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?