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| The Estonians are Coming! |
| 03.05.05 (9:02 am) [edit] |
I heard they picked the Academy Awards the other night, it really doesn't make much difference to me, but it's a big night for some, I'm sure. I went out on patrol with the Estonians the other night. Yes, Estonia is part of the coalition, and have rotated four light infantry platoons here over the past two years. These are very professional, very serious soldiers. They patrol with US troops and have taken some casualities as well. Now this must be understood in terms of numbers. When a small country like Estonia sends 32 men to fight alongside US troops and one is killed, that's a far greater percentage than many of the other coalition partners. To the Estonians it is greater, indeed. Many of the Iraqis think the Estonian troops are Russian and that their rules of engagment (ROE) are like the Russians that visited during the old regime, which was little to no ROE. So, the Iraqis hide. But these troops are well trained, well equiped and hav e a strong sense of military bearing as well as a healthy pride in their newly democratic nation. I salute them.
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| I Done Thunk It Out |
| 02.14.05 (5:21 am) [edit] |
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| I'm here again and again |
| 02.14.05 (4:46 am) [edit] |
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Dang!!
I've been remiss. My friend left this thang in my control and I've neglected it until now. I'm a little new at this, but not at deploying to Iraq. I just got back last August and now I'm here again. The first time was with division, so it's interesting to be with corps. Also, last time I was an E4, and now I'm a desert E5. But, the best differenence is that I'm relatively sure I won't be involuntarily extended like last time when my 12 month stay turned into 15 months. At least I was in good company, 3/4 of the division was kept in order to retake cities that had fallen to al Sadr's militia. I'll figure out how to put some pics in here and you'll all get to see my dog-face soon enough, but right now just stick with the illusion that I'm handsome. This is some fat living, man. We have good chow, nice living conditions and decent working hours. I even get to sleep in a morning or two. Sleep in means 0630, but it sure beat 0445 when I get up for PT.
Stay sick and talk witchas next post...
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| Transfer of Authority |
| 01.30.05 (6:24 am) [edit] |
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MARHABA Y'ALL. THIS IS MY LAST POST ON THIS BLOG.
I'M PASSING THE BLOG TO A FELLOW COMBAT CORRESPONDENT, AND HEADING BACK TO THE STATES FOR A BREAK FROM THE FERTILE CRESCENT. UNCLE SAM WILL MOST LIKELY SEND ME BACK AT SOME POINT. IN THE MEANTIME, IF YOU'RE A REAL FRIEND, AND NOT SOME RANDOM PERSON THAT HAPPENED UPON THIS HERE BLOG, SEE YOU SOON...
C MONKEY
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| Geraldo's Smoke Machines |
| 01.27.05 (7:51 am) [edit] |
Knee me in the Balls (see 'almost,' two blogs down for explanation of name) has been asking our new marine corporal to go on several Smoke Machines with him. At least, that's what it sounds like he's saying when he asks him, in his broken Estonian English, to go on a "small mission." He says,"I have a Smoke Machine for you corporal." So, we tell the corporal,"Hey, Knee me in the balls has another smoke machine for you."
The Geraldo show was a big part of this last week. Everyone keeps talking about his moustache. He seems like an alright person. I would tell more, but my bladder is about to burst, and it's a long long walk to the Port-A-John. It's in the middle of Port-A John lake.
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| MuD BOG! Nonstop Fun |
| 01.23.05 (6:34 am) [edit] |
Freezing rain yesterday. Freezing windy soggy MUD BOG!Walked back through it to the tent (bike was recently stolen) only to find the electricity was out, it was equally freezing, and everything was soaking wet. There were leaks dripping through the canvas roof onto electrical sockets and random girls' bunks. It was a long night. We didn't get electricity until eight thirty this morning.
Drove around in the mud soup, it's fun when you're in an all wheel drive government vehicle. Kept yelling,"Mud Bog!" No one else seems to have the same enthusiasm.
When you're rebel yelling and whoopin through some giant puddles of mud and your passenger just sits there, staring ahead, it's not as much fun as if he/she were doing the same thing.
After doing some donuts in one muddy field en route to drop this guy off, my passenger looked at me, smiled, and said, "You drive like Steve McQueen."
In other news, still haven't found the person to pass the blog to. Hopefully an idiot like myself who is not opposed to posting photos.
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| almost |
| 01.19.05 (9:35 pm) [edit] |
The word for lunch in Arabic is almost identical to the word for shit. It's rallah, with a rolled RRRR, for lunch. Hallah means shit. so if you're not careful, you could be asking your new arabic buddy if he wants to meet you for shit.
Getting ready to go home, been spending time doing paperwork and acquainting replacements with familiarities of our abode here in paradise. One of them will soon be taking over this new blog, just haven't decided which one yet.
It's been really busy doing nothing. For example, today KBR is kicking us to the curb, we're getting booted out of our trailers to move into transient tents. It's just one more motion of Groundhog Day, which, as stated back in July's blogs, is every day. We've stopped production until the new guys take over. Perfect timing, since the elections are about a week away, Ay Hosers.
Everyone's been messing with one new guy, calling him FNG (Fuckin New Guy) or rookie. He cried to the sergeants major about it, how he was being taunted and called cherry or FNG, so now everyone just calls him Ashley.
Personally, I'd rather be called FNG than Ashley, if I was him, but then, if I was him, I wouldn't complain about it.
There's an Estonian officer I send a daily report to here named Nee Me, pronounced as it's spelled, so I started saying,"I'm going to send the morning report to Knee me in the balls," somehow, now, everyone's calling him "Nee Me in the Balls."
The palace rangers are in the midst of a huge photoshop war, they keep putting one another's faces imposed onto supermodel bodies, or this one sergeant is called the Key Nazi, since she has control of all the vehicle keys, so a black and white photo of her, with her hand extended now has been placed inside of one of Hitler's cars, surrounded by SS guys, and she has a hitler moustache and Hitler's hair imposed on her head. Ah, photoshop wars. Our crazy air force NCO is waging his own personal war, with websense. Websense is this program that won't allow us onto pornographic or questionable sites, such as Fredericks of Hollywood or ESPN. so he's found ways around it, to random international HotOrNot sites, somehow he got to RateMyCamelToe.org, for example. It's a daily battle, and sometimes I think he's really winning. The other day I saw him staring at a woman in a blue bikini, just staring into her breasts. I asked him what he was doing. "If I keep staring, the top will come off," he replied.
I suppose the things we've been doing are the things some people, when they deploy, do for a year. Similar discussions such as who would taste best and what type of meal would you make with them, who would kick everyone's asses the most, etc, are still the bill, although Ashley does not involve himself in it. he's too busy staring at squirrels. He really likes squirrels.
We roasted marshmallow yesterday while burning sensitive documents. We have an old-school shredder, a big metal trashcan outside the trailer, to burn papers in, so we attached some marshmallows to chopsticks and.... mmmm. burnt paper and chopstick enamel aside, they were pretty tasty.
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| Fight dirt and grime with Fairy! |
| 01.10.05 (2:56 am) [edit] |
[image]CMonkey_475879298.jpg[/image]
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| Tears for Fears |
| 01.03.05 (9:58 pm) [edit] |
Theme song for this would be that song Mad World. Not the Donny Darko version, the original 80s one.
Our mobile satellite team drove out to some Minnesota National Guardians to film a simulcast Them vs. the Mall of America yesterday. We hooked the satellite up on top of a truck and slid the cord inside a large tent. Everyone in the tent stood in front of our cameras, and it was telecast to The Mall of America in Minneapolis, where their families watched Minnesotan Soldiers on a giant TV screen at the mall, and made phone calls to us in Iraq. Various members of the unit would get on the phone with Grandma or whomever else was standing by in The Mall of America, and those at home could watch almost instantly as they were spoken to.
One very young red head walked up when it was her turn to talk, with clenched hand to mouth, crying. She was, I guess, broken up about being here. She couldn’t really talk, she was so broken up. I’m standing there behind the camera, disgusted at such a pitiful show. It’s something these people all love, too, all the oohs and aahs, make them feel, make them cry, look at the poor girl, etc. I’m watching, just thinking, Grody.
I’m standing there, embarrassed to watch this child with not enough dignity or composure to wait for closed quarters, but sharing her weakness with the entire Mall of America (which is grotesque in itself) as a simple testament to how we are the weaker sex. Our camera guy, who is one of those red-head lovers, looks over at me and says, “Ah, Massage- Ah.”
I looked at him quizzically, and he added,” I just panned over and filmed her getting a facial massage from some dude. Maybe she’s crying because her boyfriend or husband is really pissed off.”
Then he said, loud enough for anyone around to hear, “I’m gonna re-watch this by myself in the trailer tonight,” and winked.
I looked back at the crying girl and couldn’t take any more. “I’m going outside for a minute, I’ve got to get away from her,” I told the red-head-feemer, and stepped outside of the tent. I start thinking that maybe I’m being a judgemental asshole, she’s just a kid, but…Within a minute of me standing out there, the crying girl was outside, with two of her little friends, the three of them hugging and crying and whimpering and I just wanted to barf. All over them. I couldn’t get away from them.
I see that, and automatically understand any mysoginistic misgivings about how women are unfit for combat roles. It was so pitiful.
And it wasn’t the first time I was witness to tears in one night. But the other time was genuine, and completely different.
Later that night, after returning all our equipment and taking care of about four other things that needed to be done, I stopped by a friend’s trailer for a cup of tea (no, that’s not code for something else. We were actually drinking tea. And speaking of which, thanks for nothing, everyone that said they might send some Notwater. Not that abstaining from alcohol is unheard of. Obviously I am doing it, as are 100 thousand or so other servicemembers who don’t have decent friends with basic creative junior high magyver tactics or postal incentive. It’s cool. I’m not mad. Just sober. Very very sober. I’m just going to end this paragraph now and quit digressing). So we were drinking tea, and she told me about the first time she killed a man.
She was very detailed about it. She said it was almost robotic when it happened. How she just saw him shooting at everyone else, and she got him in her sight, and took him out. Clean and simple.
But later that same night, she said she heard the women wailing for their dead sons and husbands, and that’s when it truly first hit her. As she spoke to me, tears welled up in her eyes. We talked for a long time about all the moral implications. She said she was glad she did it, because he was shooting at us, but she was thinking about how she took someone away from his children, his family, afterwards. Those tears were warranted. She kept apologizing, I told her she is human, and it’s ok.
After being in war, my views on killing, obviously, have changed. It just seems that if you are in battle, and you face another man, or, in today’s case, woman, who also is armed, then all the regular rules are off. They don’t apply. Forget about any issues of heaven or hades, it’s survival. It’s another level.
Not that I’m an advocate of Valhalla, although there is something pure about a culture that has its elder warriors dash themselves against the rocky cliffs of the sea so as to not die in bed.
And when you are face to face with it, it doesn’t really matter whether you believe in the war you’re fighting or not. What matters at that moment is whether you believe in living, keeping those with you alive, or not. Nothing really matters but what is happening right at that exact moment, so in some crazy hypocritical manner, it’s almost zen. Sorry about that calling that unnecessary cheesiness, but it is.
Regardless, this woman crying was so completely in contrast with the little girl crying earlier. The woman cried the sadness of the world and the snapping twig that is mortality, the snip of the Fate’s scissors and the little girl cried because she missed her mommy. Or maybe because her boyfriend saw some other guy rubbing her face. “Ah-Massage-Ah!”
Oh, Arabic word of this fine Tuesday, is At-talata yom Rouh min hoooon, which, literally, means Tuesday Go Away, which is the closest translation I can give to saying Tuesday’s Gone. Yes, even Lynnrd Skynnrd lyrics can sort of kind of be translated into Arabic.
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| You know we'll be here for a while when... |
| 12.28.04 (3:41 am) [edit] |
[image]CMonkey_813764520.jpg[/image]
The next time anyone suggests the idea of the U.S. leaving Iraq anytime soon, I will show them a photo of our Pizza Hutt, or perhaps one of Pizza Hutt and SUBWAY, because the two chains opened up here in Baghdad this week.
I can give no other argument this strong.
And I'm a huge hypocrite, because hell yeah I ate some pizza. and damn it was good. I hadn't had any since stopping for some in the Green Zone three months ago en route back down south (there's a Pizza Inn there... competition among the pizza making big business-spreading infidels).
Arabic word of the week: aahreef. Means sergeant.
It would be good to hear your thoughts about the Pizza Hutt and Subway. Click below on the comment box!!!
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| It's beginning to look a lot like.... |
| 12.23.04 (4:21 am) [edit] |
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[image]CMonkey_683838596.jpg[/image]
Only two shopping days left til Christmas.
Hopefully you're all updated with your christmas gifts.
We're planning on having a white elephant christmas, a variation of the secret santa where each purchases a gift and it is randomly distributed. One of our most hedonistic is rebelling, he's attempting to attend Mass instead of our christmas get-together. He's not exactly a church-goer. Actually, he's the reason I don't post blogs as much any longer. He petitioned the chain of command to question the writing of blogs, due to a jealousy towards my promotion (silly, right?), now I have to go elsewhere to post, which is not always feasible within these seven-working days per week which are all over a ten or twelve hour period. I try not to say anything about it, that whole can't say anything nice mantra I'm still attempting to cover my ass with.
However, there are much more important things in this world than wasting time attempting to thwart the efforts of others. At the very least, self-promotion is better than trying to slander or bust down another individual.
Hope you are all having a good holiday season.
The image below is from a car bomb, the figure hanging out of the car was a twelve year old boy.
[image]CMonkey_1179062074 .jpg[/image]
"In war, there are no unwounded soldiers." -Jose Narosky
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| Blowd Up Bridge |
| 12.11.04 (9:52 pm) [edit] |
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[image]CMonkey_485741263.jpg[/image]
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| Christmas Bear the Security Guard |
| 12.11.04 (9:45 pm) [edit] |
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See Blowd-up bridge in blog above. This bridge was at some point blowd-up. No story, lo siento. just a blowd-up bridge. There are many structures destroyed and rebuilt we see regularly and think nothing of, in the same way you may not notice a sign outside of a door you pass through daily, because it is there every day, or the type of tree next to the place you park you car. Similarly, I drive or walk or bike by the remains of the bridge daily. There are so many other things which would be interesting and new on first or twentieth encounter but average because of the day to day, and i'm attempting to overcome these things and remember that they are not. Dig? Here's what I do at work sometimes: [image]CMonkey_102676688.jpg[/image] Captain DVIDs took a photo of me interviewing. This picture was taken at six in the morning. We often do the satellite thing at awkward hours, like 4 am or midnight, in order to match up with news times for the states. Recently, the hot topic for interviewees from the states is something about uparmored vehicles. Basically, they all ask if everyone has adequate equipment. This colonel handled his questions well. He explained that 80 percent of his (my) unit has armored vehicles, and the 20 percent that do not, do not leave post. There is a misconception about what the military is given in terms of battle gear. We all have flack vests. We all have kevlars. And as for vehicles, we generally are covered in terms of safety better than any conflict prior to this. We are provided for in terms of safety on several levels. The story in the news about those inadequately prepared national guardsmen is, like OJ and Monica Lewinski and Abu Ghraib, the story that is being ground into the mud, sticking all over your boots as you try to get out of it. It's obviously an important concern, but an isolated event. I've been in humvees all over this country, armored at all levels, and there is a wide variety. Some vehicles have air conditioning and double plated windows. Some have welded metal doors with a slit on the side for a window. Some have no doors. There are all versions. Just like the bathrooms and chow halls and living quarters and threat-levels and mortars or no mortars, friendlier or sketchier areas... I'm attempting to get the point across that there is a variety. It varies from city to city, from north to south and so on. When I was down south last week, a sergeants major told me that they hadn't been mortared since July. Where I am is mortared day and night. I was just walking back from breakfast and two came in (but everyone else says it was three. whatever. i only heard two). So the point is, different places, different situations. I'll stop talking about that and tell you about something I keep forgetting to tell you about: B.J. Weiner. There's a guy that writes for the paper here in Baghdad actually named B.J.Weiner! Everyone in the trailer was joking about it, so we called up the Scimitar (the paper) and one guy asked,"Uh, Can I speak to Mr. WEINER?" They hung up. Guess they though it was a crank call. I called back and talked to Stock, my friend on the paper. He said the guy is legit, that they've printed four or five of his stories. That his name is actually B.J. Weiner. Apparently he's part of the Army Corps of Engineers. On a completely different note, we have a new security guard at the palace. The Christmas Bear. Here I am with Fancy, posing with him. [image]CMonkey_1018598985 .jpg[/image]
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| Mass email reproduction... |
| 12.05.04 (5:37 am) [edit] |
OOH that hotmail's pissin me off! I tried to send out a mass email several times but it would not send. so i'm just cutting and pasting it here so it'll at least reach one of you...i'm sorry I never keep in touch with anyone. i' sorry it takes so long for me to actually write back. I'm sorry i never write and i never call until the moment i'm on my way to your doorstep.
i'm a bad friend.
Here's the bulk of the mass email:
Hello,
sorry I haven't written in a while. sort of get behind on the keeping n touch. I'm actually supposed to be working on about five things instead of sending this right now. But I haven't called or written a few of you for a while, and it's built up, so this is an attempt, albeit sort of feeble in its personal level strengths [ESPECIALLY NOW] Just I was thinking some stuff on my way to work, and...
This morning i rode my bike to work as I do most mornings when I'm 'home' at Camp Victory. Victory's a pretty large area, at least 20 miles, so the bike makes the walks much shorter. It’s red and was free and I kind of feel like pee wee herman with it. I told my parents that and they sent me some emails about how I should watch out for Francis, or something about the basement in the Alamo, and how maybe it would be a good thing if francis did steal it, because then I’d go to the Alamo, which is close to Fort Hood, and so on, and I guess it makes sense that whole nut falling from the tree thing. See where it comes from? So the bike is fun. And riding it, of course, is pretty ridiculous looking. I wear my desert camoflauge uniform and boots, with long johns and a sweater underneath, a flack vest, carry my kevlar, wear a brown head protector which is kind of like a gator neck, around my neck and over my head, with my cap on top, and mandatory bicycle helmet on top of that. also, mandatory yellow reflector stripe across and of course, my beloved M16, which works soooo well with bike spokes.
SOOPER DORK.
kind of makes it hard to do the Look Ma No Hands thing, but I still try. sometimes it works, for a couple of seconds.
I'm pedalling along, just thinking about how ridiculous it looks, but then, it sort of perfectly matches just how ridiculous this world i'm living in is.
Yesterday, I flew in Blackhawks with a bunch of generals (my favorite being the Canadian one. he just seems real, more genuine, done cha know Ay), for two hours down to a strip of road in the middle of the desert. We were flying to the place where the roads meet. A several-month paving project culminated with this place at this moment [september's blogs have photos from when I eearlier covered it]. The road, previously 143 kilometers unpaved, was finally finished. So we land on the sand, surrounded by Italian and American and Iraqi Security Forces, and a few official words later, the Canadian general and a guy named Mustafa are swinging a sledge hammer into a golden spike in the center of the pavement.
Basically, since the Americans in charge of the project were the Utah National Guard, the spike was commemorating the meeting of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific Railroads…at some random point in Utah. At that time, a golden spike was also driven into the last bit of railroad track. So here we were, at some random place in Iraq to do the same thing.
it was kind of funny because the guy was named Mr. Mustafa. It's funny because everywhere you go there's a guy named Mr. Mustafa. At Victory, there's a Mr. Mustafa who will go and buy you things like batteries and other essential electronic equipment. At every base I've been to, someone will say something about a Mr. Mustafa. Either the name is like Jones or Smith, or it's a common term for something else. If you've ever watched the first Austin Powers, it's also Will Farrell's character that Dr. Evil gets rid of first ("I'm not dead, I'm just very badly burned!"). Everyone kept saying it's such a great thing to have Mr. Mustafa here, and the broadcaster I'm with turns back to me with a grin and says, "Mustafa is EVERYWHERE!"
After they hammered the spike, some important guy told me that myself and the broadcaster and this captain from the history detachment (they just go around documenting history, sort of like we do, but without the press releases, and they also get to see dead bodies and more stuff that can't be released and i can't talk about here anyway)... so he tells us that three colonels took our helicopter seats, and we had to convoy back to the base here. That's what the guy had to tell me. Big surprise. that's usually the way it works.
so, long and short, convoyed back down south, a nice leisurely drive through the country for about an hour, no VBIEDs, car bombs, or small arms fire, just waves from kids on the side of the street and crossing the Euphrates, then a couple of hours later, flew back to Baghdad, arriving by dinnertime. Uploaded some photos, did some more work, and went home.
Before going to sleep, walked the five minute walk to the bathroom trailer from my room to shower, brush teeth, etc. yeah, it's five minutes. I timed the walk. It's a real pain in the ass, or rather, in the bladder, when all you have to do is pee, and it's freezing and muddy outside. You have to gear up just to empty your bladder. so I go into the bathroom, pee, and I'm walking out to the main sink area, and this lady's standing between the door and sinks, looking at me all crazy. She looked like she was going to do something really crazy, and I couldn't figure it out. "Are you ok?" I reached out my hand to her, and as i did, I hear ...BOOM...BOOM... a bunch of mortars walking in. she's like, "Come on! Get down on the floor!" and she drops right there, under the sinks, looking so scared. I'm like, "Man, what if someone walks in, that'll be so embarrassing. dammit." So, I got down on the floor with her and we listened to the mortars. I'm lying there on the ground with some random stranger, talking. She told me they started before i walked out of the stall, that that was why she was standing there (Oh ok, so she’s not just some freak! That was somewhat comforting), because she knew she shouldn't be walking around outside, because i suppose she thought one could hit her and she combust or something. We compared mortar stories. I told her it's fine to stay in your bed at night, because your bed is lower than the jersey barriers, so you have less of a chance with the shrapnel. There aren't any Jersey barriers around the bathroom trailer. That's what the big cement blocks are called. Well, some people call them Alaska barriers, or Texas barriers, depending on the size of the barrier and your state. It seems somewhat universal to call them Jerseys, so I just stick with that.
Eventually, we got back up and went on with what we were doing previously.
so this morning, while riding into work, I was thinking about just how silly it all is. Not the war and all the stuff involved with it. Not on that level at all. I was thinking about how silly it is, that with all these things that happen, at all times, I have to wear a reflector belt and bike helmet AND M16 on this bike to go to my work trailer to type you this letter.
and along those lines, just wanted everyone to know that I'm doing pretty well considering. At times it's fun, at times it hurts (internally, not externally), at times it's funny. It's interesting and different. I try not to think about the political implications, there's not really anything i can do about it regardless, as Jessie Jackson says, “it’s a moot point.” Not that Jessie Jackson said that our occupation of Iraq is a moot point, just that Jessie Jackson is obsessed with the word ‘Moot’.
I'm still me. Obviously, some things have changed, as we all change with each life experience, and i'm bad because I don't always keep in touch. Sorry about that. Just kind of busy at all times. I guess the one thing i really miss, besides sleep, is normal people that get it. Like everyone that's on this mass email list [or was]. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had a conversation with someone that has half a clue. If you say Black Flag, people think you're talking about bug killer. You can't begin to fathom how much these people i'm with don't get it. For example, after the golden spike thing yesterday, I ate lunch with a reservist captain and national guard sergeant major. The reservist captain worked for the governor’s office in Louisiana prior to his deployment, and the sergeant major was a psychotic morman who went out knocking on doors essentially. He knew parts of Louisiana because he had been there on missions, and talked to the captain about it. I refrained from telling them that I also knew a little about Louisiana because I once crashed in Baton Rouge with friends upstairs from a tattoo shop that they all worked in, because from experience with all these wonderful people from all walks of American life here in the fertile crescent, it aint even worth it. Then they’ll stare at me, and get quiet, and it’ll be awkward. So, I keep it camoflauged, like everything else. It’s easier that way. For now.
Otherwise, everything's what it is. No greater or worse, just taking each day, as we should. I don't mean 'we' in the royal sense. that's 'we' as in me and all the other morons sitting here in the muddy sand, none of us getting it. there's obviously a lot I can't say on email either.
As I said before, what i should be doing right now is photoshopping and writing this article instead of throwing this feces your way.
If any of you ever have questions about anything, or want to tell me what's up with your lives, it would be interesting to hear how you be.
...
There's more to the email, which was the personal impersonal stuff of mass emails, well, really, info about when I'm generally going home. the plan for this blog when I go home early next spring is to pass it on to another combat correspondent, one worthy of course. In that way, the blog will continue. just have to find the right person to pass it to...
ma'ah salaama.
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| Knife-twisting CNN Baah Humbugs |
| 12.03.04 (4:17 am) [edit] |
Yesterday we set up a CNN interview with an MP (military police) Staff Sergeant and his wife, via CNN. Basically, a CNN person interviewed both the sarge and the wife simultaneously, then let the two speak to one another, although the three were in different parts of the world. CNN could see both of them, but neither husband nor wife could see the other. he was standing there in the dark, in front of the camera and lights, his nose all red from the cold, and although he couldn't see his wife, he had headphones in, and could talk to her through the mic. It was a nice idea, until the CNN jerkoff started stabbing them with Christmas questions. During the course of the interview, it was established that the sarge hadn't been home for Christmas in four years. He's been in Bosnia and Afghanistan, and somewhere else, and now here. He has a few little ones at home, and CNN guy asked the couple some questions about whether their five-year old even recognized his father or not, but the wife and sarge seemed to hold up pretty well to the questioning, talking all about how they love one another, and they make the time when they can, and support each other, and so on. CNN guy asks the sarge what Christmas will be like here in Iraq, and he says,"Well, it will be just another work day, since I won't be home again." I was sort of thinking the same answer myself. that's sort of what Thanksgiving was. Just another work day, that Christmas doesn't really count when you're at war, and not with the people you love. then the CNN guy asked,"So, if you COULD be together for Christmas, what would you do?"
So the wife starts talking about how Santa Claus would come, and they would open all their presents, and I'm sitting here, behind the camera, in Baghdad, watching this guy's eyes tear up, and my blood started boiling. That asshole was just twisting the knife, asking this wife and husband to imagine the one very thing they want to do, and have not been able to do, for FOUR YEARS, to imagine what it would be like. What a worthless asshole!
The heart hamburger for ratings bullshit really pisses me off.
Poor guy. poor wife. poor kids.
oh, Arabic word of the day: ATTABAY ATTABAY! or...Achtung. Attention. Sta Attento!
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| Zhizn Zhizn |
| 12.01.04 (11:22 pm) [edit] |
Zhizn Zhizn, a Russian Saying meaning,"Life is life."
[image]CMonkey_71120922.jpg[/image]
Covered a marathon this last week. Followed marathoners around with our truck. Vanessa and i took turns, one driving, the other gettting footage, sprawled across the back of the vehicle, getting in the way of the runners. The most interesting runners were the Koreans and the Forrest Gump guys, some Grizzly Adamsesque Ukrainians who did not want their photos taken. They were running with their hands in front of their faces, hating us. Only one was camera hungry, they guy in the photo below. I spoke with him after the race, or rather, he approached me and requested that I not run any information about his friend that came in second place, including photos but especially his name. The Koreans were the opposite of their hairy counterparts, smiling for the cameras, demanding their pictures taken. As we clicked the shutters, they waved and nodded and smiled and said,"Thank Kew!"
Vanessa, the broadcaster with me, was pretty obsessed with them. "they're soooo Cute!"
At the finish line, one Korean ran past everything and everyone and over to me, freezing and sweating simultaneously, saying,"Take Picture!"
[image]CMonkey_1133610328 .jpg[/image]
The weather here has shifted to freezing. A number of the runners had frosted sweat on their shirts. It's muddy and gets down to freezing every night.
Of course, in true Army fashion, we were issued this nice warm fleece jacket that we're not allowed to wear. This one sergeant major decided that, although everyone else in all other parts of Iraq can wear it, we can't. You know, "Here's something nice and warm for you, BUT DON'T WEAR IT!"
I covered an awards ceremony yesterday morning whree the guy who made this no-being warm with your issued fleece rule spoke to the troops. He said, more of less, "YOU'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!" He's is an Old Army kind of guy, who believes in four hours of sleep and endless pain. if you have no other reference, he's similar to the drill instructor's character in Full Metal Jacket. So he stands out in the freezing cold in front of all these troops, who by the way, have mostly been here since last january, and have all taken off their gloves and jackets so they are dress-right-dress for formation, and screams,"NOWHERE IS SAFE! IF YOU THINK YOU'RE SAFE, YOU'RE WRONG! HELL, WE'RE GIVING A GIRL A PURPLE HEART TODAY, AND ALL SHE WAS DOING WAS WALKING HOME TO HER HOOCH!! IF YOU THINK YOU CAN GO TO SLEEP AT NIGHT KNOWING YOU'RE SECURE, THINK AGAIN! YOU MIGHT NOt EVER WAKE UP! YOU COULD DIE RIGHT NOW! YOU COULD WALK AWAY FROM HERE AND GET TAKEN OUT BY ONE OF THESE WORKERS BUILDING THINGS! EVERYONE IS SUSPECT!"
He went on like this for a while.
Later the same day, someone who attended the ceremony joked, asking me if I felt all motivated from it all.
That evening, after braving the mail room (it's packed with boxes and crazy mail-room people throwing care packages. hopefully no one has sent any breakable Christmas presents) and turning in some more work and editing some stuff, had to drive Vanessa to the airport. To celebrate her going home, she, our token Marine combat crayola, and myself all smoked some Cuban cigars and OIF cigars. The OIF cigars were suprisingly smooth. They made fun of me because apparently I smoke 'like it's a peace pipe." Of course I do. Never smoked an actual cigar before. they're not bad though. A first sergeant and some other sergeant we know from the Cav were dropping some people off while we were there, and they happened to also have cigars with them. So we stood around in the freezing cold, smoking and waiting for Vanessa's flight. The one first sergeant was wearing his issued fleece, because they're from up north, where sergeant major of the century isn't enforcing mandatory discomfort and cold weather injury potentialities. Between puffs on his cigar, the first sergeant looked at the three of us and said,"Hey, where are your fleeces?"
We looked back at him, and before we had a moment to reply, he started laughing, said,"Aw, I'm just fucking with you. I know you can't wear em. Huhhuh."
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| Rat Tail Tony Hawks Fo Sho |
| 11.25.04 (10:53 pm) [edit] |
Finally ran out of American Spirits today.
Asked JoySay what he's smoking. He said,"Tony Hawks."
"What the hell are Tony Hawks?" I asked.
"White boy cigarettes. Marlboro Menthol Lights. You know, TONY HAWKS."
Man, I am so out of the vernacular loop.
Saw a former member of the Flock of Seagulls at our Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, who is now a Polish officer. Apparently rat tails and an extensive amount of hair gel flows within the uniform standards for Poland. Wanted to introduce her to my Yoga instructor, thinking perhaps she's a Tai Chi instructor herself, or at the very least, they could talk hair and stretching.
PEACE...
[image]CMonkey_550292412.jpg[/image]
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| Loogies |
| 11.24.04 (11:10 pm) [edit] |
[image]CMonkey_977022992.jpg[/image]
Some quick images for this Thanksgiving holiday. Above, a sculpture on one of the buildings at the airport. Below, one of the American medics preparting to cart the 3-year-old burn victim from the Brits' plane to the Italians' burn unit for treatment.
p.s.- check out homeboy's name (yeah, i'm an idiot. but don't you think the same thing?)
[image]CMonkey_478815815.jpg[/image]
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| MULLET YOGA |
| 11.24.04 (10:34 pm) [edit] |
Yesterday was my birthday.
Went to the gym at 5 am for the new Yoga class that's being offered there. Yes, in between fire fights and mortar attacks, there are yoga classes in Baghdad. I guy I know that was standing there asked me if I was planning to go hang out with the white-trash crackhead from West Virginia, and gestured towards the yoga instructor.
She's a skinny older lady that, umm, sort of completely fit his description, and actually has a mullet! She is actually a very good yoga instructor, mullet notwithstanding.
I asked our interpreters the Arabic word for yoga. they looked it up in their dictionaries. Apparently the term is universal. Yoga in Arabic is Yoga. Then I asked them the term for redneck. There is no word for redneck in Arabic, although the closest similarity is KARAWEE'EN, which means villager or peasant
After an hour of Mullet Yoga, I went to the airport to cover the story of a badly burned Iraqi child. A little boy was flown from way down south, by British military, to Baghdad, where he was convoyed by Americans to an Italian burn unit. 60 percent of his body was burned, and he was with his father. It was a domestic fire, nothing war-related, and as usual, no one will ever hear about this story. Because there are far more negative (AKA important) ones to tell than one about people from different countries coming together to save this one child.
In terms of negative stories, G Money just got back from Fallujah. He told me some thousand yard stare stories. Talked of black bloated dead bodies and body parts in the streets of Fallujah, the stench, how he still smells it and hopes it soon goes away, of how water pipes burst and body parts and feces floated all around. He told me of a man waving a white flag, who approached a bunch of Marines and opened up his AK 47 on them. How although it's custom for Muslims to bury their dead within 24 hours, so many of the men were not buried, because the residents of the city did not know them. They were all foreigners, rotting in the streets, their bodies picked at by dogs and vultures.
One of G's missions there was to escort civilian media around. Here again, the female issue. he told us of a female civilian he was with that had her jaw blown in. Meanwhile, the females we had there were not allowed to go into the battle itself. These unarmed civilian ladies show up and thwart missions for their mediocre stories, while women I know can't go do the same job because supposedly they are a liability. sorry. soapbox. unneccessary. Guess I'm also mad because all this is going on and I'm sitting here in Baghdad doing the extended cobra because the mullet-lady told me to.
We will most likely be going there soon, for the rebuilding stuff I guess.
On a completely different note, Beth is here, she's worked it out to come down from Tikrit. She's probably the closest thing to family I've got here, which should make this Thanksgiving a bit mo betta.
Hope you are all well.
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| Kicks for Kids, the white-est black man alive, and annoying mortars |
| 11.16.04 (10:10 pm) [edit] |
Convoyed my shoes up to the Iraqi Assistance office. Waltzed in with two boxes of shoes to donate to the Kicks for Kids program, a dual soccer ball and shoe humanitarian effort for Iraqi children.
The Major in charge was a reservist from Staten Island, and between information about the program and bites of baklava, he asked me if I was Italian.
"Well, half, sir," I replied.
He gave me a Huge Italian flag! And then offered me some more locally-baked baklava.
We discussed all the programs his Civil Affairs Brigade is involved in, giving out school supplies to children, wheelchairs, and so on.
If anyone is interested in sending shoes or soccer balls or sweaters or anything else, post mark it to:
[b]MAJ Steven Stewart
CMO/IAC
APO AE 09316[/b]
Left him to go eat with the Scimitar folk, the newspaper staff here, in the Al Rashid hotel. They told me several funny stories about Air Force personnel over dinner. How one Air Force girl's plate kept falling out of her flack vest. She complained, and said, how do you keep this from happening all the time? Turns out she was sliding it up from the bottom. Or another guy, whose Kevlar was over his eyes, and the Army guy told him he should adjust the headband. Air Force guy didn't believe him, they're not adjustable!, until finally the Army guy showed him that, yes, the kevlar is in fact amazingly adjustable. I guess these stories aren't really amusing to you, since you most likely have no reference to them. Essentially, basic things we take for granted seem to often baffle some of our Air Force brethren, which in turn baffles us.
For the majority of the afternoon, I had been unsuccessfully playing phone tag with the commander of all combat stress programs in the country, to meet up at his place and of course, hopefully scam some little footies in the process.
As I left the Scimitar peeeples and hopped on the bus, he called me. We'd never met, but had been emailing back and forth up until this point. He said he's meet me at a bus stop.
Well, actually, he said, in the most midwestern accent possible, sounding exactly the way Dave Chappelle speaks when he pretends to be white,"Hey there little missy, I think by golly I can pick 'ya up! OK now! Let me tell you, I'm going to be in a White Suburban, and I'm an African American!"
It was hard not to laugh.
He picked me up, and between the time I entered his vehicle and arriving at our destination, he said 'hunky dory' twice!
We had the interview, which is great, because I actually have his voice on tape. He is a really nice man, and the facility he runs is nice as well. We walked in, no footies in sight. I think it's an old Ba'athist house, where Soldiers and Marines who need some help go for a few days. It has TV rooms and internet and a large kitchen. We had the interview and he showed me his archives of photos, quite a few, and among the stories he told me, white-est black man alive aside, thought you might be interested in this one.
He told me about a Marine that has been with them for over a week now. The Marine recently had watched 6 of his fellow Marines die. The guy was functioning still, doing everything normally, except he couldn't speak. He could only stutter.
So he was sent to this Major's center, where now, after several days of therapy, he is speaking normally.
The major told me that in the past, someone like this would've been discharged, sent home directly, and without any psychological help. Now, within the first month of the problem, the immediate problem has been rectified. The Major talked about how this man may have had years of issues, and how the new mental health approaches within the military are making strives as such. There are far more complications to the issue, as with everything, but just wanted to share that story.
Finally, the Major, who is from Minneapolis, dropped me at my quarters. I had been awake for about 20 hours and after the satellite stuff, convoy, baklava, and crazy house (which, unfortunately, has NO Footies!), wanted a shower. I walked into the tent, about to drop all my gear, and...BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! All these incoming mortars, right outside.
"Dammit!" I thought, as this crazed civilian lady in the tent grabbed me and said,"We have to take shelter!"
I'm like,"But I want to take a shower!" So I grabbed my shower stuff and followed her to... A BUILDING.
How dumb is that? like a building's going to be a better place to be if bombs are landing, a building that can crumble all around you, as opposed to a bunker or something else. There's all this smoke and helicopters and explosions going on. As we're entering the building, on a loudspeaker, we hear,"Take Cover, Take Cover," and some other stuff that sounded surreal. So we enter the building, and I walk in, and through it.
I'm just thinking, fuck this, dumb assholes, I just want to take a shower. Screw you. It's not that bad.
So I walk out to the other side and find a shower trailer. Finally, in the shower, I hear the loudspeaker again, but it's muffled by the water. So I turned the water off and listened.
"ALL CLEAR,ALL CLEAR."
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| Metz-O-potamia to Footies in 24 |
| 11.14.04 (11:00 pm) [edit] |
[image]CMonkey_658419677.jpg[/image]
Hola all.
Wished I spent last night and this early morning, like Alan Sillitoe and The Specials, instead was setting up our mobile satellite so our General could speak with Geraldo Rivera. No, not to throw a chair at him or get him to give away specific secret information to the general public, but for an interview.
We set the satellite up on the roof of the palace, the photo above is the view from the spot, and dangled our cord down to the ground. tied some 550 cord (Army rope) around the bottom of the cord and pulled it into T-bone's office. It all went smoothly, except at one point, while waiting for the Fox guys to set up their lights I needed a piece of scrap paper to jot down a headline idea, walked over to the general's desk for a scrap of paper, and walked back to my corner. Vanessa, our new NCO on the team, gasped,"That's Three-Star Paper!" Apparently there is no such thing as a scrap of paper in a general's office. I handed the paper over to his aide, who returned with a post-it slice instead.
Waiting right now to head out on the road, going to fly into the cuckoo's nest of Baghdad and visit the big crazy house here, hopefully to get all joseph heller-esque, chase some shrinks around and find out more about this whole combat stress world.
My personal goal is to find those little footies, hopefully can grab enough to take back to the trailer. It may go with our new redneck Japanese motif, putting our boots outside and walking around in hospital footies, eating Ramen with wooden chopsticks.
If you don't hear from me again, they may have decided to keep me!
Perhaps it's fitting that the visit to the crazy house goes along with the death of Osiris, Old Dirty Bastard, Big Baby Jesus.
Pictured below, an Iraqi National Guard guy directing traffic after a kidnapping. I don't usually post these photos, but this one's been released.
Ma Salaama. Ina luckfish thaleb!
[image]CMonkey_296621789.jpg[/image]
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| Chick Flicks over the Cuckoos Nest |
| 11.10.04 (10:48 pm) [edit] |
You most likely know that I've been held back from going to Fallujah on account of the promotion board.
So the team's out there, while I'm not.
While they're in actual battle, one of the current stories I've been following is that of the Combat Stress people within the entire country.
The difference between military mental health this year, from all years prior, is that these guys are now taking on an offensive outlook.
Interviewed some colonels and then went out with some of the actual ground guys to the Forward Operating Bases, or FOBs, they visit weekly. Basically, in the past, they waited for you to come to them. Now, they go to you. For example, if a bunch of guys in your platoon die, then they have a brief for grief, where the mental health professionals basically tell you to get over the stigma and realize that it's normal not to feel normal. They teach relaxation techniques now, offer counseling, and a number of alternatives. One of the sergeants basically explained to me that they want to get to you before you go home and beat your wife and dog. As a first resort, not a last. Preventatibve measures. Stigma was the word I kept hearing. Particularly, overcoming the stigma.They spoke to me of stigmas associated with psychiatry in our culture, especially within the military, that you're not a man, etc. if you go an talk to that shrink.
Another way the man issue is at hand is in terms of CPL K and a broadcaster I know in Mosul named Mary. First, CPL K, our resident Tackleberry Marine, is more of an ass kicker than three infantry men combined. But, she got into Fallujah, and has been filing papers and doing bullshit because she has been told she's a liability as a female. She's gone on more patrols, saved lives and taken them. And these jokers think she can't hack it coz she's a chick, and are forcing her to be what she detests the most: a REMF (that's Vietnam for Rear Echelon Mother-fucker). Then Mary, who is in Mosul, just sent out an email about how these new Stryker guys won't take here out with them. Strykers are these big bad ass tanks, and Mary has been supporting them here for the last 9 months. she's gone on foot patrols, raids, and more, and is quite capable of using her weapon as well as she is capable of using her camera. So these new guys, the replacements get in, been in country maybe three weeks, and they tell her essentially the same thing. They don't want her going with them, because she's a liability.
Although the danger of females being taken captive is a reality, and how there's supposedly a higher price on our heads, the reality is that untrained female CIVILIAN journalists accompany units out all the time. Women with no weapons and no training go out and take mediocre photos and risk missions, while persons like Mary and CPL K (And ME, and every other female combat correspondent and combat camera woman), who are actually trained and understand this: Soldier First, are held back.
I'm going to quote some of Mary's email here (disclaimer: yeah, she kind of talks like a valley girl at times, kind of like how i'm man dude, dude man):
[i]"Also having a bit of an issue with the being-a-girl thing. Last week
this group of soldiers laughed at me when I told them that our mission was to go
on the dismounted foot patrol with them to shoot video and whatever (y’know,
walking around on the streets, out and about, whateves) and this lietenant was
just like, “Believe me, riding in a stryker isn’t all it’s cracked up to be
[i.e.: Silly female, strykers are for REAL missions]” Oooh I was pissed!!
A) I’ve probably ridden in a stryker more than YOU have, you asshole! I’ve been
here for 9 months!! What have you got, like 3 weeks?!? PISS OFF!
B) Yeah, like I’m just here for the RIDE like this is the freakin CIRCUS or
something!
C) This isn’t the first time I’ve done crap like this, this is MY JOB: I’m a
soldier, I’ve got a gun, I got my lil boots on, whateves. y’know, I can hang.
In the end, they didn’t let us go, the reason being we’re a security risk, being
girls and all (apparently the terrorists are paying big bucks to get their hands
on a girl soldier) I think a lot of them just like using the “security risk”
excuse just so they don’t have to deal with us. And we’ve come up against that
a lot lately - not getting to go on missions as a result of the girl factor. It
makes my mom sleep easier (well, maybe) but it pisses me off. I mean, if this is
the way it’s gonna be, you might as well give me a freakin apron and I’ll go
find some stove to stand behind and pop out some kids somewhere. UGH! Ok,
stepping down from soapbox." [/i]
And, the Arabic word of the day: FAJR. Not as in,"Richard Pryor set his hair on Fajr," but as in Aurora. Fajr means Dawn.
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| I'm Board in Umma |
| 11.07.04 (4:54 am) [edit] |
[image]CMonkey_187799736.jpg[/image]
Attended the promotion board this morning.
Good times, great oldies aside, this here Soldier will soon be promoted.
The way the board works, everyone's in a room, waiting for you to enter. You knock loudly and enter, stand at attention, salute the president of the board, and then answer a number of questions.
the first guy was told to enter, so he knocked loudly, opened the door, and broke the door handle off. He spent a couple of minutes attempting to put the handle back on, then walked in. He was in there for what seemed about twenty minutes, and when he walked out, his face and neck were completely red.
Another boardeee, sitting across from me, waiting, flew up from Kuwait with his sponsor (you always have someone higher ranking sponsor you and present you to the board). They both asked myself and Pip, my sponsor, if stuff was always blowing up like that, after something blew up in the distance, which neither Pip nor I noticed. The sponsor said, sort of skittishly, something about how a car bomb blew up this morning, and i woke her up, and the guy attempting to go boarding was saying something else about stuff blowing up and helicopters and crazy Arabic over loudspeakers. I guess flying into a warzone for your promotion board would be a little nerve-wracking if you were unaccustomed to it.
Hope he did alright.
the President of the board is about to retire this month, and it's his last one, so he was having fun with all of us, asking unusual questions. As I'm waiting to go in, another guy walks out of the room, fuming at what he was asked.
Finally, I walk in. I've been studying for this for months, expecting the worst. el presidente de board asks me only a few really simple questions. Didn't make me sing the Army song, recite the Warrior Ethos, or discuss anything I had memorized.
Aw snap.
Well he did ask when I last qualified on the range. I said April, refraining from mentioning my september session in the middle of the southern desert, how our convoy got a flat tire so we set up some boxes and cans and took them out with the 249 Bravos, the guns on top of the truck...
[image]CMonkey_821685868.jpg[/image]
So UMMA is a community of believers in Islam, OR, the Arab world, without boundaries.
And VIYALET is a province. Because of this board, i was ordered to sort of stick around (which is how the faux vacation obviously fits in), now that I'm no longer Board, I'll be soon heading out to certain viyalets within umma.
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| Small World Snapshots |
| 11.05.04 (1:34 am) [edit] |
[image]CMonkey_1153055997 .jpg[/image]
Image above is a photo of Nick and I and some kid with a Lamb of God Tshirt. We found first the circumstances amusing that he and I, two semi-Richmondites, should be chillin in Qatar, and then the first person we see is some kid in a Burn the Priest shirt. Had to get the snapshot.
[image]CMonkey_1316460634 .jpg[/image]
"Hey, wanna want to shoot some hoops by the Port-A-Lou?" Above, a good spot for a Dual slam and shit.
The vacation was fun, all election stress aside. I thank you all for your comments on the Thanks for nothing posting. Please continue to make the comments that I cannot.
And, there is no Arabic word of the day. Instead, another lo-rez, poor quality back-to-the grind, same ole same ole photo instead. thee mah lah!
[image]CMonkey_1159035743 .jpg[/image]
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| THANKS FOR |
| 11.03.04 (1:19 pm) [edit] |
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THANKS AMERICA.
THANKS FOR NOTHING.
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