ONE JOURNEY INTO IRAQ
And the humorous process getting there
A car backfired in
the Walmart parking lot. I flinched. But I didn’t hit the ground. I was getting
better. More help was needed overseas, and I felt I was healed enough to go.
There were two additional factors: the first was that they were gonna send me
within the next year, so I might as well choose when; the second was… well, it
felt more comforting to be around people who felt what I felt, knew what I
knew, lived where I lived. So, I gladly moved my deployment up to the time my
civilian contract would renew – I figured that’d make it easier on everybody. I
would go and relieve my friends their burden, and for my part I’d be back where
at least I knew where I fit in. Standing in that parking lot, I knew the only
place I’d feel ok – feel “normal” – was back over there, back where we were all
on alert, back where the only thing that mattered was moment-to-moment
survival.
All deployments
start with a stint at a US base for readiness training and clearance, so it was
off to Ft Benning the first week of January to “prepare” me for the months
ahead - on duty in Iraq. As I left
the cold Northwest for Ft Benning, I was actually encouraged to get out of the
40-50 degree weather we’d been havin’ all December. Imagine my surprise when I
arrived in GA to temperatures of 16-30. OK, surprise may be putting it nicely -
that was definitely not in the list of words I used at our 5am outdoor
formations and training sessions. As many of my friends will testify, I am NOT
cut out for frigid weather. Apparently, though, hell froze over or the world
turned upside down – or possibly somebody “up there” has a very twisted sense
of humor. So…freezing weather it was.
One
of the funniest parts to this cold weather in South Georgia is that …well,
let’s just say it causes some difficulties. See, the way “inprocessing” and
“outprocessing” work generally involve lots and lots and lots of lines waiting
for your next medical check, form to fill out or equipment issue. I didn’t say it’s a cattle call, but that’d
be a decent analogy. There are briefings, re-briefings, de-briefings and
mystery-briefings – where no one knows why we are supposed to be there or for
what – including those in charge. Basically, they’ll take that time to spin
around, pick something out of thin air and just ramble on until the allotted
time is done. Those are sometimes my
favorite because you can at least be amused at the circus. Having said all
that, since this is Georgia where it should be tolerable weather – 40% or more of
these trainings and waiting in lines are conducted outside in pavilions and/or
sidewalks instead of buildings with heat and shelter from the elements. Oopsy!
At that first morning’s formation it was only16 degrees by 6am. There was some
scrambling going on to figure out how to prevent frostbite for the subsequent
mornings where formation was at 4 or 5am. Again, if this were a base in
Seattle, no big deal, they would have been prepared. Columbus, Georgia,
however, was not accommodated to deal with sub-freezing temperatures. Adding
insult to injury, where we were training utilized porta potties. Now, imagine
racing your frostbitten hands over to the hand wash station only to find the
water is frozen. Did anybody think to at least put out some hand sanitizer –
no. This deployment was not starting out very well. Fortunately, I had some
hand sanitizer in my uniform pocket. I must admit, though, “people” were
informed of this travesty – I doubt it did a bit of good – but people… were…
informed. Eventually we hoped to identify
these “people.” Somehow, I survived, but I was still a li’l bitter. I knew
once Iraq heated up to 120° or so, I might change my mind - no, no, I was still bitter just remembering
it.
Mercifully,
it migrated on up to the 40s in time for “Med Shed” day. As you may gather from
our li’l nickname, the “Med Shed” wasn’t exactly a clinic or hospital – or
really remotely resembling either one. It’s kinda back to the cattle call
analogy. (As I informed my friend Jennifer, the DMV would be an example of
efficiency by comparison.) The “Med Shed” did do an excellent job of keeping
colored tape on the floor, though, to ensure you follow the proper flow they
prefer. My favorite part was that they start with the 4-5 most gay looking
women and immediately send them for urine pregnancy tests. Once that’s out of
the way, it was off for labs, eye tests and immunizations. Whether you’d just
had them or not, you were getting them again. Dental was basically a
hand-me-your-paperwork-stamp-stamp-thank you-move along. One of my favorite
parts of inprocessing was the audiogram – bless that man’s heart – we have all
been deployed enough times to have impaired hearing. However, it was his job to
say we were “good enough” to still deploy – kinda like the shrink that has to
say we weren’t “too depressed” to still deploy. So, after the blessing from the
Physician Assistant and adding PPD and typhoid to my H1N1 and Anthrax
immunizations for good measure, I had survived the “Med Shed.”
Ft. Benning
actually did a pretty good job considering they’re tryin’ to run 470+ soldiers,
DOD, and contractors through all the checklists, training sessions and
equipment collection in less than 7 days. Again, while it was technically known
as the CONUS Replacement Center, the CRC… it’s more commonly referred to as The
Church. That’s partly because of its acronym and partly because it is
physically located where Harmony Church used to be. Most of us were at The
Church from 3-7 days before shipping over.
Anyway, we went through a lot of
reminders about the conditions with both the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars. They
reiterated the IED threat, particularly with the increase in suicide bombers.
There were lectures on bombs and kinds of bombs and pictures of bombings and
sounds of bombings and even randomly blowing up stuff (without warning) inside
the lecture room just for effect… we got
it: we’re gonna get bombed. Enough already.
After
processing through medical, dental, legal, finance, personnel, etc., we got
duffels and armor and weapons and chemical warfare suits. This lovely exercise
was known as Rapid Field Issue. I assure
you there was nothing rapid about it. At one point there was a 45-minute lunch
break, so they just shut down and let us stand there with half full duffels
(and, no, we did not get lunch).
Next
we did the usual marches. We marched to training; we marched through lanes
rigged with booby traps; we marched to chow; and we marched to the range. I swore I was gonna leave there with
frostbite. On the plus side, they instituted a new policy that was a lot of
fun – all health care providers got issued red dog tags. That translated: we
got out of doing a lot of training – the others spent 5 hours in CPR training (that
we obviously already had in our civilian jobs) while we got to do laundry, call
home and pick up extra Benadryl for the 15-17 hours of flying we were in for to
get to Iraq. Then we qualified with our weapons – I got sharpshooter :~ . I’m
pretty sure the lady next to me had a drill sergeant shooting her targets for
her behind her back. We had to get
everybody deployed somehow. They gave us a brief on security, the Geneva
Convention (which no one honors in guerrilla warfare) and the flight we were
about to board… and then it was time for final preparations.
First, there was the packing. Let me just say, some of those
duffel bags had to be wrestled into submission – no seriously. You have to work
‘em step by step: get one corner closed; lecture it a bit; then you left it.
When you felt it had been long enough, you returned to see if it had learned
its lesson. If you could get the crossways closed, you succeeded. If not, you
enlisted your weight, your will, your roommates, your fellow deployees and even
total strangers. Everyone pitched in to sit on, shake, pound on, stretch, pull
and push until by the power of the Great Lord above, we got that damned duffel
tamed into submission: locked and loaded. Whatever wasn’t in there by then, wasn’t
goin’ – and the search team better not even dream of opening that thing!
This began the “giving phase” – shirts, boots, uniforms – you name
it were graciously donated to whomever needed/wanted ‘em. The next morning
began the “cleansing phase” which sounds like: “I think this shirt is a li’l
worn thin, dirty beyond cleansing…” garbage; “I don’t really need all these
socks…” accidentally left in the barrack drying machine; “I bet I can round up
notebooks and envelopes somewhere along the way…” casually left under a cot in the
bunker; and “I’ve already read this book twice while waiting in the never
ending lines….” dropped off in common room.
After that we went on
lockdown, got moved to Lawson Airfield, were searched by dawgs (can’t get the
UGA out of me), and were fed our last American meal (for awhile). Then the
Chaplain prayed over us, and we boarded that big ol’ DC10. The touching but
eerie part came next: all the airmen on the ground stopped what they were doin’
and saluted us as we taxied and took off for Kuwait. It’s an honorable
tradition, but sends chills up your spine – not the good kind. It was more real
and inevitable than ever at that point.
We
had to stop in Bangor, Maine to refuel which allowed us to stretch our legs and
wander around a special section of their airport. Let me tell you – those
people love their military. Men and women – some Veterans, some civilians –
shook our hands one-by-one as we exited the plane and cheered us off as we
left. There were also the Freeport Flag Ladies. They offered coins, prayers,
food, coffee – love and appreciation, really. They even let me play with legos
to distract me :~). It was a bright spot in the midst of a bleary journey.
Finally,
we made it to Kuwait and went through the long line of checking in and finding
our bunks. However, my stay in Kuwait (usually 3-5 days) was shortened
considerably. As soon as we landed, our LNO informed two of us that we’d be
leaving for Iraq almost immediately. My comrade and I no sooner landed and
transferred bags in Kuwait before we were reloaded, sent back to Ali Al Salem
and flown into Camp falling in on the 915th FST (Forward Surgical Team).
And
thus began my second tour in Iraq.
