple of thousand separate projects in this $20 Billion, and we have no data.
The third step is to manage the construction contracts. Piece of cake. By this time, though, we should have been replaced by a more long-term organization, with a few hundred assigned employees, instead of sixteen.
The most influential factor in this process is time. If there was more time, we could perform some system analyses to ensure that our infrastructure improvements were suitably incorporated into the existing national scheme, be it electricity, potable water, or transportation. If there was more time, we could make sure that we had all of our data wielding ducks in smart feathered rows. If there was more time, we could establish an internal organizational structure designed to meet the challenges of the assignment. If there was more time, we could select the proper personnel, instead of just throwing resources at the problem (our PMO people are fine, it’s the others in the CPA who were poorly selected).
Throw people they have, and the palace population probably grows by a couple of hundred a week. We aren’t the only group crammed into small quarters.
If only there was more time, but time works against the average Iraqi, who suffers from not only the affects of war, but the after affects of decades of neglect. In fact, much of the work we will be specifying is to rehabilitate facilities that fell into disrepair under Saddam’s reign. However, another large portion of the PMO pie is to repair facilities looted by the Iraqis during the chaos that followed our invasion. This may be a good chart just because – war damage vs. neglect vs. looting. Maybe I can add a column showing the U.S. taxpayer’s cost to propagate the war.
Anyway, the entire purpose of this exercise is to demonstrate to the Iraqis that Americans are swell, so please stop hating us. I’m sure they’ll like us better once we move out of their presidential palace. Read More......
This gives me an opportunity to try and explain our reason for being.
I’ll skim through the basics: We’re an evil empire. In our ceaseless push towards global conquest and domination we invaded a sovereign nation. Now, to assuage our guilt, we are going to rebuild what we broke.
I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Really, our reasons for invasion don’t really matter at this point, nor do our motivations for reconstruction. What is almost fact is that there will be approximately $20 Billion spent here within the next four years on major construction projects, plus whatever loans and grants can be raised from the world at large (the Donor’s Conference in Madrid raised $13-19 Billion, plus a promise of tea from Sri Lanka). How this money gets spent is my concern.
As conquerors, the United States set up her own government in Iraq. Since the stated intent is to give the nation back to the Iraqi people, the new government is provisional and, since we’re trying to appear less like empire builders, we tack on the word “Coalition”, to add the global spin. Hence, the Coalition Provisional Authority, or CPA.
Under the CPA is the Iraqi Infrastructure Reconstruction Office (IIRO), charged with the reconstruction of the Iraqi Infrastructure. Within the IIRO is the Program Management Office (PMO) charged with management of the program for reconstruction. This is where the sixteen of us work (twelve hour a day is still only half a day, so it’s a pretty light gig). Our work falls into three major phases. At this point, we are coordinating with all of the actual de-Baathified Iraqi ministries, as well as their mirror organizations within the CPA, to develop wish lists for physical improvements. These lists are about $100B long, and we are tasked with paring this down to the most viable, practicable, and suitable $20B. And for this there is little data, so our prioritization exercise will be based upon our best estimates.
The second step to this process is to find a few qualified contractors to do the work. The current plan is to select only seventeen of them, one or two for each sector, and then negotiate each project as a work task in an undefined deliverable with fixed ceiling format contract. Simple. Except that we will need to scope each work task prior to negotiation, and there could be a couple of thousand separate projects in this $20 Billion, and we have no data.
The third step is to manage the construction contracts. Piece of cake. By this time, though, we should have been replaced by a more long-term organization, with a few hundred assigned employees, instead of sixteen.
The most influential factor in this process is time. If there was more time, we could perform some system analyses to ensure that our infrastructure improvements were suitably incorporated into the existing national scheme, be it electricity, potable water, or transportation. If there was more time, we could make sure that we had all of our data wielding ducks in smart feathered rows. If there was more time, we could establish an internal organizational structure designed to meet the challenges of the assignment. If there was more time, we could select the proper personnel, instead of just throwing resources at the problem (our PMO people are fine, it’s the others in the CPA who were poorly selected).
Throw people they have, and the palace population probably grows by a couple of hundred a week. We aren’t the only group crammed into small quarters.
If only there was more time, but time works against the average Iraqi, who suffers from not only the affects of war, but the after affects of decades of neglect. In fact, much of the work we will be specifying is to rehabilitate facilities that fell into disrepair under Saddam’s reign. However, another large portion of the PMO pie is to repair facilities looted by the Iraqis during the chaos that followed our invasion. This may be a good chart just because – war damage vs. neglect vs. looting. Maybe I can add a column showing the U.S. taxpayer’s cost to propagate the war.
Anyway, the entire purpose of this exercise is to demonstrate to the Iraqis that Americans are swell, so please stop hating us. I’m sure they’ll like us better once we move out of their presidential palace. Read More......
2003-10-21
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
16:00 – Baghdad. The back hurts large. Could be an after affect of the Anthrax booster I received this morning. Could be from sitting in an evil Iraqi chair for twelve hours a day. Could be the bad bed and little sleep in Baghdad Central, code for the too huge bedroom I share with a hundred others. Some of the crew have already moved into better billets, so I expect a similar upgrade within a week.
We need an upgrade in the office, as well. The eighteen foot cube now has eleven in it, and we spent an hour this morning optimizing what little space we have. Tomorrow, two more from Baker arrive, and we have no place to seat them, let alone the fourteenth due to arrive at the end of the week. With another table (if we could scrounge one from who knows where, we’ve already scrounged the best we can), we could fit the additional two slated for tomorrow, but this place is packed as it is, and we’ll be at each other’s throats soon. The murmurs are in the background, like crowded rats before they start cannibalizing the pack.
And speaking of food, at lunch, some of the entrees looked familiar (the bacon cheeseburger, grilled cheese, and Chicken Kiev, to be exact). It’s a process that, unless the work stays interesting, is sure to drive me stark raving. Wake, shower, work, breakfast, work, lunch, work, supper, work, two beers at the Al Rashid, sleep, repeat.
Oh, did I say, “Al Rashid”? I must have.
After days in Kuwait drinking near beer and fake bacon (chicken bacon, veal bacon, beef bacon, lamb bacon,…), I was actually looking forward to a couple of beers at the Al Rashid, a (formerly Iraqi Government owned but now a) U.S. Government hotel at the north end of the Green Zone. Gary found a Sport Ute somehow and we motored there after work.
My prior impression was that it would be full of alcoholic press people, hard luck reporters with a hard nose for hard news and a hard hankering for hard liquor, like the press club in Year of Living Dangerously, only more drunk.
Nothing of the sort. The drunkest thing there was, well, nothing. It was all very sober. And not well attended at that. You would think that the only bar in Baghdad (the Green Zone anyway, home of at least 10,000 folks) could pull in better than 15 people on a week night. At least, that’s what I thought, so I was a bit surprised when we were much of the crowd there.
Two half liter lagers later and we were done, and drove back to the palace down mostly dark and deserted streets, through unmanned checkpoints, past quietly idling tanks, the city deathly still.
Throughout the day, there’s a real bustle going on at the palace. The marble walls echo each voice and footfall to generate a steady roar all day long. Eleven working consultants in a small room is annoyingly loud from six to twenty (morning to night, as they say). But the streets of the Baghdad Green Zone are silent after dark.
Except for the gunfire.
Really, it’s no worse than the Ankeny house on a Sunday morning, when small arms would report from small-armed Reservists at Fort Dodge and over the lake. For me, as long as the noise comes from outside of the relatively distant wall, I’ve no problem. And there’re a few thousand well armed servicemen here to keep it that way. Read More......
We need an upgrade in the office, as well. The eighteen foot cube now has eleven in it, and we spent an hour this morning optimizing what little space we have. Tomorrow, two more from Baker arrive, and we have no place to seat them, let alone the fourteenth due to arrive at the end of the week. With another table (if we could scrounge one from who knows where, we’ve already scrounged the best we can), we could fit the additional two slated for tomorrow, but this place is packed as it is, and we’ll be at each other’s throats soon. The murmurs are in the background, like crowded rats before they start cannibalizing the pack.
And speaking of food, at lunch, some of the entrees looked familiar (the bacon cheeseburger, grilled cheese, and Chicken Kiev, to be exact). It’s a process that, unless the work stays interesting, is sure to drive me stark raving. Wake, shower, work, breakfast, work, lunch, work, supper, work, two beers at the Al Rashid, sleep, repeat.
Oh, did I say, “Al Rashid”? I must have.
After days in Kuwait drinking near beer and fake bacon (chicken bacon, veal bacon, beef bacon, lamb bacon,…), I was actually looking forward to a couple of beers at the Al Rashid, a (formerly Iraqi Government owned but now a) U.S. Government hotel at the north end of the Green Zone. Gary found a Sport Ute somehow and we motored there after work.
My prior impression was that it would be full of alcoholic press people, hard luck reporters with a hard nose for hard news and a hard hankering for hard liquor, like the press club in Year of Living Dangerously, only more drunk.
Nothing of the sort. The drunkest thing there was, well, nothing. It was all very sober. And not well attended at that. You would think that the only bar in Baghdad (the Green Zone anyway, home of at least 10,000 folks) could pull in better than 15 people on a week night. At least, that’s what I thought, so I was a bit surprised when we were much of the crowd there.
Two half liter lagers later and we were done, and drove back to the palace down mostly dark and deserted streets, through unmanned checkpoints, past quietly idling tanks, the city deathly still.
Throughout the day, there’s a real bustle going on at the palace. The marble walls echo each voice and footfall to generate a steady roar all day long. Eleven working consultants in a small room is annoyingly loud from six to twenty (morning to night, as they say). But the streets of the Baghdad Green Zone are silent after dark.
Except for the gunfire.
Really, it’s no worse than the Ankeny house on a Sunday morning, when small arms would report from small-armed Reservists at Fort Dodge and over the lake. For me, as long as the noise comes from outside of the relatively distant wall, I’ve no problem. And there’re a few thousand well armed servicemen here to keep it that way. Read More......
2003-10-20
Monday, October 20, 2003
08:15 - Baghdad. I had another great start. It goes something like this: “Dressed in a simple, black waistcoat, black slacks and shoes, the anonymous Iraqi’s gloved hands caressed the nondescript package with a subtle care, slowly advancing down the line of American servicemen and civilians, skilled eyes darting about the room for his next opportunity. With trained patience, he waits, nondescript, and in due time, he sights his target, makes his approach, and…” puts more paper napkins in the dispensers on the chow tables in the mess hall, just doing his job as a food service contractor. No MRE’s for us here at the Palais de Presidente, as one of the ballrooms (and a couple of spaces beyond) is now the full-service dining hall.
Thrice a day (five during Ramadan), KBR presents us with varied and industrial foodstuffs. Lunch today was grilled cheese and ham, beef stroganoff, burgers, then various salads, breads, deserts and beverages. For breakfast, eggs and bacon, grits and syrup, pancakes, fruits, juices, sodas and coffee. I think there’s a curry for supper. Actually, the food’s not that bad. There are, however, way to many people eating it. The original intent of the food service contract was to provide a third of the meals that they are providing today, and our numbers continue to increase. As a result, the lines get long, and it’s more difficult to find a place to sit.
The upside of this is that there are usually single seats around, so I am developing the habit of finding space next to people who are almost done with their meals. My plan is to have an interesting conversation with someone new while allowing them the opportunity to leave with their last bite. Then, someone new will appear, giving me twice the occasion to learn more about this place and why we are all here, or twice the opportunity to bore the snot out of perfect strangers..
Had my lunch today with a couple of perfect strangers. Infantrymen, in this case. They had been here from the start, and now spend their time on daily patrols with the occasional arrest thrown in for fun, if you think that fun is going with 15 of your best armed buddies into some Baghdad slum to break down a door and forcibly arrest a local.
I flash back to Friley Hall often during the dining process.
Scary, indeed. Read More......
Thrice a day (five during Ramadan), KBR presents us with varied and industrial foodstuffs. Lunch today was grilled cheese and ham, beef stroganoff, burgers, then various salads, breads, deserts and beverages. For breakfast, eggs and bacon, grits and syrup, pancakes, fruits, juices, sodas and coffee. I think there’s a curry for supper. Actually, the food’s not that bad. There are, however, way to many people eating it. The original intent of the food service contract was to provide a third of the meals that they are providing today, and our numbers continue to increase. As a result, the lines get long, and it’s more difficult to find a place to sit.
The upside of this is that there are usually single seats around, so I am developing the habit of finding space next to people who are almost done with their meals. My plan is to have an interesting conversation with someone new while allowing them the opportunity to leave with their last bite. Then, someone new will appear, giving me twice the occasion to learn more about this place and why we are all here, or twice the opportunity to bore the snot out of perfect strangers..
Had my lunch today with a couple of perfect strangers. Infantrymen, in this case. They had been here from the start, and now spend their time on daily patrols with the occasional arrest thrown in for fun, if you think that fun is going with 15 of your best armed buddies into some Baghdad slum to break down a door and forcibly arrest a local.
I flash back to Friley Hall often during the dining process.
Scary, indeed. Read More......
2003-10-19
Sunday, October 19, 2003
PART II - MISSION FOCUS
16:45 – Baghdad. I had a great start for this. Something like, “The cargo bay of the ancient C-130 was dark as pitch and strangely silent as 37 passengers considered the excessive forces tossing them from seat back to seat belt while the aircraft continued her screaming, tactical descent into Baghdad. From an unknown direction came the distinctive odor of human wretch. The screams would soon begin.”
Actually, no body puked, and if anybody screamed, there would be no way to hear it. The C-130 is a cargo plane. Not built for passenger comfort of convenience, it’s as loud on the inside as it is outside next to the engines, and earplugs are standard issue. We 37 were human cargo in this cargo plane, and we did spiral rapidly into Baghdad. But first, we had to get this far.
Early Friday morning, we completed our packing and stood with our gear at the edge of the road in front of our villa at the Kuwait Hilton. I was glad to see the last of that hotel, having seen well enough TCM westerns and the Fashion Channel over the past five days to last at least six months. Brian would not be traveling with us, still needing to be issued an XXXL flak vest, of which the supplier has very few. The downside of having a mass of a hundred and fifty kilos.
A closed van took our bags ahead, and we followed in a nondescript tourist-styled bus. I was briefly concerned when the driver made an unexpected U-turn towards an unknown section of Kuwait City, but this was only to stop at another hotel for more Iraq-bound passengers.
Some 40 minutes later and we drove through the first of five military (i.e. lots of soldiers with lots of heavy weaponry, from M-16’s to 50 caliber machine guns to Bradley assault vehicles) checkpoints going into the airport. Our government ID’s were checked at one of these. We were dumped on the desert-hot and sun-blazed tarmac along with our bags, flak vests, and helmets, heaped the luggage on an aircraft-sized pallet, and herded through another ID checkpoint into the military passenger terminal.
At this point, and to save some typing, whenever you read the word, “checkpoint”, insert the words, “guys with guns, lots and lots”.
Not unlike our time spent at the Hilton, there was some waiting to be done, around four hours this time, but no Fashion Channel. Our flight would leave at noon. There was a Subway van outside, but my stomach is way too touchy to risk filling with food before the tactical landing at BIAP.
With strict military precision, it was noon before we were herded (again, the herding) onto our transport (“one at a time on the steps, watch your head, fill in all the seats from the end moving out, sit on your flak vest, buckle in, who needs a vomit bag?”). Dang hot in the cargo hold, and sweat was running off of each part of me, and we waited some more, and I tried to size up the pukers while I cranked the fastest and loudest from off of my PDA/MP3 player. I was hoping that I had batteries to last the next 90 minutes as the rear doors sealed shut and we took off.
There was no beverage service on this flight. No movie. No bathroom. No screaming babies (yet). Just a very functional interior. Exposed conduits and cabling. Parachutes for the crew hung on hooks with their oxygen masks. Three pallets of cargo enclosed in a weave of heavy straps. Two score of passengers strapped to slung webbed seats in four rows aligned with the fuselage.
Ninety minutes later and right on schedule, Queens of the Stone Age accompanied the landing, which was preceded by a smooth descent and two minor alignment corrections. No problem. Kick ass, Baghdad! The engines shut down and we were herded out onto the disappointingly familiar tarmac at Kuwait City. Radar problems had scrubbed our intended landing and we were forced to return. We had another seven hours to contemplate the spiral descent into Baghdad before we would get another flight.
We used this time to eat Army chow, visit the BX/PX (Base Exchange/Post Exchange), and get a $5.25 military haircut from Anwar, a local contractor.
By the time our flight left again, it was a few hours past dark. I hoped I had not only ample batteries, but enough fresh fast and loud music to get me there. Once in the air, the plane was way dark, occasionally illuminated by anxious glimpses at watches. We only knew to expect a roller-coaster ride - one that traveled 400 mph through the night, dropping 12,000 feet in half a minute.
There was little warning, just the light stomach that accompanies simultaneous reductions in velocity and altitude, then a steep bank down and to the right, g’s plastering me to the notch of my seat. Then a quick bank down and to the left, and I was plastered towards the edge of my webbing. A few second of straight, then a sharp weave right, then left, then we were on the ground.
Welcome to Baghdad.
During the taxi, the cargo specialist donned his body armor and helmet, and rammed magazines into both his pistol and submachine gun.
Welcome to Baghdad.
And it’s dark. And after dark, the busses don’t run between BIAP and where we need to be, the middle of town. So we have to wait until the next day. There are a couple of Quonset huts at the “Arrival Terminal” full of uncomfortable chairs and uncomfortable soldiers. Between the huts are thirty cots under a mass of camouflage netting. All of the cots are taken by tired men and women in uniform. Many more are sprawled on their duffles or on the dirt. They are trying to get home on leave.
I try to relax in one of the Quonset chairs, but can’t, and eventually relegate myself to sleeping on the dirt. I wake up cold at 03:00 or so, and don my DCU’s for another layer and my camouflage poncho for cover and go back to a fitful sleep. I was roused at daybreak by rain, drops falling every three to four inches to displace the dust that has accumulated on my person. The dust is fine and choking and can’t be washed down, no matter the volume of water consumed.
Just a few more hours, and the bus will be here to take us to the palace. Just enough time to sit and do nothing. I drink more water and risk another trip to the world’s most horrid portalettes. On the way back to our pile of dusty belongings, I stop in one of the huts for an MRE (Meals Ready to Eat), the only food available here. I choose a Number 11, Beef Tamales, served with seasoned rice, a squeezable portion of nacho cheese, vegetable crackers, a couple of cookies, orange drink mix and instant coffee powder. I eat it all cold right from the box (it said “ready to eat”) but gag on the rice. Next time, I’ll use the little hydrogen emitting heater that came with it. Part of me hopes there is not a next time, but the other part of me grabs a Number 18, Thai Chicken, just in case.
We were told that the bus ride into Baghdad was manic, featuring frantic weaves and lane changes, and other evasive maneuvers. Like most second hand (or ten minute old) information here, it is subject to change. We wore our flak vests and Kevlar helmets (just like the story), and rode the expressway all the way into town, slowing at the check points, then being waved on through (quite unlike the story). We had our well-armed escort (Humvee’s with 50 caliber guns fore and aft, like the story) all the way to a parking lot one klik from the palace gate (the walk wasn’t in the story).
At the gate, the guard had not heard of us, or our leadership, or our organization. So we waited and pondered our next move, since we could not enter without an escort, and we really had nowhere else to go. While waiting, I watched folks clear their weapons into a sandbag enclosed sand pit. Nothing went off, of course, they were just demonstrating to the next guard that their weapon was empty, because not everybody gets to carry a loaded weapon within the palace grounds, only some people, like the Gurka (insane Nepalese commandos who provide facility security), and the Secret Service (who speak into their cuffs and protect our chief diplomats), and the CIA, and the Extra Secret Special Forces and Personal Security Details, who carry some very lethal looking hardware.
Most everybody else carries unloaded weapons – Nine-millimeter pistols and M-16’s mostly. Maybe 30-40% of the people here are unarmed,… just like Texas.
Eventually, a cooperative and previously unknown USACE (Army Corps of Engineers and our client organization) major escorted us through the gate and led us to our group, the CPA/IIRO/PMO (Coalition Provisional Authority/Iraqi Infrastructure Reconstruction Office/Program Management Office). And we had lunch, and located our luggage, and secured our billet, and found the office, and got more identification, and did some billable work, and ate some supper, and went to sleep. Prior to sleep, though, I took a long cold shower (there being no hot water), to wash off the grime of that long, long day.
I slept until I woke up and worked a twelve-hour day. The first of 155. Read More......
16:45 – Baghdad. I had a great start for this. Something like, “The cargo bay of the ancient C-130 was dark as pitch and strangely silent as 37 passengers considered the excessive forces tossing them from seat back to seat belt while the aircraft continued her screaming, tactical descent into Baghdad. From an unknown direction came the distinctive odor of human wretch. The screams would soon begin.”
Actually, no body puked, and if anybody screamed, there would be no way to hear it. The C-130 is a cargo plane. Not built for passenger comfort of convenience, it’s as loud on the inside as it is outside next to the engines, and earplugs are standard issue. We 37 were human cargo in this cargo plane, and we did spiral rapidly into Baghdad. But first, we had to get this far.
Early Friday morning, we completed our packing and stood with our gear at the edge of the road in front of our villa at the Kuwait Hilton. I was glad to see the last of that hotel, having seen well enough TCM westerns and the Fashion Channel over the past five days to last at least six months. Brian would not be traveling with us, still needing to be issued an XXXL flak vest, of which the supplier has very few. The downside of having a mass of a hundred and fifty kilos.
A closed van took our bags ahead, and we followed in a nondescript tourist-styled bus. I was briefly concerned when the driver made an unexpected U-turn towards an unknown section of Kuwait City, but this was only to stop at another hotel for more Iraq-bound passengers.
Some 40 minutes later and we drove through the first of five military (i.e. lots of soldiers with lots of heavy weaponry, from M-16’s to 50 caliber machine guns to Bradley assault vehicles) checkpoints going into the airport. Our government ID’s were checked at one of these. We were dumped on the desert-hot and sun-blazed tarmac along with our bags, flak vests, and helmets, heaped the luggage on an aircraft-sized pallet, and herded through another ID checkpoint into the military passenger terminal.
At this point, and to save some typing, whenever you read the word, “checkpoint”, insert the words, “guys with guns, lots and lots”.
Not unlike our time spent at the Hilton, there was some waiting to be done, around four hours this time, but no Fashion Channel. Our flight would leave at noon. There was a Subway van outside, but my stomach is way too touchy to risk filling with food before the tactical landing at BIAP.
With strict military precision, it was noon before we were herded (again, the herding) onto our transport (“one at a time on the steps, watch your head, fill in all the seats from the end moving out, sit on your flak vest, buckle in, who needs a vomit bag?”). Dang hot in the cargo hold, and sweat was running off of each part of me, and we waited some more, and I tried to size up the pukers while I cranked the fastest and loudest from off of my PDA/MP3 player. I was hoping that I had batteries to last the next 90 minutes as the rear doors sealed shut and we took off.
There was no beverage service on this flight. No movie. No bathroom. No screaming babies (yet). Just a very functional interior. Exposed conduits and cabling. Parachutes for the crew hung on hooks with their oxygen masks. Three pallets of cargo enclosed in a weave of heavy straps. Two score of passengers strapped to slung webbed seats in four rows aligned with the fuselage.
Ninety minutes later and right on schedule, Queens of the Stone Age accompanied the landing, which was preceded by a smooth descent and two minor alignment corrections. No problem. Kick ass, Baghdad! The engines shut down and we were herded out onto the disappointingly familiar tarmac at Kuwait City. Radar problems had scrubbed our intended landing and we were forced to return. We had another seven hours to contemplate the spiral descent into Baghdad before we would get another flight.
We used this time to eat Army chow, visit the BX/PX (Base Exchange/Post Exchange), and get a $5.25 military haircut from Anwar, a local contractor.
By the time our flight left again, it was a few hours past dark. I hoped I had not only ample batteries, but enough fresh fast and loud music to get me there. Once in the air, the plane was way dark, occasionally illuminated by anxious glimpses at watches. We only knew to expect a roller-coaster ride - one that traveled 400 mph through the night, dropping 12,000 feet in half a minute.
There was little warning, just the light stomach that accompanies simultaneous reductions in velocity and altitude, then a steep bank down and to the right, g’s plastering me to the notch of my seat. Then a quick bank down and to the left, and I was plastered towards the edge of my webbing. A few second of straight, then a sharp weave right, then left, then we were on the ground.
Welcome to Baghdad.
During the taxi, the cargo specialist donned his body armor and helmet, and rammed magazines into both his pistol and submachine gun.
Welcome to Baghdad.
And it’s dark. And after dark, the busses don’t run between BIAP and where we need to be, the middle of town. So we have to wait until the next day. There are a couple of Quonset huts at the “Arrival Terminal” full of uncomfortable chairs and uncomfortable soldiers. Between the huts are thirty cots under a mass of camouflage netting. All of the cots are taken by tired men and women in uniform. Many more are sprawled on their duffles or on the dirt. They are trying to get home on leave.
I try to relax in one of the Quonset chairs, but can’t, and eventually relegate myself to sleeping on the dirt. I wake up cold at 03:00 or so, and don my DCU’s for another layer and my camouflage poncho for cover and go back to a fitful sleep. I was roused at daybreak by rain, drops falling every three to four inches to displace the dust that has accumulated on my person. The dust is fine and choking and can’t be washed down, no matter the volume of water consumed.
Just a few more hours, and the bus will be here to take us to the palace. Just enough time to sit and do nothing. I drink more water and risk another trip to the world’s most horrid portalettes. On the way back to our pile of dusty belongings, I stop in one of the huts for an MRE (Meals Ready to Eat), the only food available here. I choose a Number 11, Beef Tamales, served with seasoned rice, a squeezable portion of nacho cheese, vegetable crackers, a couple of cookies, orange drink mix and instant coffee powder. I eat it all cold right from the box (it said “ready to eat”) but gag on the rice. Next time, I’ll use the little hydrogen emitting heater that came with it. Part of me hopes there is not a next time, but the other part of me grabs a Number 18, Thai Chicken, just in case.
We were told that the bus ride into Baghdad was manic, featuring frantic weaves and lane changes, and other evasive maneuvers. Like most second hand (or ten minute old) information here, it is subject to change. We wore our flak vests and Kevlar helmets (just like the story), and rode the expressway all the way into town, slowing at the check points, then being waved on through (quite unlike the story). We had our well-armed escort (Humvee’s with 50 caliber guns fore and aft, like the story) all the way to a parking lot one klik from the palace gate (the walk wasn’t in the story).
At the gate, the guard had not heard of us, or our leadership, or our organization. So we waited and pondered our next move, since we could not enter without an escort, and we really had nowhere else to go. While waiting, I watched folks clear their weapons into a sandbag enclosed sand pit. Nothing went off, of course, they were just demonstrating to the next guard that their weapon was empty, because not everybody gets to carry a loaded weapon within the palace grounds, only some people, like the Gurka (insane Nepalese commandos who provide facility security), and the Secret Service (who speak into their cuffs and protect our chief diplomats), and the CIA, and the Extra Secret Special Forces and Personal Security Details, who carry some very lethal looking hardware.
Most everybody else carries unloaded weapons – Nine-millimeter pistols and M-16’s mostly. Maybe 30-40% of the people here are unarmed,… just like Texas.
Eventually, a cooperative and previously unknown USACE (Army Corps of Engineers and our client organization) major escorted us through the gate and led us to our group, the CPA/IIRO/PMO (Coalition Provisional Authority/Iraqi Infrastructure Reconstruction Office/Program Management Office). And we had lunch, and located our luggage, and secured our billet, and found the office, and got more identification, and did some billable work, and ate some supper, and went to sleep. Prior to sleep, though, I took a long cold shower (there being no hot water), to wash off the grime of that long, long day.
I slept until I woke up and worked a twelve-hour day. The first of 155. Read More......
2003-10-16
Thursday, October 16, 2003
21:15 – Kuwait Hilton. Received the necessary and required Country Clearances this afternoon. This was confirmed at the pre-deployment briefing (the next of untold numbers of briefings) this evening after supper. Supper was light, as I was nervous as hell from the moment the initial confirmation came through. It seems like the last few hours before the crossing of Mackinaw last summer. I’m sure I’m just psyching myself out. There’s a goal. A destination. Baghdad. I’ll be there tomorrow. If I puss out on the plane, so what. It’s just another airplane ride. I just know in advance that it will suck. No breakfast, Dramamine, Sea Bands, no problem, mon.
Towards night, and my gut is calm. Postcards are sent (at 250 fils each). Complete the packing tonight, write the wife a nice note (recycle last nights), charge the player for maximum rock and roll, and wait for the morning pickup.
=====
Sweetheart,
We’re out of Kuwait City tomorrow morning having resolved the snafu regarding our country clearances, caused by a KBR (Kellogg Brown Root) employee who lost mission focus. We attended the pre-deployment briefing this evening, where we learned the procedure for shipping out. It begins at 07:00 (it was to have started at 04:30 Wednesday), involves an interminable wait prior to departure, and culminates with a very rapid spiral decent from altitude to the tarmac at BIAP (Baghdad International Airport). We were instructed to bring our own ziplocks. You would probably enjoy the ride, of course, until everyone else started hurling. Of course, I’m thrilled.
We did some sightseeing yesterday, using Jim wife, Denise, as guide, in true Company fashion. There’s really not much to see here with regards to attractions, but did check out the view from the Kuwaiti Towers downtown, and strolled a local market.
Got up early to see the last couple of innings of the game. I hope Bob was some consolation.
Some Companyman will call once they get news of our arrival (probably around this time tomorrow). Both Muscatine and Minneapolis have your digits. I’ll send word myself, once I get a breather.
Bed too big,…
I remain, your devoted husband,
OX, Read More......
Towards night, and my gut is calm. Postcards are sent (at 250 fils each). Complete the packing tonight, write the wife a nice note (recycle last nights), charge the player for maximum rock and roll, and wait for the morning pickup.
=====
Sweetheart,
We’re out of Kuwait City tomorrow morning having resolved the snafu regarding our country clearances, caused by a KBR (Kellogg Brown Root) employee who lost mission focus. We attended the pre-deployment briefing this evening, where we learned the procedure for shipping out. It begins at 07:00 (it was to have started at 04:30 Wednesday), involves an interminable wait prior to departure, and culminates with a very rapid spiral decent from altitude to the tarmac at BIAP (Baghdad International Airport). We were instructed to bring our own ziplocks. You would probably enjoy the ride, of course, until everyone else started hurling. Of course, I’m thrilled.
We did some sightseeing yesterday, using Jim wife, Denise, as guide, in true Company fashion. There’s really not much to see here with regards to attractions, but did check out the view from the Kuwaiti Towers downtown, and strolled a local market.
Got up early to see the last couple of innings of the game. I hope Bob was some consolation.
Some Companyman will call once they get news of our arrival (probably around this time tomorrow). Both Muscatine and Minneapolis have your digits. I’ll send word myself, once I get a breather.
Bed too big,…
I remain, your devoted husband,
OX, Read More......
2003-10-15
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
18:00 – Kuwait Hilton. Still the Kuwait Hilton. Nothing at all to do today while we wait for deployment, so I instead suffered from some awful and violent gastrointestinal malady for the day. Well, it really started during the night. No sleep again until late morning,… until now.
Read More......
2003-10-14
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
21:45, Kuwait. Slack day in Kuwait. Found our Repo Wife who took us shopping for additional sundries. Fans, flyswatters, raisins, coffee and a maker. We dropped the crap off at her place, then walked to the landmark Kuwait Towers. From the observation deck (120 meters of 187 total), we could see the surrounding haze for miles. Lunch at Chiles, where I decided not to have them sing happy birthday to George. Walked back to Kemper’s, got a fresh cab, then rode to a local Souq, for prayer beads and gold chains.
Returned in time for our pre-deployment briefing to learn that our country clearances have yet to be granted. We’ll be here another couple of days (at least). Dean gets something to do, in that he needs to go to the military hospital tomorrow for an MRI on his swollen ankle. He’s a bit depressed thinking that this may disqualify him.
We’re all a bit bummed that we won’t leave tomorrow. The longer we wait here, the less interesting Baghdad will be. What we know for certain is that there is little else to amuse us here.
Crap. Read More......
Returned in time for our pre-deployment briefing to learn that our country clearances have yet to be granted. We’ll be here another couple of days (at least). Dean gets something to do, in that he needs to go to the military hospital tomorrow for an MRI on his swollen ankle. He’s a bit depressed thinking that this may disqualify him.
We’re all a bit bummed that we won’t leave tomorrow. The longer we wait here, the less interesting Baghdad will be. What we know for certain is that there is little else to amuse us here.
Crap. Read More......
2003-10-13
Monday, October 13, 2003
21:30 – Kuwait City. Crying baby. Crying baby. Crying baby. Crying baby the entire ride to Kuwait. Maybe an hour of sleep and Kangaroo Jack to keep my increasingly addled mind amused. Not too long, overall, and a smooth and eventual landing in the Middle East.
Holy Fuck, the Middle East.
There was a nice crowd pressing against the visa counter at immigration, where we eventually received our multiple entrance stickies placed on the backs of our CAC cards. Along one of the long walls of this hall was a line of women, apparently Indian nationals, come to work for the Kuwaitis. The Kuwaitis don’t seem to work. Like good capitalists, they own all the capital, and hire foreigners to do all the work.
Customs was a matter of a quick x-ray and a $2.00 tip to the porter who guided my bags through the device. We stood outside the airport Starbucks, chatting with a procurement specialist from the DoD, and waited for transportation by KBR to the Hilton, where we were assigned rooms, and found some chow. Sleep would be nice, if and when it comes.
Monday morning, blazing heat, humidity up and sweat on sheets. Country briefing by a Colonel and KBR flunky, then records review by their corpsmen, and issuance of my Army boots, Army belt, Army canteen, Army sleeping pad, Army pants, Army jacket, Army hat (all in desert camouflage), Army helmet, Army flak vest, and Army gas mask, all crammed into my new Army duffle bag. I think I get to keep the clothes, but the helmet, gas mask, and flak vest get returned when I redeploy stateside.
I went for a swim in a spare hour before lunch. The sea’s saltier than the Caribbean, about as calm, but was covered with specks of black ash, no doubt a by-product of the petrochemical industrial actions nearby. In fact, there are oil terminals visible to each side of the Hilton’s beach.
Our country clearance is late, and we can’t catch the plane to Baghdad without it, so we may stick around here for a few more days than originally anticipated. If so, I’ve arranged to go on a couple of wreck dives. Why not? I’m here. There’s not much to do.
Not entirely nothing. We’re meeting a Kuwait-based Company Wife for lunch tomorrow, then last minute and gold shopping in the city center. Watch a western or three tonight on TCM, maybe some fashion channel, and sleep tomorrow until I’m tired of sleeping. Read More......
Holy Fuck, the Middle East.
There was a nice crowd pressing against the visa counter at immigration, where we eventually received our multiple entrance stickies placed on the backs of our CAC cards. Along one of the long walls of this hall was a line of women, apparently Indian nationals, come to work for the Kuwaitis. The Kuwaitis don’t seem to work. Like good capitalists, they own all the capital, and hire foreigners to do all the work.
Customs was a matter of a quick x-ray and a $2.00 tip to the porter who guided my bags through the device. We stood outside the airport Starbucks, chatting with a procurement specialist from the DoD, and waited for transportation by KBR to the Hilton, where we were assigned rooms, and found some chow. Sleep would be nice, if and when it comes.
Monday morning, blazing heat, humidity up and sweat on sheets. Country briefing by a Colonel and KBR flunky, then records review by their corpsmen, and issuance of my Army boots, Army belt, Army canteen, Army sleeping pad, Army pants, Army jacket, Army hat (all in desert camouflage), Army helmet, Army flak vest, and Army gas mask, all crammed into my new Army duffle bag. I think I get to keep the clothes, but the helmet, gas mask, and flak vest get returned when I redeploy stateside.
I went for a swim in a spare hour before lunch. The sea’s saltier than the Caribbean, about as calm, but was covered with specks of black ash, no doubt a by-product of the petrochemical industrial actions nearby. In fact, there are oil terminals visible to each side of the Hilton’s beach.
Our country clearance is late, and we can’t catch the plane to Baghdad without it, so we may stick around here for a few more days than originally anticipated. If so, I’ve arranged to go on a couple of wreck dives. Why not? I’m here. There’s not much to do.
Not entirely nothing. We’re meeting a Kuwait-based Company Wife for lunch tomorrow, then last minute and gold shopping in the city center. Watch a western or three tonight on TCM, maybe some fashion channel, and sleep tomorrow until I’m tired of sleeping. Read More......
2003-10-12
Sunday, October 12, 2003
11:10 - Frankfort. Couldn’t sleep on the plane. Watched too many of the lame movies. Found myself in Germany shagged at 06:00 local time, but 22:00 home time (i.e. past my bedtime anyway). So we sit here for another seven hours before boarding the flight to Kuwait.
Security is heightened today. In Minneapolis, I was selected for a more detailed screening. My checked bags got to be x-rayed, saving me the hassle of having them hand searched. Plus, I got to lock them afterwards and check them through to my final destination. At the pre-gate security, I got a more thorough bomb detection wiping and additional checks of my carry-ons.
At the ticket counter, the man ahead of me was checking his hunting rifle for a trip to Canada (Minneapolis IS an International Airport, you know). The hand searcher looked completely lost as he inspected the case, very hesitantly touching the gun and never checking to see if it was loaded. They’re just tools, you know – like really loud, long range hammers.
In Frankfort, we’re lost in the terminal and looking for something to entertain us. There’s little available seating to wile away the hours, and the seats at the gates are reserved for boarding passengers only. At one point, George just walked through a gate adjacent to one of these boarding areas en route to a more comfortable seat than we had in the Blazingly sunny “Beerlift” snack bar. Once discovered, he was ejected along with the fifty boarding passengers who had already been processed that far. A rather embarrassing announcement accompanied the ejection. Maybe they used the word “Dumkoff”, but my German isn’t that good and we were already making a quick exit from the immediate area.
Even though we haven’t left the terminal, we still had to go through security again to scan the carry on. Dean got to remove his shoes. George got to turn on his machine. Brian got the bomb detection vacuum treatment. We all got an overly “friendly” pat down (and up) with metal detection wand and hand.
And we wait some more, dragging through the late morning.
This airport is truly a German thing. Way industrial. Metal fixtures. Metal Tables. Metal chairs. No window shades. No comfortable place to sit.
Shit. I’m whining and complaining now. What’s Baghdad going to be like? Read More......
Security is heightened today. In Minneapolis, I was selected for a more detailed screening. My checked bags got to be x-rayed, saving me the hassle of having them hand searched. Plus, I got to lock them afterwards and check them through to my final destination. At the pre-gate security, I got a more thorough bomb detection wiping and additional checks of my carry-ons.
At the ticket counter, the man ahead of me was checking his hunting rifle for a trip to Canada (Minneapolis IS an International Airport, you know). The hand searcher looked completely lost as he inspected the case, very hesitantly touching the gun and never checking to see if it was loaded. They’re just tools, you know – like really loud, long range hammers.
In Frankfort, we’re lost in the terminal and looking for something to entertain us. There’s little available seating to wile away the hours, and the seats at the gates are reserved for boarding passengers only. At one point, George just walked through a gate adjacent to one of these boarding areas en route to a more comfortable seat than we had in the Blazingly sunny “Beerlift” snack bar. Once discovered, he was ejected along with the fifty boarding passengers who had already been processed that far. A rather embarrassing announcement accompanied the ejection. Maybe they used the word “Dumkoff”, but my German isn’t that good and we were already making a quick exit from the immediate area.
Even though we haven’t left the terminal, we still had to go through security again to scan the carry on. Dean got to remove his shoes. George got to turn on his machine. Brian got the bomb detection vacuum treatment. We all got an overly “friendly” pat down (and up) with metal detection wand and hand.
And we wait some more, dragging through the late morning.
This airport is truly a German thing. Way industrial. Metal fixtures. Metal Tables. Metal chairs. No window shades. No comfortable place to sit.
Shit. I’m whining and complaining now. What’s Baghdad going to be like? Read More......
2003-10-11
Saturday, October 11, 2003
00:25 - Airbourn. Somewhere over Stephenville, Nova Scotia or Newfoundland of some such iced burg in northeast Canada. A bare third into the flight over the pond to Frankfort, then, after a few hours and an early morning beer, to Kuwait for a couple of days of sun and fun.
Left the house early in Minneapolis, and the delay on Chicago was not real severe, just the damned time zones cruising by at 600 miles per hour or so. Trying to determine how best to cram two thousand words a week into this government issued laptop.
Said my regards at the office Thursday afternoon. Nothing teary. Nothing real. I’ve been on this assignment mentally for a couple of weeks anyway, probably no news to Pete, who hasn’t seen me much in that period. Ended up out of there by 1500 (look at me, the big military time-monkey!). (Get used to it). I’m sure glad there’s some Neil Young on this flight.
So, packed most of yesterday. Brief snafu at the bank trying to get some cash, but not insurmountable. Spoke to the folks Thursday, then John and Joel Friday during the Cubs unlikely win. Joel asked, “is anyone angry at my decision?” The wife, to be sure, and her ma,… and her sister, but nothing from my side of the fence.
I type like crap on a cramped plane.
Donna was a trooper at the airport. We got there early and had a coffee between check-in and loading. Had a nice talk. She should be prepared, I think, provided she keeps her wits about her. She is somewhat fearful of being in the house alone, and may take a self defense class, or hire a security service. I left pistols both in the bedroom upstairs and the media center downstairs. She even went to the range with me last week and tuned up with both. The slide on the SW99 is still quite stiff (not that I didn’t try to send a few more rounds through it before I left, but,…) but adrenaline should go far towards the effort. She also asked where more ammunition was kept (among other queries), which may mean she’ll practice a bit more.
I did, however, leave her with a sick cat, one that can’t keep down any food. Really hope that it’s just a bad bug dinner, some of those pesky Asian beetles, perhaps, but it could be the start of his fatal demise. I told him specifically to live until I get back.
Damned cat.
The flight to Chicago was quick and tolerable. Once there I met a few of the others; Dean, George, and Brian, from the Denver and Muscatine offices. We engaged in idle chit chat for a couple of hours prior to boarding the flight to Frankfort. A nice 777, with nine seats per row. Sat next to an increasingly drunken Ukrainian who, once he drank the galley out of Heinekin, started to put a nice dent in the Bud Lite. No taste, too filling, just an Eastern European in need of drink. Read More......
Left the house early in Minneapolis, and the delay on Chicago was not real severe, just the damned time zones cruising by at 600 miles per hour or so. Trying to determine how best to cram two thousand words a week into this government issued laptop.
Said my regards at the office Thursday afternoon. Nothing teary. Nothing real. I’ve been on this assignment mentally for a couple of weeks anyway, probably no news to Pete, who hasn’t seen me much in that period. Ended up out of there by 1500 (look at me, the big military time-monkey!). (Get used to it). I’m sure glad there’s some Neil Young on this flight.
So, packed most of yesterday. Brief snafu at the bank trying to get some cash, but not insurmountable. Spoke to the folks Thursday, then John and Joel Friday during the Cubs unlikely win. Joel asked, “is anyone angry at my decision?” The wife, to be sure, and her ma,… and her sister, but nothing from my side of the fence.
I type like crap on a cramped plane.
Donna was a trooper at the airport. We got there early and had a coffee between check-in and loading. Had a nice talk. She should be prepared, I think, provided she keeps her wits about her. She is somewhat fearful of being in the house alone, and may take a self defense class, or hire a security service. I left pistols both in the bedroom upstairs and the media center downstairs. She even went to the range with me last week and tuned up with both. The slide on the SW99 is still quite stiff (not that I didn’t try to send a few more rounds through it before I left, but,…) but adrenaline should go far towards the effort. She also asked where more ammunition was kept (among other queries), which may mean she’ll practice a bit more.
I did, however, leave her with a sick cat, one that can’t keep down any food. Really hope that it’s just a bad bug dinner, some of those pesky Asian beetles, perhaps, but it could be the start of his fatal demise. I told him specifically to live until I get back.
Damned cat.
The flight to Chicago was quick and tolerable. Once there I met a few of the others; Dean, George, and Brian, from the Denver and Muscatine offices. We engaged in idle chit chat for a couple of hours prior to boarding the flight to Frankfort. A nice 777, with nine seats per row. Sat next to an increasingly drunken Ukrainian who, once he drank the galley out of Heinekin, started to put a nice dent in the Bud Lite. No taste, too filling, just an Eastern European in need of drink. Read More......
2003-10-07
07 October 2003
Minneapolis. Maybe not so surprisingly, the wife questioned last evening if we had ever discussed my participation in this (ad)venture. I guess I had always thought she was kidding each time she said, “you’re not going”, as if she, too, realized that many international projects don’t get off the ground. Certainly, her statement could not have been an instruction to me, as we don’t instruct each other, preferring more voluntary exchanges.
Anyway, I guess it’s just starting to sink in that I’ll be way far away for quite a while. It’s my adventure though, and I feel that she may believe that she’s not a part of it, as she most certainly was on the Caribbean excursion.
I did promise to be back in six months, so I’d best not miss that deadline, putting me back in the States in time to figure out my taxes.
Found a foot bag and a small cribbage board at lunch today, prior to my appointment at the Hennepin County Public Health Center to get a “take test” on my small pox inoculation. Two employees had to look and look at the site and their informational pamphlet before deciding that the shot “took”. I just hope that they are correct, not wanting to be completely pox-ed.
I think I’m ready to leave now. Read More......
Anyway, I guess it’s just starting to sink in that I’ll be way far away for quite a while. It’s my adventure though, and I feel that she may believe that she’s not a part of it, as she most certainly was on the Caribbean excursion.
I did promise to be back in six months, so I’d best not miss that deadline, putting me back in the States in time to figure out my taxes.
Found a foot bag and a small cribbage board at lunch today, prior to my appointment at the Hennepin County Public Health Center to get a “take test” on my small pox inoculation. Two employees had to look and look at the site and their informational pamphlet before deciding that the shot “took”. I just hope that they are correct, not wanting to be completely pox-ed.
I think I’m ready to leave now. Read More......
2003-10-06
06 October 2003
Minneapolis. I spent last week in Virginia processing, mostly waiting, which can also be a process. Flew Monday afternoon to Dulles in Washington with Craig, then drove the rental Buick to Winchester, where the USACE/TAC (Trans-Atlantic Center) has a well-secured facility. We filled out forms and more forms, and then got a complete physical (including the requisite prostrate examination by Madame Physician). In total, there was one blood letting and nine inoculations (influenza, smallpox, antrax, IPV, MMR, Hepatitis A and B, Typhoid, and Tuberculosis). I speculated that the blood letting (and associated DNA testing) was for identification purposes in case we got blown to bits. The Army Captain Physician (Ma’am) said “yes, but we don’t like to talk about that”.
The biggest headache was the receipt of our CAC cards, or military identification. I think I need this for food service more than anything, although it may get me a reserve seat on the plane out of there. We heard stories that the production rate of these cards sometime approached one per day, but by the time we got ours done at the end of the day, this rate was down to about 15 minutes each. The cards have wee programmable chips embedded within them that seem to take some effort to program. They also gave us new Panasonic Toughbook laptops that, we are led to understand, are not compatible with the local network in Iraq.
Thursday we drove to Fort Belvoir, south of Alexandria, for further processing at the Army’s CRC (CONUS Replacement Center). A few more forms here, and an efficient fitting for the flack jacket, and we were done. We left Craig to fly out on Saturday, and we three (Brian, Dean, and George) flew home.
Once there, I found my house overran by a bunch of Chicagoans for the weekend. As such, my plans to relax and prepare were changed into me playing gracious host and honored guest for three days.
Monday, Bennett sends word that this Saturday is the day. My itinerary sends me through Chicago and Frankfort to Kuwait City, then off to Baghdad a few days later. Little time remains. Read More......
The biggest headache was the receipt of our CAC cards, or military identification. I think I need this for food service more than anything, although it may get me a reserve seat on the plane out of there. We heard stories that the production rate of these cards sometime approached one per day, but by the time we got ours done at the end of the day, this rate was down to about 15 minutes each. The cards have wee programmable chips embedded within them that seem to take some effort to program. They also gave us new Panasonic Toughbook laptops that, we are led to understand, are not compatible with the local network in Iraq.
Thursday we drove to Fort Belvoir, south of Alexandria, for further processing at the Army’s CRC (CONUS Replacement Center). A few more forms here, and an efficient fitting for the flack jacket, and we were done. We left Craig to fly out on Saturday, and we three (Brian, Dean, and George) flew home.
Once there, I found my house overran by a bunch of Chicagoans for the weekend. As such, my plans to relax and prepare were changed into me playing gracious host and honored guest for three days.
Monday, Bennett sends word that this Saturday is the day. My itinerary sends me through Chicago and Frankfort to Kuwait City, then off to Baghdad a few days later. Little time remains. Read More......
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