Blackwater Knights' memorial ceremony

Tribute to seven great Americans who perished while trying to bring security to a new democracy.


Before the ceremony, Blackwater supervisor looked over the display for a few quiet moments of personal reflection.

Today was the time when we honored seven great Americans. These were the men who were murdered when their helicopter was shot down in Iraq on april 21, 2005. To read the eulogy of these great men, is to read a page of adventure from the pages of history. Each was a hero in his own right. He had served in military or law enforcement or a job that prepared him to provide security for significant officials in IRAQ. Never looking for credit or glory, they each went about their mission as the consumate professionals they were.
They will be missed:
Robert Gore
Curtis Hundley
Steve McGovern
Jason Obert
David Patterson
Luke Petrick
Eric Smith

Sniper in the woodline

A sergeant walking by the edge of the camp today was slightly wounded by a sniper this afternoon. I had heard talk of a sniper, but nobody had many of the details. The pucker factor goes up when there is a sniper in the area. A sniper means that nobody is as safe as they thought they were. This is evidently not a very smart sniper or one who is well trained. If he were, he would have waited for a higher priority target. There are plenty of Generals around, or at least save the bullet for a Colonel. A sergeant is still a Soldier’s life, but not a high value target for the emotional and psychological impact that a good sniper can have on a unit.
I waited for the evening Strategic Update to find out the status of the Soldier and the sniper. Sure enough in the brifing slides, there was the report. The briefer went through the briefing about the soldier, not seriously injured, investigation still ongoing.
The General then asked what we all wanted to know, “what about the sniper?”
“Sir, the QRF (Quick Reaction Force) composed of the Marine embassy security detail surrounded and searched the building where the shot allegedly originated. The sniper was not found.”
“Then what?” the General pushed a bit more.
“Sir, upon further questioning, the sergeant admitted that he had not been fired on, but that he had had an accident of his own doing that resulted in the injury.”
“Then there was no sniper?”
“Sir, we are waiting for the final report to be published and in our hands before we make a determination.” [That reply is called a non-answer. We could actually feel the air in the room grow cold at that moment. For people who want to see a one-sided fight, this was going to be the opportunity. The fifty people in the room at that moment already knew the outcome of the one-way discussion that was about to occur. The General was going to win and anyone who was not on his wavelength at this point was going to suffer the cost.]
“Do you think that there was a sniper?” The General’s tone had changed and the briefer suddenly found himself in a very small place.
“Sir, we are awaiting the outcome of the final report before we make a determination.” [We were pretty sure that whoever the “we” was in that statement was going to wish they had not been included.]
“Sir,” another voice chimed in. “I received a phone call about two minutes before this briefing started that notified us that there was most likely an accident rather than a sniper.” [We had just heard the voice of a lemming that was following a buddy off the cliff.]
“And you agree that there is not a sniper?” The General’s voice rose in volume, intensity, and octaves.
“Sir, we did not want to change the report until we had confirmation that we were reporting accurately.”
“If you report that there was a sniper shooting in the International Zone when a sergeant admitted that he was not shot at, and you know that is accurate, then explain to me why you need more confirmation. You just briefed the General staff something that you know is not accurate and that you could change. Even if you did not have time to change the slide [all our briefings are on PowerPoint slides], then you could have said, ‘Sir, this is reported as a sniper attack, but we were just notified that the report is not accurate and will be corrected.’ Then you proceed with the briefing to tell me what really happened. But to tell me something wrong and not say anything is not what I am after in a staff. Had I not asked the questions, then you would have let it go and nobody would have known there was not a sniper and the report would have gone to higher HQ.”
“Sir, we were just wanting verification before we changed the report.”
“YOU ARE NOT LISTENING TO ME! If your report is wrong, then tell me and fix it. Don’t EVER let this happen again.”
......
We all agreed with the General. He was given wrong poop and the briefer and staff were caught. An officer close to me leaned over and said, “The problem is that we have Colonels who are unwilling to make decisions. They will let it slide until they have irrefutable evidence, then stand behind the paperwork. What we need is Colonels willing to do and say the right thing all the time and that sometimes requires them to take a chance. There are not enough in this room willing to do that.”

The sniper event gave us staff weenies plenty to talk about later that evening as we sat around the pool bemoaning the abilities and character of those who outrank us.

First Memorial

I attended my first memorial today in a war zone. There are already two others scheduled for the next three days. This Memorial was for Alan Parkin, born 24 December 1960, died by a roadside bomb in Iraq on April 21, 2005. Alan had been married to Zena for 20 years and leaves three children. This man lived large. He was a member of the British Army-3 Parachute Regiment, 8 tours in Northern Ireland and fought in the Falklands. He then joined the 7 Parachute Regiment Royal Horse Artillery where he remained until retirement. He was part of the British contingent of Personal Security Detachment personnel. I read the closing scripture from Isaiah 57:1-2.

The final part of the memorial ceremony was the recitation of the Airborne Forces Collect (Prayer) recited by one of his fellow Airborne Soldiers:
"May the Defence of the Most High be above and beneath, around and within us, in our going out and our coming in. In our rising up and in our going down, through all our days and all our nights, until the dawn when the Son of Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings for all the peoples of the world. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen”

Rest in Peace, Airborne Brother.

No Smoking

Inside one of the bathroom stalls was a hand made “no smoking” sign taped to the inside of the door. Smoking indoors may have been a problem in the past, but there is little danger of fire in a bathroom with tile floors, marble walls and alabaster trim. The danger is the smoke setting off the fire alarm.



The No Smoking sign was originally written in English and Arabic. Then others started adding their own language additions. I could make out the Spanish and the French. There was also Cyrillic writing, which could be Russian. I could tell the German and the Italian. The one the I enjoyed the most was the Pig-Latin, “Onay Okingsmay.”
For our allies hoping to hone their English skills, they may have trouble finding those words in our dictionary.

Don't throw the grenade

Getting into the suburban, we went over battle checks. Driver and front seat passenger each had their 9mm. The driver also had an M-4 rifle. The guard next to me had an MP5 (very cool) along with his 9mm. He announced that he also had a fragmentation grenade if we needed it. Having grenades on hand is something not normally dealt with in convoys. The driver was impressed. “Can I see it?” he asked. “I have never seen a real one.” “Sure,” was the reply as the other passenger carefully pulled the grenade from the special pouch on his vest. Holding firmly, he merely held it over the edge of the front seat for the driver to see. “Cool,” was the reply and then the grenade was replaced in its pouch. “I need to make sure I keep the pouches straight. I have my cell phone in the next pouch. I don’t want to throw a phone or answer a grenade if I get flustered.” We all laughed. “Don’t hand the grenade to me. Give it to the Chaplain if you need to,” said the Lieutenant Colonel in the front seat. She is a great officer by all accounts, but to say that she is on the small side would be understating it. She cannot be more than four feet, ten inches tall. She is a mobilized reservist who is also a school counselor. She said that her school experience comes in handy where she works now with soldiers. “I don’t want the hand grenade. When I went through the training on hand grenades, the instructor told me that I should never throw one. When I threw the training hand grenade, it didn’t go far enough. I cannot throw far enough to be out of the blast radius. I throw like a girl and if I ever have to throw a real hand grenade, I would blow myself up.”

Thanks for the warning, ma’am.

Driving in the I-Z

It was not many months ago that the roads in the I-Z and outside the wire in Baghdad were considered the Wild West. Traveling through the streets of Baghdad was like elbowing your way through a crowded bar. You tried to be nice, but usually you just shoved. But now there are two zones: inside the I-Z and outside on the streets of Baghdad and beyond.
In a briefing last week, we got an update from the officer in charge of the motor pool. First we were told not to try and come and check out a vehicle. There are not enough to go around. Then we were explained the rules of the road for the I-Z. “The rules have changed in the last months. The I-Z has calmed down. There are no bombs or car bombs in the I-Z anymore. The area has been swept of insurgents. There is no reason to drive fast to avoid ambushes or IED’s. Please help us police up the ones who don't understand that. If you see someone driving fast or in an unsafe manner, write down the license plate. We will revoke their license and escort them from the I-Z. They will be gone. We had someone killed at a checkpoint last week by a driver going too fast.”
I thought back to the fast driving I have witnessed here in the I-Z. I think that it is hard for the adrenaline junkies who provide escort and security for the dignitaries to take anyone seriously except themselves. These guys have one speed—full out. I watched a line of cars came rushing to the front doors of the Embassy/Palace with lights flashing and tires screeching a few days ago. The PSD (personal security detachment) jumped out of the truck doors before the vehicles had full come to a stop. They provided a corridor of bodies for the dignitary to walk through. Way too much drama. They looked like a target because of their frenetic arrival. Everyone within sight and sound of the event stopped to look. If I were looking for a target, this was obviously a high priority opportunity. Had these PSD’s driven normally and sanely, nobody would even have noticed their arrival in the normal coming and going of everyday traffic.
The briefer continued. “If you wreck your vehicle, there better be bullet holes in it. Unless you are under fire, there is no reason to drive on sidewalks or knock over posts or push other cars out of the way. The I-Z is not the place for that. If you are outside the I-Z, then the rules of engagement and driving will be set by the convoy commander. However, in here, if you wreck your vehicle, you will probably have to pay for it. If you are not a safe driver, then contact your insurance agent and get a rider on your policy because I will not tolerate you wrecking the vehicle we issue you. I have had vehicles totaled out within a week of arriving in theater by people who think that they can drive it like they stole it. If you do that, you will buy it. And if you buy it, you won’t be able to take it home with you, anyway.”
I’m glad that I don’t even drive here. I am learning how to be a quiet passenger.

Cup envy

I coveted. I coveted enough that I looked around to see if I could steal. I saw a man drinking coffee from a ceramic cup. I have not had a drink of coffee from a ceramic cup since I left North Carolina. Everything since then has been plastic plates, paper cups, plastic flatware, milk cartons. Even though we eat in a palace, we still eat off of plastic plates. My lips have not touched ceramic. My personal preference is to have ceramic cups for coffee. I drink from ceramic and offer ceramic cups to any guests who come for coffee. I just think that is the way that civilization should operate. Now that is not an option.
Not only was the fellow drinking from a ceramic cup….he was standing next to a counter that held six more cups. Surely they wouldn’t miss one. But I couldn’t do it. “Where did you get the cup, Chaplain?” “I stole it when nobody was watching.” Or worse yet, “Chaplain, please return the cup to the counter. You are not allowed to steal.”
There are many things that I can do without. I deliberately left coffee cups at home rather than bother with having them broken and taking up critical space. I was certain that I would find plenty once I got here. Maybe I can find one, yet.

Uniform Nazis

“I sent half my team to eat and the other half stayed with me until they returned.” The Master Sergeant (MSG) was telling me of an incident at a dining hall with his soldiers earlier that week. “I was surprised that the guys returned right away. That was a quick lunch,” I mentioned.
“No lunch today, Sergeant. We were turned away at the dining hall. We are not allowed to eat there. If you don’t have your ballistic glasses, then you don’t get in the dining hall. We are out of luck today.”
The MSG went on to tell me the story. He went back to the dining facility and found the Sergeant Major in charge of the “uniform Nazis.”
“I don’t often dress down a Sergeant Major in front of his troops, but I was hot. You never turn a soldier away from chow. Never. The Sergeant Major was sitting down in the DinFac and I sat down right across from him and demanded an explanation of why my guys could not eat in his chow hall.
He said that Ballistic glasses are a safety issue and everyone should have them on when they are outdoors. All the guys at the door were doing was telling the soldiers without the glasses to go back to their hooch and get them on, then come to chow.
“Let me explain something, Sergeant Major. My guys cannot just ‘go back to their hooch and get their glasses.’ We drove half an hour to get here and we are not going back just to put on our glasses. The second part is that we don’t have ballistic glasses anyway. We did not come to theater through Kuwait. Kuwait is where the RFI is issued and that’s where soldiers get the glasses. Since we didn’t come through Kuwait, we don’t have any ballistic glasses. The only way to get them now is to have one of our soldiers fly to Kuwait and sign for them along with all the rest of the RFI. I am not going to do that. So don’t tell my guys they can’t eat here because of some rule you made up. We’ll go somewhere else to eat where soldier care is taken seriously.”
Uniform Nazis…everyone hates them.

Tennis shoes

I had ten minutes to get back to my trailer, pick up some clothes and be back in my office. I really had no time to spare. I grabbed my shirt, khaki pants, running shoes and socks and headed back through the "trailer park." As I was passing a work crew who were laying paving stones for a sidewalk, one of the workers blocked my way and started pointing to me. He was insistant and pointed again. I stopped and waited while I could figure out what he wanted. He was pointing to my running shoes that I was holding. He then raised his foot and showed me his tennis shoe. He peeled back the sole that was split from toe to heel on the inside arch. Sand poured out onto the sidewalk. He pointed to the split shoe, to the sand, then to my running shoes. He wanted me to give him my shoes. He then put on the "sad face" and shrugged. He saw me shrug, but couldn't see my dilemma. "If a man asks for your coat...." The scriptures were flashing through my mind. But I need the shoes for a meeting and I am late. I could explain, but he spoke no English and I have no idea what language he spoke. I knew we had shoes back in the office to donate to needy people. I should give him some of them. I have lots of answers and explanations, but he didn't understand. All he knew was that I had shoes and he had split soles.
And to think that when I cleaned out my closet last summer, I gave away 10 pair of running shoes that I no longer wanted. He just wants one pair for work.

Aggie Muster

Hullabaloo, Caneck! Caneck!
Hullabaloo, Caneck! Caneck!

I was a Texas Aggie for an evening. 21 April is the date of the annual Aggie Muster. Alumni from Texas A&M gather around the world on that single night to celebrate their common school ties, relive old memories and remember those who have gone ahead. The rule is that if you are within 100 miles of another Aggie, you should get together. There were other Aggies gathered at Camp Victory only 9 miles away, but this war thing keeps us separated by more than just a few miles.
I was invited to participate as the Chaplain and offer the Muster Invocation. Although the attendance was only about a dozen with more than half being guests, the evening was a great success in my estimation. Joe Mecurio, class of ’88 coordinated the event. I helped where I could by grilling the chicken that was slathered in Rudy’s Texas Bar-B-Que sauce. That chicken was GREAT. The simple ceremony was very special. I was surprised that I remembered the tune to the Aggie War Hymn, even after living in Texas for 18 years, I have not been back in 35 years. When the War Hymn started I overheard two classmates speak to each other, “I still get goosebumps.” We hooted, hollered, sang the songs and swayed with arms around each other while the music blared. No time to be shy or modest. Even though there were many other people around, this was an Aggie Celebration and Aggies are Loud! After some songs, a few remembrances were shared, then the roster of some classmates who had passed that year was read while candles were lit. A&M has lost three alums to this conflict. All of hoped and prayed that more names would not be added to the list.
I think that there were some, including me, who were somber realizing that the Corps of Cadets from the ROTC at A&M probably never thought that we would end up where we are at this time and at this point in our lives.
We ate, we celebrated, lit candles, blew them out, remembered, reflected. Then some put back on their body armor and helmets, picked up their rifles and went back out on patrol.



Gig-em Aggies!

Jelly Bellies

Nothing quite like Jelly Bellies. Janet bought Beth some for Valentine's Day. It was a silly, yet fun thing to do. Beth loved it. A collector’s tin full of different flavors of Jelly Bellies all separated and labeled. Beth was careful to take the gift back to college with her to share with her suite mates “at the right time.”
What a surprise to find Jelly Bellies in Doha, Kuwait. While waiting for my flight, I went to the dining facility for supper. When I was leaving the DinFac, there in a HUGE stainless steel bowl were sample packs of Jelly Belly jelly beans. Not just a few…hundreds, maybe thousands of packs, each pack with about 15 beans each… “Sample packs/Not for Resale”. I was glad that the Army put cargo pockets in my DCU’s. I had a place to stuff as many Jelly Belly packets as I could. Some great Americans had donated tons of jelly belly packets to the soldiers. I took more than my share, in honor of my daughter, Beth.
Each day I go through a ritual of eating one packet of Jelly Bellies while back in my trailer waiting to go to bed. Good thoughts of home during my little ritual.
Today when one of the Chaplain assistants was clearing out the office (a much needed task), he asked, “Sir, do you like Jelly Bellies?” "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"
"Here is a large jar of Jelly Bellies that was sent here. I ate some, but I have burned out on them. Would you like the rest?"
Well my evening ritual has changed now. I have a full pound of Jelly Bellies on my desk now. I can think of Beth and home any time I look at the jar.

Protests are a good thing

Major protest in Baghdad last week. I got calls and emails from friends and family wanting to know if I am safe and if the protests were dangerous. I am safe. The protests are not dangerous (at this point). The protests are a good thing!
How can that be?
Only in a free society are people allowed to complain publicly. A public protest is a true group complaint, any way that you look at it: a true sign of a free society. The opportunity for the citizens of Baghdad to protest got lots of press coverage both here in the country of IRAQ, and around the world.
Our military concern was about the safety of the event. Would the extremists try and upset the event by explosions, or mortars or by small arms fire? This would excite all the protestors and turn the event ugly. The other slice is that violence would reinforce the contention that the Coalition forces needed to stay in order to insure peace. One of the aims of the protest was to push for the Coalition (U.S.) forces to leave the country. If there had been violence, then the issue of the citizens’ ability to protest without fear would be negated, and the need for continued Coalition presence would be reinforced. The protesters also had no idea how many Coalition forces were on standby not too far away to make sure that any violence would be squelched quickly and there were also medical assets available to assist in any contingency. We were there to keep peace, make peace or watch peace, whatever the occasion required. The UAV overhead gave the ground commanders the ability to see what was happening and actually some extent of what was going to happen.
The people of IRAQ proved themselves well that day. Thousands rallied, protested, burned flags (including ours) and went home peacefully. There were not the millions of protestors that had been invited (did you know that you can be invited to a public protest?), but enough people attended, and left safely, to provide an example that the people of IRAQ and their leaders can conduct themselves more in the spirit of a democracy than some had expected.

Friendly faces

Friendly faces

What has happened to the folks who went through the two weeks of CRC? Nothing like shared pain and suffering to bond a group of people.
Yesterday while on my morning run, I ran up on (literally) two of the Navy Chiefs that had gone through CRC with me. Morning is a wonderful time to run. Only problem is that it comes so early in the day. I adhere to the adage that if God had wanted us to see the sun rise, He would have put it later in the day. But I was out running. The temperature was about 68 degrees. I can run along the inside of the “blast walls” that circle our compound. These are 10 feet tall walls of concrete topped with triple concertina wire. There are guard posts every few hundred yards with the ubiquitous Gurkha guards keeping careful eye out over the walls. I wave at the guards, but they are focused, literally, over the wall, with their rifles and binoculars perched at the top of the sandbag walls that line their observation post.
As I ran along, I recognized the two Navy Chiefs that had been at CRC and were part of the 10 man detail that I accompanied into BIAP two weeks prior. They stayed for a while at Camp Victory and were just making their way into the Green Zone. They were glad to stay with a firm room over their heads. At Camp Victory, all the newcomers are billeted in tents. Nice tents, with wooden floors, but tent nonetheless. They will be here for a couple of weeks getting mission briefs before heading out into other locations.
Of the approximately 125 military in the CRC, twenty-five or so ended up here in the International Zone. Who knows where the rest ended up? Of the 25 folks here, I run into a half dozen or so at each mealtime throughout the day. Some only are here for meals and work elsewhere in the I-Z. I share the trailer where I live with a lawyer that was with me. D and I get along great, because my snoring doesn’t wake him and his occasional colorful language doesn’t bother me.
I have spent some time with different ones during meals and we swap stories about how amazing it is to live here in a war zone….friendly faces are good when there are 2,000 faces in the building.

History's Turning Point

I attend briefings in the SOC twice a day. There is the morning Battle update and in the evening, a Strategic Eval. In the evening we also welcome and farewell any in the I-Z who are arriving or leaving. Yesterday, at the beginning of the morning brief, General Casey farewelled his deputy commanding General, who is from the British Army. The
General’s farewell comments spoke to the heart of what we are doing here and made me proud to be a part. Although not verbatim, the gist of the comments were:
I have been proud to be part of the command group that is assisting in the rebuilding of this great country. It has been an honor to serve in this part of history. I have been completely amazed by the dedication and generosity of the United States. In the year that I have been serving here, I continue watch the generosity and sacrifice of the United States for this county of Iraq.
I think that we shall see that history regards what we do here in the same light as other great and generous acts of the United States. After World War II, the United States rebuilt Europe through the Marshall Plan. That plan provided the necessary funds and oversight to see through the rebuilding of the democracies of Europe. Now we are seeing the same kind of activity occurring in the Middle East. The United States is once again establishing democracies through their generosity.
What the United States is leading may well become the turning point in the history of the Middle East. I am proud to have played a part in these events. I have been here through the Transition Government, then the elections and now the Interim Government. I am honored to have served along side each of you.

His comments made me proud as well.

Chapel Guests

Last week was my first day in the International Zone chapel services. I attended three different services. All had their value to me. During the Protestant service, we paid special attention to the people who were there for the first time. I was pleased when I was introduced. It is always nice to be recognized. What I most interested in, though, was that there were five people there who stood and introduced themselves as “I live in Baghdad and….” Some worked here in the I-Z; others, not. I hoped to visit with them after the service, but did not get the chance.
This week, I hoped to meet them but they were not here. I wondered if they had not liked the service and decided not to return. Instead, this morning, three other new people stood up and introduced themselves as, “Hello, I live in Baghdad and ….”
What is going on? After the service was over and I went back to the office, Chaplain Simmons explained. “We have a man in our congregation who works here in the I-Z. He has many friends in the community that are Christian and want to attend our service. However, he can only sign in four people a day to visit. Part of his outreach to the community is to bring four people with him into our area so that they can go to a Christian service without being bothered or harassed. He will bring a new group each week.”
I am amazed…and look forward to meeting new friends each week.

Christians and the hijab

hijab
n 1: a headscarf worn by Muslim women; conceals the hair and neck and usually has a face veil that covers the face 2: the custom in some Islamic societies of women dressing modestly outside the home; "she observes the hijab and does not wear tight clothing"

I visited with a small group of Christians during lunch earlier this week. Iraq was previously about 10% Christian, but has now decreased to less than 5%. Most of the decrease is due to Christians leaving the country to live in enclaves in foreign lands where the environment is safer.

“Do you feel that your beliefs as a Christian are being challenged?” was a simple question.
“Let us tell you about living in Mosul when Ramadan was beginning,” she began to speak. As the story unfolded, the words came more rapidly and the gestures became more animated.
“In the weeks leading up to Ramadan, the Muslims begin to prepare for the time of fasting. On the walls of the buildings, they began to post signs or write the words, “the hijab or acid in the face.’”
“What do you mean by that?”
“If a woman was found outside without the veil, the men who found her would throw sulphuric acid in the woman’s face. That would enforce the law.
“My sister came to visit me from Mosul. She has not worn a scarf for over 30 years, when she became a Christian. She wore a scarf. I could not believe it. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked her.
‘I am not going to take a chance of getting sulphuric acid thrown in my face,’ was her answer to me.
“Why not go to the authorities and tell them?”
“I did and the authorities told me that I should not be a troublemaker and wear the hijab, so I did.”

Abu Ghraib

The disgrace at Abu Ghraib is inexusable. Inhumanity in a controlled environment should never happen. There may be issues--though debatable--during the heat of battle or crimes of passion, or uncontrolled rage in certain situations, but not in a prison where the environment is controlled and the guards are to be in charge. The abuse of the magnitude at that prison did more to undermine the good intentions of the United States than those guilty soldiers and their leaders will ever know.

When visiting the Imam earlier this week, I noted something he said about the situation at that prison. It shamed me and I did not dare say what I knew to be the truth.

The Muslim Amam said, “I am sure that there was not a chaplain at the Abu Ghraib prison when the prisoners were hurt by the guards. There was no chaplain there or all would have been treated as we are, as God’s children.”

I did not tell him that we had a chaplain there…obviously a chaplain who did not regard us all as God’s children.

Don't throw your trash on the ground

We visited some displaced persons. There are about 150 folks of all ages living in a partially reconditioned theater. Walls are often sheets on wires, the water is brought in by a water hose from a neighbors, and the electricity is run from a connection on a light pole. Many reasons why the different families are there but that is not my concern. Part of our job is to try to decide how much to help bring them basic services and how much to move them off the premises.
There is not trash service. Trash and garbage is tossed from doors and windows. Inside the theater, on the theater stage, a hole has been broken into the floor of the stage and trash for the last two years (since the fall of Saddam) has been dumped into the basement of the building.
Our Department of Public Works is helping (earlier blog). When we visit these families, we always take candy to treat the children. They are always thankful. One of the Chaplain assistants enjoys the time of handing out treats. However, he also wants the children to learn where to put their trash. Realistically, there is nowhere to put the trash.
Tootsie Pops are the favorite of the kids. When the Sergeant hands out the Tootsie Pops, off comes the wrapper and down it goes on the ground.
He went from child to child, from youngest toddler to oldest teen, picking up the wrapper, wadding it up and handing it back to the child. Then he lectures the child on dropping trash. He would wag his finger in their face, tell them “No. Do not drop trash on the ground. Put it in the trash can.”
But there are NO trash cans!
Where did he expect them to drop their wrappers?
I mentioned this to him, but he would not hear. “They need to learn to put their trash in the trash cans,” he reasoned. “Yes, but they cannot learn this until there are trash cans here.” I might as well be talking another language. He wouldn’t stop. He followed a 3 year old behind his mother to return the wrapper and wag the finger….
Our translator simply unwrapped the candy for the children, wadded the wrapper and dropped it on the ground. No one said anything.
Dumpsters come later this week.

Fallujah--an Imam's perspective

The Imam we visited began to talk about the battles of “this war” and told his version of the battle of Fallujah. I cannot vouch for the accuracy, but this is only his take:
"Every town and district has its own history and traditions. Each of them are different. The reason that Fallujah fought so hard and the battle was so bad was that they fight for honor. Nothing is more important to someone in Fallujah than their honor. The will protect the honor of their wives and daughters more than anything in the world. That is their tradition. We cannot change that.
"If the soldiers had come to the door of the residents and taken a stick and knocked on the door, people would have let them in and they could search for what they wanted. But what the soldiers did was they kicked in the first doors. When the soldiers went into the houses, they looked at the wives and the daughters, who were not ready to be presented or to be seen by men. That violated the honor of the men in the house. At that moment, the men in the house were sworn to protect the honor of the women and that meant to kill the intruders. That also meant to collect the other men, the family members, the tribesmen and neighbors to assist in avenging the honor. From there it grew and could not be stopped. It was not a battle for a city or for land. It was a war for honor and the Americans did not understand that."
I don't think the Imam understands combat.

Where are you from?

Where are you from? Simple question to the Imam we visited today. He had asked where was my home? North Carolina. That was foreign to him. "Close to the ocean" was a better reply, but we let it go at that. "With your light hair, I would think you are from England."
"Well, you are right. My grandparents are from England." That was a satisfactory answer to him. Then Chaplain Simmons posed the question to the amam.
The answer was enlightening.

The Imam gave the name of a small town close to the border of Syria. He tried to explain where it was, but since we only know the names of the major towns (where Americans have had battles) he realized we were nodding, but not knowing. He named the small town and the province, and let it go as "close to the Syrian border."
"I was born in Baghdad, and my wife was born in Baghdad" he continued.
"My father and Mother were both born in Baghdad."
"My two grandparents were born in Baghdad, but I am “from” the small town by Syria."
From his perspective, I was from England, because that was where my "tribe," my earlier generations were from. Even though we may be generations removed from "home," he regarded England as my home in the same way that he regarded the small town by Syria as his.
Tribal loyalties last for generations. We have no such context to draw from.

No bagels

There were no bagels for us to toast this morning for breakfast. A group of us stood laughing about how tough life is during war. We have wheat and white bread, but the bagels were missing. So with my cheese omlette (out of four egg options), my sausage (out of four meat choices), my juice (out of six juice options), I chose strawberry jam over honey, grape jelly, peanut butter or apple butter for my wheat toast.
One of the Colonels at the table next to me brought his personal coffee press with him. He sat contentedly fixing his coffee "just the way he liked it."
Hard to complain here.

Leaving Sanctuary

I went outside the Embassy compound yesterday. The furthest that I have needed to go since arriving a week ago. I went to the Convention Center. This is located near the Center where the new government is choosing its leaders and going to decide on the new Constitution.
Am I still safe? I went through the initial checkpoint at the doors of the Embassy Palace. Then 100 yards further through the Palace driveway gate that is guarded by Ghurkas. Then to the parking lot where my driver (who always carries a pistol) picked me up. Out the parking lot that is guarded by more Ghurkas. In the two mile drive, I was never beyond the sight of an armed vehicle watching the roads. Upon entering the Convention Center, our vehicle was searched for bombs, and our I.D.'s checked. 100 yards from parking, the guards, these are from the country of Georgia (not the state) checked my ID again. Then through a medal detector into the building. I was still very safe, but only through four defensive belts; the outer I-Z belt, the Security ring around the I-Z, the U.S. Army patrols responsible for the I-Z security, the Georgians responsible for the Convention Center, and the Ghurkas responsible for the Embassy. There are other measures in place, but they are classified. No one in the I-Z is allowed weapons other than military and security. No place is totally safe, but I think I am as close it as I can be and still be considered in a war zone.

Footprints on the toilet seat

I knew that it would happen sometime, but I was still surprised. With so many different nationalities in the I-Z, it was just a matter of time.
I went into one of the few men’s rooms in the Embassy. The Palace where we have the Embassy and I work was designed for about 200 people who would work there as well as the state parties that occur. The plumbers did not designe the bathrooms to handle the 2,500 folks that work here and show up for our meals.
I rushed into one of the open bathroom stalls. The stalls are rooms unto themselves; 15 foot ceilings, marble floors and walls, bidet, toilet, sink and over 100 square feet each…way too much room for just me, but that is all allowed at a time. When I went over to the toilet, there were muddy prints of boot soles on the seat. I immediately knew the reason:
In some cultures, toilets are uncommon. Squatting over an open hole is the common method. Sitting down is uncharacteristic. For those such people, the men often find it more comfortable and accommodating to step up on the toilet seat, squat from there and do their business. Unfortunately for the next guy—me—the seat is left wet and muddy from the floor. Those are the times that I wish I could hover.

La La La

I was in a women’s right meeting today with 14 women. It was an amazing experience. The woman next to me was taking notes in Arabic. The speaker spoke good English, but was more comfortable in Arabic, so she had a translator. At one point, she finished a thought and said, in perfect English, “well, there’s more to the story.” The translator said, in perfect English, “Well, there’s more to the story.” Yeah, we got it. The translator was tired and had been translating for four straight hours of meetings.

At one point the women got into a “discussion” that had it been men, would have been considered a heated argument. There were three women speaking at the same time all in Arabic. The translator was translating, but I could not tell for whom she was translating.

Then one of the women disagreed with another’s comments and said, “La, La, La.” She was saying “No, No, No” but to me, it sounded like she was mocking by saying “la, la, la, I don’t hear you. La, la, la.”
I did not smile outwardly. Discretion is important.

"Speak LOUDER"

Visited the hospital the other day. Visited two Marines who had been injured. They were both part of the EOD (Explosive Ordnance Detachment). The two of them had been working with some det cord (detination cord=highly explosive cord the size of a small rope used to detonate explosives when used in conjunction with blasting caps, or blow up small objects when used by itself). Unfortunately, the det cord ignited prematurely, exploding in their hands. Fortunately, the cord was not attached to the blasting caps or all the explosives they were planning to detonate would have blown up, killing all in the area.
Both Marines had had surgery on their left hands, had the numerous cuts and contusions taken care of and were resting quietly. The other chaplain had the lead and I just stood by during the first visit. After every question by the chaplain, the Marine would loudly say, "What?" and the priest would repeat the question.
We found the second Marine in the hall way walking around awaiting word on their evacuation to Landsthul, Germany. After each question he would also say, "What?" As soon as we turned from the Marine, I told the priest, "After being in an explosion, their ears will ring for days. You must stand close to them and talk loudly ."
"Oh."

New tasking

Two days ago (see earlier entry="The General Says") the General asked about a "40% figure quoted by GEN Cody. Sure enough, in today's BUA, in the list of the newest taskings for the staff to perform is one listed as "verification of VBIED jamming countermeasures figures" or some such thing. Sure enough, as we staff weinies had predicted, some Major is being tasked to track down an inane number that will do nothing for the war effort. In last night's BUA, the Colonel running the VTC (the General was not present) asked if anyone was working the issue. "Yes, sir. Answer should be available shortly."
Yeah, right.

Two days later--in the BUA this evening I noticed that the tasking is officially recognized with its own title and is #041005-0** and a Colonel owns it. Answer is due tomorrow to the General.

Guns under the robe

The chapel programs are very fortunate and blessed to have non-chaplains help out with the services. Our liturgical service doesn't have a priest or chaplain available each week, but there is a great volunteer who provides the congregation with the assistance that it needs. Lyle is a former Seal in the Marines, retired now and providing security.
As he walked to the podium this morning, the unmistakable outline of the 9mm Glock was evident under the clerical robe he wore. He is required by contract to wear the pistol at all times.

Trust that nobody was offended by a pistol-packin-preacher.
(I've been told I have pistol envy).

"The General says"

In today's BUA, a report from The Houston Chronicle was mentioned during the intel brief. The reference cited is:
Houston ChronicleApril 9, 2005
Jamming Devices Reduce Roadside Bomb Casualties
Tool can disrupt radio, cell phones often used to set off the explosives
By Eric Rosenberg, Hearst News Service
WASHINGTON - There's been a steep decline in U.S. military casualties from roadside bombs in Iraq thanks, in large part, to electronic jammers on U.S. convoys.
Army Gen. Richard Cody, the service's vice chief of staff, recently told reporters that the U.S. casualty rate from what the service calls "improvised explosive devices" has dropped by 40 percent since late 2003.
Separately, that decline was graphically described by Dick Bridges, a spokesman for an Army panel set up to counter roadside bombs.
In early 2004, the chances of a soldier becoming an IED casualty "were four times greater than in January 2005," he said.
Army troops encounter about 30 IEDs a day, the highest level since the U.S.-led invasion two years ago.
IEDs are typically made from artillery shells and other ordnance.
But as many as 12 IEDs a day — or about 40 percent — are rendered inoperable before they can injure troops, Bridges said.
"Because of a combination of better training, technology and intelligence, we are able to find these things and destroy them in place or disarm them," Bridges said.
Insurgents, which U.S. Central Command officials estimate number around 20,000, have placed bombs in roads and vehicles, on telephone poles and inside trash cans and dead animals, cars or trucks.
In the months after the U.S. invasion, insurgents had ready access to hundreds of Saddam Hussein's weapons caches, which have supplied explosives for IED strikes.
IEDs are the top killer in Iraq, blamed for more than half of coalition forces killed or wounded.

After the 40% figure was mentioned, GEN CASEY asked, "Is that a correct number? I don't think it is. -----(someone)----. Find out if that is a correct number."
Before the briefing was over, the Intel Colonel sitting down from me was conferring with members of his team, some who left the briefing to confir with folks from G-1, personnel, and try to come up with the right number. Impossible to tell how many people spent how much time to check on a percentage number. But the General will get his answer so that he can...."what?"
One thing the Colonel said was that you really cannot know how many explosions did not occur because of the simple fact they did not occur.

[Much like us as chaplains trying to convince commanders that the marriage enrichment classes prevent divorce, but we will never know because they didn't get divorced.]

I hope the General gets a good number...

Groundhog day and Marshmallow peeps

The SOC is the nerve center of the military operations. This is the brain that tells the body what to do. "Action Officers" are the guys who labor in the Special Operations Center 24/7 to update plans, prepare reports, submit data. Incredible internet connectivity and the building never sleeps.
The guy at the desk next to me stopped wearing his watch 4 months ago. "Doesn't help to look at it. It doesn't make life faster or slower." I talked to him about when he gets time to work out. "I find that the gym is usually not as crowded at 11:30 at night. I finish here, work out, take a shower and go to bed. Then back up and at again." I saw him out of the SOC getting lunch. He ate while he walked from the chow line back to the SOC.
This morning when I went in so I would be in place before the morning briefing, I announced to the guys around me that, "Today is Sunday. The day of rest and the day to get to chapel."
"Sir," one replied wearily, "today is Groundhog day and it is just like all the others." Then he turned back and continue typing.
I stepped down to the cases of bottled water on the entry level of the SOC. There was a table with snack bars and candy. Also wrapped in their untouched packages were pink and yellow marshmallow peep chicks left from Easter last month. Nobody is quite hungry enough yet. Next to the peeps were packs of disposable razors for immediate hygiene in the event that you were going to be seen by someone other than the staff moles. What a life.

My knees are hot

The Army thrives on meetings. We have meetings before the meetings and we coordinate after the meetings and meet off line to keep from meeting so long. But nothing surpasses the Battle Update and Analysis. This twice a day meeting is the highlight of the meeting day. Technology has advanced to the point that our video teleconferencing and simulcast is state of the art. Conference rooms across the theater of battle and the significant posts that are stateside have been transformed into VTC Centers. In the past, the bandwidth of the transmissions so overwhelmed the capacity of the system, that people's email and internet slowed down when there were videoconferences. Now the technology says, "Ya'll come! and we have room for you in front of the camera."
Where I work, one of Saddam's former ball rooms has been transformed into theater seating with huge screens across the front for the video projectors and there are 50+ seats, each with a computer terminal and one (sometimes two) monitors. Each terminal has the capability to access the www. regular email and internet, plus a secret military-wide account, plus a third, local secret military web account. I have 64 blinking lights on my desktop that each have a corresponding button. I dare not touch any of them. I refuse to touch the telephone and hope it doesn't ring.
I looked under the desk the other day to see an amazing array of wires, cords, electric outlets and monitors all joined by umbilical cords. Then I understood why my knees got hot during the briefings.....

Saddam's Pool

I watched Saddam on a big screen television while I ate supper in the banquet room of his former palace. Saddam had been listening to the proceedings of the newly elected parliament as they selected his former enemies to be the national leaders. I watched television as the events took place knowing that Saddam was actually sitting in a cell only a few kilometers from where I was. After finishing a wonderful dinner of baked chicken I walked across the marble floors to throw away my trash in the marble columned hallway that had 20' ceilings. I then walked outside to sit next to the swimming pool and call my wife on my cell phone. AMAZING!

The more I observe and listen, the more I see Saddam as an egomaniac that was a horrid despot. There are citizens living just outside the palace grounds that hold titles to the land on which the palace sits. They were displaced, their houses bulldozed, and the palace built. The people moved back onto the grounds into an unfinished theater by the Euphrates River when they saw an opportunity. They were living in absolute squalor. The "squatters" moved in as the International Zone (then called the Green Zone) was being walled in for security. The holes in the floor of the theater were used as toilets and trash disposals. Babies were born in hallways. Some locals wanted them evicted and moved out of the area. Some here in the Embassy, including the Chaplains and engineers (DPW-the Department of Public Works), decided to help. The engineers cleaned out and hauled out the trash from the basements. That effort displaced all the rats, cats and vermin that were infecting the area. Chaplains took clothes and hygiene products that had been donated by great Americans. The residents were amazed, surprised, humbled and grateful.

The project has come to be known as the "JAWS" named for one of the initiators of the project, Captain Jaworski, an Engineer with the DPW. He was one of the first to discover the situation when he was called on to try and clear the trash piles that kept growing around the theater. While surveying the situation, he kept finding more people that lived in the "area" only to discover they actually lived in the unfinished theater. That started the project. There are now regular visits to the area to provide needed essentials. Last month, a community cook out took place at the theater where all the residents were shown true American cuisine.

Saddam bulldozed homes he did not pay for the put a pool on top of their dreams. We are giving back to the people their dignity and hope. It will only be a matter of time until they stand on their own....just watch.

Photo from cigarsinthesand.blogspot.com

S.A.P.I. vests

The military has developed a new type of body armor in recent years. Much was in the news a few months ago about there not being enough body armor for the troops as they enter the combat zones. Some families were buying commercial copies for their sons to better protect them. As best I can tell, there is now enough to go around for everyone.
The new body armor is much better than the earlier generation flak vest that I used to wear. Although still a bit uncomfortable, weighing in at about 18 pounds (rather than the earlier 25#), the new vest is saving lives. The woven Kevlar fabric can deflect most 9mm pistol rounds and protects against schrapnel from explosions. There is an additional throat protector, groin protector, and additional shoulder and upper arm protectors that add extra safety. The big added bonus is what is known as the "S.A.P.I." (pronounced "sappy") plates. These are high tech porcelain (they can break) compound (secret) slide in plates for the front and back of the vests. The complete set is known as the "individual body armor" or "IBA."

I made my first visit to our local military hospital here in the I-Z yesterday. As I was being shown through the Emergency Room, a soldier came through on a stretcher headed from the treatment room to get an MRI. He had been shot by a sniper while on patrol outside the perimeter of the IZ. The high velocity bullet had hit him just below the rib cage on the right side of his torso. He was wearing his IBA with SAPI plates. The bullet did not penetrate the skin. The MRI was to ensure that he had not suffered any internal bruising. Getting shot and having the shot stopped by the plate is like getting punched by a professional boxer. You may not see the bruise, but it could be deeper than you know. The MRI revealed no internal damage. Without the ASPI, there would have been severe internal damage, possibly death from lacerated liver and exit wound through the back. RTD (returned to duty).
WEAR THE SAPI VEST when warranted by the threat.

Maine troop greeters

Once we got on the plane to IRAQ, we knew the mission was on. We were tired before we left and still had to endure more manifests where people checked our ID's and crossed off our names. Once more we endured the commander, the First Sergeant, the chaplain and the General thanking us for our service and wishing us well. I don't think anyone could hear the General. I am sure he thinks that he is doing good things (required by higher up Generals as well that he address each group before they depart), but he really wasted our time. Speaking in a crowded assembly area with poor acoustics and no sound system seems to be the Army standard now. He addressed different sides of the group and sounded like a distant oscillating fan. His staff needs to insist on a microphone.....
When we stopped for fuel in Bangor, Maine, I was the first one off the aircraft. Someone needs to lead and I am willing to fill that position. Before we deplaned, we were told that there would be a reception and not be surprised.
At the end of the jetway were lines of people applauding and cheering, waving flags and smiling. These were the Maine Troop Greeters. What a group!
This is an organization of local town's people who have volunteererd and paid to greet every plane of military folks leaving for and returning from the war zone. Many are retired and many are former military and have given many hours to this endeavor.
We were plane # 1,001 that they have greeted. We got to share the celebration cake left over from the plane #1,000. It was still fresh and tasty.
There was a free snack table with homemade cookies, snacks, chips, drinks and candy. The phone company had donated cell phones with free phone service so that soldiers could call their families with an update on where they were in the leaving or return flight schedule. Hundreds of thousands of minutes had been donated.
The website for these wonderful Americans is http://www.mainetroopgreeters.com/ and they are the first people I will see when I get back to the States.....

Getting into country

Left Ft.Bliss and in transit for 21 hours until we all arrived at Kuwait. Our flight went through Bangor, Maine where we were greeted by the Maine troop greeters. What a group...read about them in my next blog. After Maine, we flew to the Frankfurt/Hahn airport in Germany. The government paid my way to Germany....something Janet and I have wanted to do since we started our military life 18 years ago. From Germany, we went another 6 hours to Kuwait. Kuwait is a holding area for all the folks coming into theater. We slept on cots in open bays, ate and were issued our "extra" military gear, called RFI, for "rapid field initiative." The Army surveyed what the soldiers were paying for out of pocket and decided to provide it for us up front. We were all issued all the "cool guy" stuff. I got underarmor t-shirts, 2 more pair of great boots, WileyX sunglasses, aviator gloves, etc. Hundreds of bucks worth of stuff.
Flights were weird last night trying to get out of Kuwait. We arrived and pallatized all our bags for the flight and then the flight got delayed. Then the flight was cancelled. Everyone had to unload their bags, and go back the 45 minute drive to Kuwait City for the night, except for me and 10 folks from the Navy. We finally boarded a C-130 at 1:30 in the morning and landed here in Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) at 3:00. No rides into town so I slept on the floor. Met up with a chaplain who was picking up someone else and hitched a ride to Miller's office in mid-morning. I finally arrived in Baghdad at the MNFI Command Chaplain's office. I had lunch with him, his staff and Tom MacGregor. While at the DinFac, met with a number of other chaplains in the area, including the 10th Mountain Chaplain from Ft. Drum....also saw one of my buddies from Advanced Course small group whom I haven't seen since '91. He is Division Chaplain for 3rd ID at Stewart. His offices are in a "secondary" palace across the moat from Saddam's huge southern palace. 15 foot ceilings, all marble walls and floors, marble columns...bathrooms have 10' ceilings, gold inlaid toilets, bidets, sinks and all marble. The coalition has thrown up temporary walls to make offices in the huge rooms that just completely destroy the effect....now it is noisy, dusty, tacky....just the way Americans are. The palaces are located on the Southern game and fish preserve that Saddam built. He built huge berms and diverted water from the Euphrates to fill them and stock them with fish, and then built huge fences and stocked the land with exotic animals for hunting. Some of the water is still here, but only in low lying areas. There are lots of water birds and colorful feeders at the edges of the water. It must have been quite a garden.
Still in the middle of jet lag. I have one more leg of the journey to go....I drive back to the BIAP this afternoon and take a helicopter jump to the I-Z. My trailer is already for me, and my roomie from Ft. Bliss is going to share it with me. I will get both sets of keys and move in tonight. I am ready for a nap.The country is dirty and dusty. The whole infrastructure seems to be in disrepair. Work crews everywhere trying to get the country back on its feet. It will take years.

First casualty

We suffered our first casualty today. One of the civilian contractors working for the government tripped on the stairs at our deployment site. He broke an ankle. It took firetruck, ambulance, MP car, some guys in blue uniforms that we didn't know what.....and they trundled him away to miss the flight.

When we were issued our equipment, one of the directives was, "When you put your stuff in a duffle bag, do not roll the duffle bag down the stairs. We have had people coming up the stairs in the past who have been injured by rolling duffle bags."
Bowling for people with duffle bags. Now that has possibilities. After filling my three duffle bags, I could understand the temptation to roll them down the three flights of stairs to the parking lot. That would be quicker than the two trips that I made and made me tired.

We stage our equipment later today, then are off for the rest of the day. The bags all get loaded into the plane and the crew sleeps. We leave sometime tomorrow....