Road Show

The students from Ms. Parker's class at Los Alamitos Elementary, avid writers and artists of cheery letters and pictures, joined me for a photo when I visited them to say thank you.

I became huge fans of Ms. Matzuk's class in Doylestown, PA and Ms. Parkers class in Los Alamitos, CA.  The letters and drawings, as well as the unintentional and innocent humor contained in many, never failed to brighten my day and cast rays of sun on my officemates as well.  So I happily accepted an invitation to visit Ms. Parker's class when I was in Southern California.  

Filled with questions, the students squirmed and raised their hands almost to the point of hyper-extending a joint.  

"What is it like to shoot someone?" one asked, with a seriously inquiring countenance.  To his disappointment and befuddlement, I had to tell him that most military members never have to do that, fortunately.  

"What is your favorite animal?" came another query from a shyly grinning little girl, perhaps wondering if one could have a favorite animal AND be in the military at the same time.  Ask me what I think about some geo-political issue and I am on it.  Ask me my favorite animal, and I am stumped so I diverted and talked about all the migratory bird life at Camp Victory.

I guess it is the simple questions like that one that I need to spend some more time thinking about.

Party!

Party hosts Paul and Denise Fejtek went all out for my USC Welcome Home Party.  

I had largely eschewed any going away parties eight months ago but there was really no denying Paul and Denise Fejtek when they offered (or did they decree?) to host a party at their home in Newport Beach.  Although initially billed as a USC party, the guest list quickly expanded, as Paul admitted that he might have forwarded my blog to a few friends (and friends of friends).

As I drove down the narrow beach street the party venue sat on, I briefly cursed whoever had dared to park an H1 Hummer in such close quarters . . . that is, until I looked up and realized it was in front of the Fejtek House.  Along with sandbags, camo netting and a great big banner. Paul and Denise had actually gone to the local Hummer dealership and got the vehicle on loan for the event.

The consummate hosts, Paul and Denise made sure everyone had something to drink from, in the form of a desert-tan canteen either pre-filled with a margarita or quickly charged from a nearby keg.  You had to be issued dog tags and a tee-shirt first though.  Their roof deck was hopping and the additional camo netting draped above it offered much needed concealment from the hordes of news helicopters that swarmed the sky to get a glimpse of an all-star cast of many of my best friends from USC who arrived from far and near to welcome me back.  

A college nickname that seems to have staying power . . .  it has also been my email address of  15+ years.

Of course, I regaled them all with a dramatic recital of one of my many poems penned during some of the darkest hours of the insurgency and entitled "Oh Yee Wicked and Vile Computer Printer: This Evil Jam Shall not Dissuade Me!"  As you can only imagine, I had to ask some parents among the guests to retreat to a safe distance with their offspring  lest the retelling of this horror mar the children.

The California Beta Chapter members of Sigma Phi Epsilon Fraternity in attendance.  It was absolutely terrific to see these guys - they don't make fraternities any better than Sig Ep.

A lot of people have asked me if I have changed as a result of my experience in Iraq.  Some seemed concerned that somehow Iraq had stolen something from me and others merely curious.  Just by virtue of the question, I had to pause when I was first asked and try to discern if the question was a function of a change they had noticed in me or not.  I mean, surely, as you can tell from these photos, I came back as a steely-eyed warrior . . . . or maybe I was thinking blood-shot-eyed warrior.  In any case, I don't think I have changed.  Improved, absolutely, but I'm pretty confident that I have not changed.  Much of my outlook during the deployment was readily fueled by the wealth of emails, cards and packages, large and small, I received from friends, family and yes, even strangers (but now certainly in the category of "friends" - thanks U. of Pittsburgh Nursing School Association - do you all have an end of school dance or something you need me to be your date for . . . ?).

I must have dozens of photos almost identical to this spanning the last 15 years since I became friends with Jason and Gary.

The grenade balloons and photo cutout were literally the icing on the cake of an incredible party.

A familiar face and founding member of the O-3 Dinner Club, Jeremy was with me at Camp Victory and made it down from Ventura to join the festivities.

The real treat was seeing Rich and Alexis Fiore, whose family size doubled just five months ago.  They both appeared to be extremely impressed with my plan to outsource to India the rearing of any children I have.

Some of the usual suspects from Trojan football games, I missed the banter of Holly, Janine and Kari from our season ticket outpost high in the "we didn't donate to the Athletic Department" seats at the Coliseum.

 

I'm not sure how many people can actually fit in the back of an H1 Humvee, but oddly enough and in sharp contrast to those in the desert, this Humvee had wood trim, leather seats and carpeting.  I must have been issued last year's model in Iraq . . . .

All in the Family

The post-party party table.  My cousin Duke negotiated a table for us all well after our banquet time had expired at Maggianos.

Of all the people that worried about me while I was gone, my folks surely had standing to be at the top of the list but were the best troopers of them all.  I knew I was always safe (I mean, mostly safe . . . it's all relative) but my parents and family (and friends) would not.  Broadcast news, a regular programing choice for the large TV in the office, often reported the worst and frequently disregarded the best.  Somewhere in between, shrouded by the "fog of war" lies the truth.  So I actually think it was far more difficult to be here, in the U.S., than there, in Iraq.  My folks were very caring but amazingly stoic throughout, surely a credit to them both.

But right now, the larger credit was the party they threw for me and 39 members of the family.  A bevy of food and drink to be sure, but more importantly, a feast of family, all of whom I was incredibly happy to see and be with.

My two favorite nieces (of two).

The hosts and very relieved parents.  For those of you in the DC area who have already asked me about the next Hal and Betty Happy Hour . . . plan for early November.

The patriarch on my mom's side, my cousin Duke plays the guitar, flirts like a Marine (he use to be one) and will sell you a citrus orchard, all in under an hour and over three rounds of drinks. Joining us is the family priest, Fr. Blasko.

And on my Dad's side of the family, my great Aunt Jenny, fondly mentioned in my Thanksgiving post back in November.  She threatened to hurt me if I got hurt in Iraq.  Apparently it worked.  (You don't mess with Aunt Jenny).  I bet if you put her into a room with the Iraqi Council of Ministers, this war would be over in under a fortnight.  

Kind of Weird . . .

Driving

On bases in Iraq, even on free and clear stretches of road, the speed limit was never more than about 35 mph and often as slow as 10 mph.  I didn't realize how profound an effect this was on my behavior until I was on the 405 freeway in LA heading to Port Hueneme (the "welcome-home-and-all-that-stuff, now-please-do-this-paperwork" part of my orders).  I was cruising, I mean REALLY, serious Bob Kurkjian SPEED DEMON extravaganza.  Just call me turbo.  "Wow!' I thought to myself, " this is some real speed I have going here . . . these cars passing me must be doing 100 miles per hour!"  "Who is that moron honking at?"  Me?  Yes.  As I looked down at the speedometer, in a land where going under 80 miles per hour on the freeway is legal justification for capital punishment, I saw the needle solidly placed on the midpoint between 50 and 60.  As if someone had placed a wedge in the middle of an angry, flooded stream, cars were darting and flowing around and past me in quick succession, to my amazement.

Money

Although I previously documented the painful process to procure cash in Iraq, truth is , I just liked to have some in my pocket - I really did not spend much.  I had not used an ATM in over six months and I wasn't even sure I remembered my PIN.  Remembering that I actually NEEDED money was a different challenge.  America is so strange about that . . . I have to pay for things like food?  WHAT!?  In Iraq, the postal supplies are free (boxes, tape, envelopes, etc.).  I was in the post office yesterday.  With two unconstructed boxes in hand, I was preparing to leave when another customer asked the postal clerk the price for a small box.  "Duh, I thought to myself, they are FREE . . . "  "Those are $2.29 each sir" the chipper clerk replied.  I sheepishly pretended as if my awkward footwork from the door to the counter line was entirely planned, but much like dancing at the Oak Middle School Sock-Hop when I was in sixth grade, I was not fooling anyone.  So, shoplifting charge averted, as well as my opportunity to blog from jail.  There is still New York . . . 

Choosing Clothes

In Iraq, the most significant attire choice I had to make was whether to wear the fondly called "Booney cover," a broad brimmed hat, or the "eight-point cover" which was more like a baseball cap.  That was it.  No dithering in front of the mirror juggling five ties, no black shoes or brown shoes, just desert camouflage.  Now, for the love of god, where did all these COLORS come from in my closet?

TV and Commercials

12 channels of Armed Forces Network have now become 150 channels of Comcast digital cable.  But I am hopelessly marooned without the AFN commercials/public service announcements I grew so sedated to Iraq.  I froze as I went to cross the busy intersection in front of my home.  I didn't recall seeing an AFN commercial on how to cross such a large street, and although I will surely look for the word "whole" in front of the word "grain" on my next bread purchase, that was of no help as I  struggled to navigate the complexity before me without any guidance.  Surely the Army has  regulations for street crossings but all I could remember was the commercial that covered crossing the street at NIGHT - certainly of no help to me at noon on a cloudless day.  I was distraught, but able to meekly hold-on to the walker operated by the senior citizen standing next to me, as she crossed.  Whew!

Wheels Down

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have just crossed into American territorial airspace, welcome home," said the pilot of our chartered 767 airplane, to the applause and smiles of all onboard. Under two hours later we were at BWI airport. The journey began over 30 hours prior when we reported to the Navy Customs Battalion at Camp Arifjan. 

 There, our luggage was systematically taken apart and inspected, one item at a time, to the point of ridiculousness.  Now, I can't blame the Navy for this since they are doing a job the Army asked for help on but I can tell you now, of the 45+ countries I have visited, I have never been exposed to anywhere near this level of scrutiny.  Apparently at the beginning of the war, Army guys were returning home with everything from live grenades to pet scorpions, so now we all go through this three to four hour process.  Thanks Army!

Our ride home.

The last time I had a beer before noon must have been in college . . . 

Our plane made a three hour fuel stop at the sprawling Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany around 0800 on Saturday morning.  Displaying the type of enlightened leadership that Navy Chief Petty Officers are known for, Chief Morton (center, with cover on) commandeered a taxi and lead a highly successful expedition to the commissary for beer.  A light mist falling from the ashen gray skies by no means dampened our celebratory leanings, and Chief Morton went old school with a 40 of malt liquor, in the paper bag, for extra effect.  

But the best part of the entire trip was the huge and heartwarming gauntlet of well wishers, from Cub Scouts to USMC veterans, all part of Operation Welcome Home, on hand to greet us at the airport when we exited from baggage claim.  Cheering and waving American flags, this robust and noisy bunch, numbering well in excess of 75 folks, young and old and in-between, offered hand shakes, high-fives and a bag of snacks to all of us weary but exhilarated service members.

The Blog Will Return!

Standby for more fun and excitement as I spend the last two weeks of my active duty time on staff for New York City's 23rd Annual Fleet Week (www.fleetweek.navy.mil) with friends LT Dwight Roberson and LT Nathan Soloman (see NMCB23 positng from back in September). Look out NYC, here come the Seabees. Lets get the Pope in and out of there fast lest lightening strike us all when we arrive.

Ku-Wait a Minute . . .

No one carries weapons here at Camp Arifjan. And I was amazed to see much of the post in civilian attire after 1700 hours. The personal hygiene and beauty products section of the PX was actuallyLARGER than the tactical gear section (items like holsters, knives, ammo pouches, etc), which occupied a single lonely rotating display. There are regular passenger vehicles, like Nissan Sentras and Chevy Malibus. No armed guards at the PX and the DFAC . . . The DFAC looks like a regular restaurant and tables are not so close that you have to climb over other people to get to an open seat. And I am not seeing a single helicopter in the sky. Like Christopher Walken in the classic SNL "cow bell" sketch, "I just need more helicopters." All this made me think how boring would it have been to be stationed here.

The trip to Kuwait began on the military tarmac at Baghdad International Airport where it was a lovely 97 degrees before you too into consideration all the body armor you are required to wear on a C-130 flying in Iraq. When the plane arrived, we all dutifully, in single file, followed the guide out, safely around the plane's spinning props and to the aft ramp. And that is where, for unknown reasons, progress temporarily stopped. At this point, we all became human rotisseries. Between the heat and the even hotter exhaust gushing from the four props, you literally had to rotate yourself a few degrees every three seconds to avoid being burned while we vainly attempted to hold our breaths. So that will be my last C-130 ride for a while. We'll fly back to the states on a chartered jet.

The warrior transition program is well run, if not a little drawn out. Looks like I appear normal enough for them to let me come home. I should be back in the U.S. on Saturday.

Farewell to Baghdad

Exactly six months since I arrived at Baghdad International Airport, I depart today from the same location for a flight to Kuwait. With the treasured "Theater Release Authorization" letter in hand as well as my demobilization orders from Headquarters, Navy Personnel Command, I start the odyssey that returns me and thousands of reservists each year, to civilian life.

I turned in 60 rounds, or four magazines worth, of 9mm amunition to the armory, which is good, since I started the tour with the same 60 rounds. Remember those two full seabags of gear that I never thought I would use? Well, I didn't use it and the bags, shoved under my bed and accumulating dust, are good to go too. All of it will be turned in during the five-day Navy "Warrior Transistion Program," or WTP for short, in Kuwait. Herein the Navy takes a sailor who is relieved to exit Iraq and transitions them into a sailor who is frustrated they have to spend another week waiting to get home. The primary bonus is that we can turn in all our gear, meaning I'll revert to the same two pieces of luggage I left home with on September 16, 2007: A backpack and one seabag.

I'll be sure to write more about the experience in Kuwait, but right now, I want to highlight my officemates who made my experience in Iraq, and 14 hour days, tolerable, enjoyable, funny, educational, enlightening and immensely satisfying. Some remain here and others redeployed months ago. In no specific order, we roll the credits:



At Al Asad Airbase in Anbar Province with my first boss, CAPT Virginia Brantley. She recruited me for the job and I owe her for the incredible experience that followed.

Jim Penzenstadler, SFC Robert Tate and Manny Arceo. These guys kept me laughing through thick and thin.

LT Frank Solorzano. My fellow LT, fellow Seabee and theater travel mentor, Frank taught me how to manuver through the maze of air support options as well as initiated my trial-by-fire learning process here.

The Commanding Officer of the unit, COL Gary Andrews, and on my left, my second boss, CDR Mike Harr. They tolerated and even occassionaly encouraged my intermitent (or frequent) brash observations/comments and permitted me a great deal of leeway in my area of responsibility.

The consumate racontuer and chief of office morale, MAJ Dave Troutman, here displaying some of the Girl Scout cookies our office received.

COL Andrews again, with SK2 Banning. Banning was the undisputed champion of the one-liners, made all the more joyus by the fact that he was usually just thinking out loud.

Two of my favorite people, Mary Legeret and Josh Strakos.

CDR Michael Funnye was the unofficial commodore of the office's three vehicle fleet. It yielded a lifetime of humor.

So it is with fond memories of these great servicemembers and many others like them, that I sign-off from Baghdad station.

The First of the Lasts

I am on countdown mode as I start a week of "lasts." My last Monday conference call, my last Tuesday jog around Lost Lake, etc. My time here is quickly reaching terminal status. Today I turned over my desk, computer, phone etc. to my relief, LCDR Fitzpatrick. Our building is overflowing with people and now I have no place to sit and no extra computer to use. With the constant turnover, I am the most senior person in the office (by time in theater, not rank). Since I have no place to sit, I told the Colonel that I would agree to a consulting contract at double my hourly rate for the remainder of my tour and would work from "home." He told me to go sit in the corner, be quiet and try not to irritate any senior officers before I left. He might be on to me . . .

Camp Slayer: The Tour


Camp Slayer is one of the seven main coalition camps within Victory Base Complex and emcompasses what use to be the official Republican Guard "playground." The playground inlcuded a huge six-level brothel, the Baath Party House and Saddams never quite completed "Victory over America Palace." (You really can't make this stuff up). Well, if you know any good handyman types, there are a few repairs to be made here now, with thanks to the munitions and skill of the Air Force. My roomate Erick and I took the official tour of these Camp Slayer landmarks.


The imposing but never finished Victory Over America Palace was intended to be Saddam's primary residence.

In the Baath Party House. No, not for parties, Saddam's political party was the Baath party. Don't make me make you watch AFN commercials (see below). This was the room where Saddam gave the pre-war interview to Dan Rather. The roof leaks but they are still working on finding the hole . . . you just never know where that water is coming from.

Inside the Victory Over America Palace. The builder was a French contractor. Hey France, we have some raw building materials for you to retrieve . . .

Erick and I stand in the Baath Party House overlooking the center - the whole building was on stilts above the lake.

The Perfume Palace from across the lake. Not considered a "military" target, the palace emerged unharmed and now serves as office space for coalition operations.

Signs of the Times

Betcha ya don't see this where you live (and if you do, it was time to move a long time ago).

One Last AFN Commercial Highlight

As you may recall from a previous post, Armed Forces Network (AFN) does not play regular commercials but instead, plays campy military-ish public service commercials about stuff like looking both ways before you cross the street or how to tape a package for mailing. I now have a new favorite. A kindly looking elderly woman named Kay Blakely does commercials for the military commissary system. The commissary is the on-base grocery store (not here in Iraq, but on bases in the U.S., Europe, etc). The commericals promote healthy eating choices and here is, verbatim, the newest one:

Kay Blakely: "Eating whole grain bread is a healthier choice. How can you tell if the bread you are buying is whole grain? [holding up a loaf of bread from the shelf] Look for the word 'whole' [points to word] in front of the word 'grain' [points to word] on the bag."

OH CRAP!! Seriously??? Is that what I keep doing wrong?! This is the kind of label-reading information we don't want Iran to have, so lets just keep this tip to ourselves, okay?

March's "Meet a Member of the Coalition"

Wacky uniforms or not, this month we meet with the Black Wolf Battalion of the 151st Infantry of Romania. 397 troops strong, these witty fellows refer to their living and working quarters on COB Adder as "Camp Dracula." So hats off to the Black Wolves as we salute this month's edition of Meet a Member of the Coalition!

On the Down Hill Slide to Home

My relief, LCDR Robert Fitzpatrick, and I toast (near beer, near beer, no one get too excited) at a BBQ at COB Speicher near Tikrit.

My "farewell Iraq" tour started at Balad Air Base as I introduced my relief (person taking my position so I can go home) to our sailors based there. It was one more chance to fly the friendly skies of Iraq in a helicopter, a form of transport I have come to love. With the weather warming up, many of the Blackhawk crews no longer even slide the doors closed so all you have between you and the ground as the helo swoops around is your four point harness. Better than any amused park ride, and with two machine guns.

Two last "above Iraq" photos from the trip to Balad Air Base.

We also visited COB Speicher. My friend MAJ Denis McDonnell who is in charge of our operation there likes to say "don't blink or you might miss Spring." How true that was as the mid-March temperature quickly passed 100 degrees. Smokers get black lung but I think those of us serving in Iraq will end up with "brown lung" from the ubiquitous and aptly named "moondust" covering this country.


Speaking of weather warming up . . .


LCDR Fitzpatrick and I were scheduled to go on to the Al Taqqadum (frequently referred to as "TQ") Marine base in Al Anbar province but bad weather canceled our flight, and pretty much all the rest of the flights for the next three days. A virulent dust storm had long ago grounded rotary wing flights* and now even the stout-hearted C-130 Hercules prop planes were unable to land at COB Speicher. Speicher, named after the only American to remain in MIA status after the first Gulf War, is headquarters of Multi-National Division North and the 1st Armored Division. The two-star general based here controls the battlespace for all of Northern Iraq.

The original flight we were booked on, now long since cancelled, actually routed via Kuwait, or approx 800 miles out of the way. The ratty passenger waiting tent at Speicher is a canvas shell covering metal arches overhead. A dozen or so residential, window-mounted A/C units were installed through holes in the canvas and struggled to cool the space and its 50+ occupants, a mix of military, government civilians and contractors resigned to our fate of an indefinite wait for an unknown ride out of camp. LCDR Fitzpatrick and I were the only Navy personnel there.

Young soldiers, far more accustomed to the Army's unofficial slogan of "hurry up and wait" ensconced themselves in corners, using their body armo for a mat on the dusty plywood flooring and falling asleep. They appeared uninterrupted by the persistent ebb and flow of foot traffic and the resulting gyrations of the loosely supported flooring with each step. A refrigerator for water sits in one corner. Although originally white, it is now, like eveything else here, a medium shade of tan. A power failure in the tent garners nothing more than a few assorted sighs. The trailer-sized 15-ton generator providing power has been taken off-line for periodic maintenance - a KBR technician comes into the tent and assures us it will not last more than 45 minutes.

A handfull of troops have found wall plugs, although now unpowered, in which to connect their laptop computers while still more have the telltale white earbud speakers - a dead give away for an iPod. The level of electronic sophistication and access among even the most junior troops was unthinkable even 10 years ago.

Now keep in mind that once YOUR plane does not show, there is no function to automatically be "booked" (or what the military calls "space blocked") on another flight. You are forced to go "Space A" (space available) wherein you must repeatedly go back and forth to the air terminal each time a new flight may come in and hope there is space on that plane to let you go where you need to go. This process lasted FOUR days. We were finally able to get out to a base inside a base, called Phoenix Academy in Taji, about 30 miles north of Baghdad. Our ride was to be my first and only lift on a giant CH-47 Chinook helicopter. A visceral experience, the sound of a 47 is almost the same as the sound of a 50-cal machine gun - a constant, deep, powerful "thump-thump-thump-thump." The ramp at the aft of the helo stays open during flight, offerring up a 4th-of-July view as the pilot popped a set of four searing white phosphorous flares to potentially divert any heatseeking missiles at a critical point in the journey. (We were not fired on - don't worry mom!)
A CH47 Chinook, capable of landing 55 combat ready troops. (photo credit: Boeing)

Our flight arrived at Taji, which is also the logistics headquartes for the Iraqi Army. And the primary storage area for damaged and obsolete Iraqi Army equipment




Click on the video to see the field of obsolete Russian-made tanks from pre-invasion times.

Almost five days behind schedule, we made it back to Camp Victory on March 22nd.

*Award yourself 10 blog bonus points if you are not in the military AND remembered that "rotary wing" means helicopters

O-3 Dinner Club

My time in Iraq, now rapidly approaching a conclusion, has been made more tolerable and far more amusing by a weekly event I took to calling "The O-3 Dinner Club." O-3 signifies the pay grade of a Navy LT (the equivalent to an Army or Air Force Captain). The "O" stands for officer. In any case, each Sunday night, at 1815 exactly, the core band of O-3s meets outside the DFAC. Although membership ebbs and flows with each new personnel rotation, we always seem to have a solid group.

O-3 Dinner Club founding members, LT Jeremy Casella (He is single AND a pilot, ladies!), me, and LT Mike Johnson. We all trained together and arrived in Iraq together.

Sitting down in the DFAC, the conversation is, as you can imagine, very serious and immediately relevant to the status of the war. Usual topics include Jeremy's wacky ex-girlfriend, which gives way to making fun of Mike and the photo studio worth of pictures he has on his desk of his girlfriend which gives way to jokes about how Mike's girlfriend is secretly dating both Jeremy and me, which gives way to an overview of any new female sightings on base. I'm sure some where in there they make fun of me too. As you can see, it is truly at the junior officer level, with discussions like this, that the war will be won. My roomate Erick, also a member, and father of five, will harp on all of us for not coming to the work-out program he leads every morning at the gym. I'll tell him that you can't maintain a physique like mine by working out too much.

The other auspicious part of the dinner is that it marks the one night a week that Jeremy and I have ice cream. These days you can tell it is getting hot on the convoy route because the marshmellows in the sundae bar are clumping together. I usually let Jeremy go first since he is on a first name basis with the ice cream scooper. Mike will sometimes indulge and get jello (and yes, we make fun of him for that also). The sundae bar almost has too many choices and we are confronted with the kind of big decisions that the Army allows troops to make without having to fill out a form or get the signature of a superior: Apple or bluberry topping? Chocolate or caramel sauce, or maybe even both? Shortbread cake with that or do I go with a cookie instead? Yes indeed, heady stuff.

In all seriousness though, Sunday night dinners have been a huge part of my mental well being here. Everyone talks about their frustrations and triumphs. Frustrations are at once comiserated with and triumphs are immediately made light of. I probably won't miss much about Iraq, but I'll sure miss Sunday night.


LT Erick Johnson (far right) my roomate and fellow O-3 DInner Club member, joins Mike and me for a photo in the Al Faw Palace.

Warfare Redesigned

As staff officers manning desks and watch stations instead of gun turrets and humvees, it is rare that we ever engage in actual counter-insurgency operations. We feel the reverberation of incoming fire and hear the noise, but generally continue about our business uninterrupted. Recently, however, there have been several notable instances of our perimeter being infiltrated by insurgent forces. This startling and bothersome revelation has resulted in the mobilization of military and civilians alike in a combined effort to secure our area. As you know, civilians are un-armed and even with all the gear the Navy issued me, I was not equipped properly for this mission. The insurgents are a nimble and fast moving. We have had to adjust our tactics and use new methods of teamwork to effectively fight. This picture represents our current defensive posture in the office . . .

My officemate, MAJ Dave Troutman, and I prepare for the onslaught of airbourne bloodsuckers.

WHOA! What happened to your HAIR??

Umm, why, does it look different? Okay, I shaved my head. Or rather, Samato, the barber from Sri Lanka shaved my head (he checked with me three times just to make sure that he understood, and even then approached the task with great caution). As of the date on this post (March 16, 2008), I am exactly FOUR weeks away from starting the trek back to the joy of wine with dinner (or without - but I can choose), a private bathroom, Hawaiian shirts and flip flops. To mark this auspicious occasion, I thought I needed to make a statement. I also wanted to get a preview on how I would look in the future when there would be no need for me to go to a barber at all.

Signs of the Times

Yes, that sign does say "Non Potable Water Do Not Drink." Only the Army . . .

COB Adder - A 4-Star Destination

COB (Contingency Operating Base) Adder, near the ancient city of Tallil, lies about 100 miles north of the Kuwait border and is my new favorite vacation destination in Iraq. Surely a future four star venue on the yet to be published LT Bob's Tourist Guide to Iraq, only missing that fifth star due to pesky rockets that landed my second day there. More on that later, though, let's hit the highlights first.

Getting There
Although Quantas does not offer service from Baghdad to Adder, fortunately for me, my new mates in the Australian Royal Air Force do! Our travel, the most civilized yet in country, was on a ARAF C-130. They take your bags and palletize them. They provide bus service directly to the terminal. They have a dedicated waiting tent with a TV that works. You even get a neat little bag tag (this one for my return trip).


Sadly, the national flag on the tag was not indicative of my final destination . . . .

In stark contrast to our own Air Force, the Aussies can actually tell you WHERE their plane is so if it is running late, you don't have to sit at the passenger terminal waiting for a plane that is still 1,000 miles away. The USAF requires you to be at the terminal three to four hours ahead of time, regardless of the location of your plane. As always, lets compare and contrast.

Aussie conversation:
Crikey mates! The bird is still in Kabul and will be a few hours late. Don't bother going to the pasenger terminal until 1430 hours. We'll get that bugger over here as soon as we can.

USAF conversation (imagine this conversation happening over and over again across hours, and in some cases, days as we wait for a plane:
Me: Hi, I'm LT Kurkjian, checking in for the Train 72 Mission to nowhere.
Air Force person (AFP): Okay, please wait in Tent 5.
Me: Is the plane on time?
AFP: Yes sir, it could be here any moment.
Me: So where is it right now?
AFP: It's almost here, it could be here anytime.
Me: Right, I know but do you know where the plane is now?
AFP: Yes sir, it is on its way here.
Me: "On its way here" as in it is down hard for maintenance in Qatar or "on its way here" as in currently in the sky above Iraq stopping here next? [Because the USAF definition of "on its way here" does, infact, encompass that range of possibilities]
AFP: It could be here any minute.
Me: You have no idea where your own plane is, do you?
AFP: We'll come over to Tent 5 to let you know.

If you think I am kidding, come on over to Iraq and find out yourself.

Accomodations
As a guest of the Base Garrison, the fine men and women of the 871st National Guard Troop Command of Arkansas, I was given VIP quarters and my first private bathroom in over six months. A brand new containerized housing unit (CHU), complete with linens, snacks and bottled water. Although the bathroom (or "head" as we call it in the Navy) was very small, it seemed large to me, especially when you consider that I was the only one in it.


Room 8005B at the Ritz Adder

Fierce fans of their home state team, the 871st exemplified Southern hospitality as well as the fact that every other person in Arkansas has "Bobby" as a first, middle or last name. These guys were a blast and some of them were right out of central casting. The base Terrain Manager was the primary contact and his assistant, a staff sergeant, who everyone just called "Bobby" sat in the same office. At one point I asked the staff sergeant if I could use his computer to check in with the office. In a long Southern drawl, he replied "sure thing sir" and with an added smile, continued, "just don't go looking at none of that porn or nothing." His boss quickly noted, "Aint nothing to worry about LT, Bobby aint never figured out how to work that computer to begin with."


Almost as if I was back in Fayetteville for USC's 2006 season opener . . . except not

Fine Dining
After months of DFAC food, which now tastes the same to me, regardless of the food item, I would like to sing my praises for the Italian Army! While I cannot attest to their warrior prowess or tactical aptitude, they do know how to eat. Prior to their withdrawal from Iraq, the Italians were one of the primary occupants of this base (along with the Australians and now the Romanians). Longing for some home cooking, they installed not one but THREE Italian restaurants here. The menu is limited and there is no table service, but it was not the DFAC. I didn't even care that this calzone with tomato sauce cost me $12.

Although it might appear as though this delicious pepperoni calzone has been mortally wounded, it is only an extra large portion of tomato sauce . . .

Australian Charm
The large Australian contingent on base was always noticeable and fun to talk to.


An Australian Striker armored vehicle rolls back into base after a patrol.

Sights and Tourist Attractions

Within the perimeter of COB Adder is the largely reconstructed Ziggurat at Ur, reportedly a very similar design the the biblical Tower of Babel. The base Religious Affairs Center sponsors weekly guided tours of the ziggurat and surrounding archeological sights, including the home of the prophet Abraham who is said to have lived here for 72 of his 170+ years.

Our tour guide was an Iraqi named Dyif who was able to boast an impressive pedigree - he is a third generation archeologist at this site. His grandfather was part of the original excavation, led by the British in the 1920s. He works for the Iraqi Ministry of Culture and Antiquities.

Ancient writing could be seen on a spattering of the bricks used to build a nearby town center.

Rebuilt based on the excavated foundation on the order of Saddam, this is said to be the home of Abraham. He lived large in a home with over 20 rooms.

Shop Ziggurat seemed to have an inventory from a time past, as though left out in the desert for years only tobe retrieved and put on sale. But from small beginnings there is great possibility. Iraq has a wealth of historical sites and if the current conflict ever ends, the country could easily become a top tourism destination, particularly for religious groups.

A walk down the steps that ancient denizens of this area believed would allow them to get closer to God.