OK, so I've been thinking that our biggest problem in Iraq is not the terrorists, or the lack of proper armor, or even the supposed civil war that we're now in the middle of. The problem lies in how we name our bases there.
Think about it. Everything there has names like Liberty, Victory, Speicher, or something relatively innocuous. Most of them are named for places -- Balad, Taji, Talil. None of those names even remotely sound threatening, not even Anaconda. Kuwait's camps are all pretty tame: Arifjan, Virginia, and Buehring don't sound like bad places at all.
OK, I'll admit that Abu Ghraib just sounds bad, but for all the wrong reasons. If I were king for a day, I would immediately change all the base names in both war zones. I'd start with 20th-century generals like Pershing, Patton, MacArthur, and Eisenhower -- all fierce, decisive men of battle, men whose very names would strike fear in the hearts of anyone who dared attack us (those familiar with history, at least). None of those valiant warriors has yet been honored with forts at home anyway, so it's about time, espeially since all the good Civil War names are taken. We already have a Camp Walker (in Korea), named for the famous Korean War general who turned things around after MacArthur was fired -- and then led the war to a stalemate -- but that could work in Iraq too. I might even use Rommel, our staunchest Nazi foe.
I can almost hear Osama think twice about sending his suicide troops: "Don't even think about attacking Doolittle Airbase! Remember what he did to Japan?" Or maybe, "Camp Abrams? Forget it -- those tanks are the best in the world!" Then I'd name the most important bases after more recent generals -- what terrorist in his right mind would come anywhere close to Camp Schwarzkopf? Or FOB Franks?
I recently read of a base we have in Afghanistan called Camp Blessing. Camp Blessing?! What were they thinking when they named that one? "Come on in, we won't fire a shot! We'll even forget the rubber hoses in the interrogation rooms!" Maybe that one was meant to be deceptive.
President names might work as well. Lincoln comes to mind, as does either Roosevelt. Truman would certainly work -- after all, he was the only leader in history who used atomic bombs. Camp Kennedy has a nice ring to it, assuming you forget about the Bay of Pigs. Getting your face on a fifty-cent coin is nice, but a war-zone base named after you, now that's an aspiration. Washington would work well on several levels. If we ran out of good American presidential honorees -- I mean, let's be real, why even bother with guys like Wilson, Johnson, Arthur, or Garfield? -- we could always use Churchill. He sure was a tough old bastard. I'd suggest staying away from Nixon or Clinton, for obvious reasons, but maybe the terrorists would be so distracted from laughing that our troops could just round them all up and haul them away to Gitmo.
If that doesn't work, I'd start naming bases after more menacing historical figures like Stalin or Ho Chi Minh (hey, that one worked for the North Vietnamese, gimme a break). Perhaps Lenin or even Hitler would do the trick, or Ghengis Khan. Maybe names like Idi Amin or Pol Pot would make the terrorists give up. Yeah, that would work. A friend also recently suggested Jonestown. Don't go there, the Kool-Aid is a killer!
Another problem I see is that our generals don't have enough rank. The last time we won a real war -- and I mean one with a real enemy, not some Cub Scouts with rusting Soviet tanks -- we had five-star generals. By God, let's start promoting some of these four-stars around here! We're quite simply doing them a grave injustice by holding back that fifth star. Imagine how far General Petraeus could go if we just start calling him General of the Army Petraeus from now on. Or even Field Marshal Petraeus. There's a rank no one has anymore. We'd be watching Osama's hanging on YouTube before Thanksgiving, get that al-Sadr guy too, and have victory parades before Christmas.
Point is, folks, America needs to start realizing that we're gonna be here for at least 50 years. Unless, of course, we name a base after a French leader.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
One of those days you never forget
Friday, May 16, 1991, was one of those fateful days I'll never forget. I was living in Fulda, Germany, and had driven with a friend's wife to Frankfurt-am-Main airport to pick up my young wife and our son, who was then only 17 months old (he is now 17 years old). We returned to Fulda that afternoon without incident, and Mary Anne (my friend's wife) asked me to stop at the unit HQ to let her husband know we were back. I introduced Lori to my Platoon Sergeant (Jimmy "Groovy Man" Saunders), who later told me that he "didn't have the heart" to tell me then what he had just found out in the commander's office: we were on our way to Kuwait.
Oblivious, Lori and I drove to our new apartment on the other side of town, and started unpacking her things. Little Dallas ran to every room, and I bounced him on the bed a few times. (I always loved wrestling with my boys when they were little.) Then, at about 7:30 p.m., the doorbell buzzed. Robert and Mary Anne Jones, and our friend Rick Mitchell, came to break the news to me. We were to leave in two weeks, and start processing tomorrow -- shots, wills, and life insurance forms. I still didn't even have a phone in my Army-furnished apartment.
I was devastated. Over the previous eight months, I had spent maybe four weeks with my family. Following a year of language school in California, the Army sent me to training in Texas and Massachussets, and because of the Gulf War build-up, we weren't even allowed to go home for Christmas. Lori and Dallas stayed with me at the Army Lodging at Fort Devens for several days, and returned when their plane was diverted in Rochester. We stayed in a tiny, one-room apartment in Ayer for three weeks -- no furniture, a blow-up bed, no car. We still have pictures of little 1-year-old Dallas, up to his waist in snow. We loved it.
Then came my assignment to Germany, and a three-month wait to get housing set up, orders to get them over there, and passports. Living in the barracks, my buddies and I watched the entire Gulf War on TV over billiards and beer, never suspecting for a second that the Army would send 75 Russian linguists to the area. I began making the arrangements, and spending the first installment of my enlistment bonus on things I couldn't afford. Finally, the day came when my wife and I could start our lives together again -- only to be delayed yet again.
Lori turned 19 three days before I left. On her birthday, I took her sightseeing downtown -- which, due its typical old-Europe charm, would have been great if we hadn't locked the keys in the car. We caught the bus to our neighborhood, and I walked a few blocks to the landlord's house. It was a balmy Sunday afternoon, and he was having a leisurely brunch with his family. Once I finally got the message translated through his son, I had to wait almost an hour for him to finish eating. They did not have a spare key, but fashioned a plan. We took a neighbor's ladder over to the apartment -- stuck through the sunroof of the landlord's BMW -- and I climbed through an open balcony window to get my extra keys. Fortunately, I had not locked the window before we left!
The next few months were to be some of the toughest that our relationship would ever have to endure. Lori found out she was pregnant with Christian, and couldn't bear the smell of cooking. She lost weight. I was helpless in Kuwait, and couldn't afford many phone calls (thank God for today's cheap technology!). Lori couldn't legally drive in Germany, and didn't know anyone there, much less the language. Long story short, Lori's aunt and uncle (who was in the Air Force) graciously took her and Dallas in after moving to Holland. They stayed almost a month, and that probably saved our marriage -- plus, her Mom told her to tough it out.
My unit, the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, spent only three frustrating months in the desert. It would have been more, but an accident in our motor pool destroyed more equipment in one day than the entire Iraqi army did during the war (another story in itself). Thank God for accidents.
Oblivious, Lori and I drove to our new apartment on the other side of town, and started unpacking her things. Little Dallas ran to every room, and I bounced him on the bed a few times. (I always loved wrestling with my boys when they were little.) Then, at about 7:30 p.m., the doorbell buzzed. Robert and Mary Anne Jones, and our friend Rick Mitchell, came to break the news to me. We were to leave in two weeks, and start processing tomorrow -- shots, wills, and life insurance forms. I still didn't even have a phone in my Army-furnished apartment.
I was devastated. Over the previous eight months, I had spent maybe four weeks with my family. Following a year of language school in California, the Army sent me to training in Texas and Massachussets, and because of the Gulf War build-up, we weren't even allowed to go home for Christmas. Lori and Dallas stayed with me at the Army Lodging at Fort Devens for several days, and returned when their plane was diverted in Rochester. We stayed in a tiny, one-room apartment in Ayer for three weeks -- no furniture, a blow-up bed, no car. We still have pictures of little 1-year-old Dallas, up to his waist in snow. We loved it.
Then came my assignment to Germany, and a three-month wait to get housing set up, orders to get them over there, and passports. Living in the barracks, my buddies and I watched the entire Gulf War on TV over billiards and beer, never suspecting for a second that the Army would send 75 Russian linguists to the area. I began making the arrangements, and spending the first installment of my enlistment bonus on things I couldn't afford. Finally, the day came when my wife and I could start our lives together again -- only to be delayed yet again.
Lori turned 19 three days before I left. On her birthday, I took her sightseeing downtown -- which, due its typical old-Europe charm, would have been great if we hadn't locked the keys in the car. We caught the bus to our neighborhood, and I walked a few blocks to the landlord's house. It was a balmy Sunday afternoon, and he was having a leisurely brunch with his family. Once I finally got the message translated through his son, I had to wait almost an hour for him to finish eating. They did not have a spare key, but fashioned a plan. We took a neighbor's ladder over to the apartment -- stuck through the sunroof of the landlord's BMW -- and I climbed through an open balcony window to get my extra keys. Fortunately, I had not locked the window before we left!
The next few months were to be some of the toughest that our relationship would ever have to endure. Lori found out she was pregnant with Christian, and couldn't bear the smell of cooking. She lost weight. I was helpless in Kuwait, and couldn't afford many phone calls (thank God for today's cheap technology!). Lori couldn't legally drive in Germany, and didn't know anyone there, much less the language. Long story short, Lori's aunt and uncle (who was in the Air Force) graciously took her and Dallas in after moving to Holland. They stayed almost a month, and that probably saved our marriage -- plus, her Mom told her to tough it out.
My unit, the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, spent only three frustrating months in the desert. It would have been more, but an accident in our motor pool destroyed more equipment in one day than the entire Iraqi army did during the war (another story in itself). Thank God for accidents.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
My first trip to Iraq
Interesting stuff this week. Last Friday, I found out that I was to attend a conference in Baghdad, at Victory Base.
On Monday night, another officer and I ride the midnight bus to the military airport here in Kuwait, where we wait all night for our 0630 flight to Baghdad. It was my first time on a C-130 cargo plane. There are no windows we can see out of, the seats are all canvas jump-seats, and over 50 of us are crammed in like sardines as we take off to the north. As if wearing my body armor wasn't uncomfortable enough, the huge oaf in front of me was spread out like he thought he was on his mother's couch. It was the most uncomfortable 90-minute ride I've ever had to endure, but somehow I grabbed a few winks while resting my head on the rucksack in my lap.
I awoke to strong g-forces pinning me down as the plane's wicked sprial dive flings us to the tarmac below. (Pilots have to land this way to avoid piossible rocket attacks.) We shuffle off the plane into the hot, Iraqi morning sun, and before long our gracious hosts whisk us away to a distant end of the mammoth base in the heart of Baghdad. Maybe it's the dizzying plane ride, or the palaces, or the man-made lakes -- or maybe it's just the lack of sleep -- but the place sort of feels like a bizarro-world Busch Gardens. Without the beer, of course.
Over the next few days, I meet many other soldiers I've known from past units. I slowly discover that this is not the Iraq you folks at home see on TV, portrayed by all the news outlets. Although everyone -- even civilians -- carries firearms and ammunition, almost no one wears body armor or helmets. Mind you, we are on a heavily fortified, American base defended by hundreds of the best soldiers in the world. Almost every structure is surrounded by huge concrete barriers, to protect from mortar blasts which are infrequent, but a real threat -- and a reminder that just a few hundred meters from our sandbagged and air-conditioned buildings, a war is still grinding on. There is a constant buzz of helicopters overhead, and we occasionally hear distant explosions or car bombs -- other grim reminders of the battles raging nearby. Near some places on the base, there are Iraqi apartments overlooking the wire-topped walls -- and in some spots, soldiers running for physical training even get shot at.
Walking back to our hooch one night, I heard small-arms fire in the distance. One of the sergeants with us remarked that they do not have firing ranges -- to which I replied that they do, but it's a two-way range. The targets shoot back.
I could easily stay and work in Baghdad, and wouldn't turn down an offer if I knew my bosses in Kuwait would ever allow it. They don't need me, and they know it -- but would never admit it. At least in Iraq, I could live with the blissful delusion that I'd be defending my country. In Kuwait, I'm just a guppy in a sea of REMF's, doomed to my purgatory of making meaningless PowerPoint slides. In my Dilbert-esque existence, my pointy-haired boss happens to be a micromanaging tyrant, and the constant mantra chanted in our heads is: "research, analyze, coordinate, staff." Yes, the four functions of a staff officer tend to haunt me even in the shower.
I'm in a true catch-22 -- it makes too much sense to let me even consider the jobs I've been offered in Kuwait, much less anything I could ever find in Iraq. Anything other than my current cell would actually make use of my technical, tactical, and leadership skills that I've cultivated over the last 18 years. So, taking the advice of some of my equally disgruntled coworkers, I resolve to publicly decry any interest whatsoever in any other job, and will take every opportunity to highlight the undesirable parts of said jobs (made up, of course) that I secretly want. I'm sure they'll be all too happy to send me in no time at all. (Here's a thought: if "The Secret" is all about the power of positive thinking, then how do you explain reverse psychology?)
Besides the 2-day conference, which would bore you to tears, I got to see some interesting sights like Al-Faw palace, one of Saddam's old hangouts. The opulence is stunning, and the pics I've posted don't do it justice. In the rotunda is a huge, gawdy chair that Yassir Arafat once gave to Saddam. Apparently, some of the toilet seats were even gold-plated. We also got to see the lake houses at Camp Slayer, some of which still show the scars of war. We even caught sight of some soldiers fishing.
I'm sure I'll be back again, but as we stood on the tarmac last night, I paused for a minute to watch the helicopters buzzing overhead, and in the distance some tracer rounds arced across a small corner of the sky, which was briefly lit by an artillery flare. Somewhere, not that far away, where there are blood feuds and car bombs, this dirty little war still grinds on.
On Monday night, another officer and I ride the midnight bus to the military airport here in Kuwait, where we wait all night for our 0630 flight to Baghdad. It was my first time on a C-130 cargo plane. There are no windows we can see out of, the seats are all canvas jump-seats, and over 50 of us are crammed in like sardines as we take off to the north. As if wearing my body armor wasn't uncomfortable enough, the huge oaf in front of me was spread out like he thought he was on his mother's couch. It was the most uncomfortable 90-minute ride I've ever had to endure, but somehow I grabbed a few winks while resting my head on the rucksack in my lap.
I awoke to strong g-forces pinning me down as the plane's wicked sprial dive flings us to the tarmac below. (Pilots have to land this way to avoid piossible rocket attacks.) We shuffle off the plane into the hot, Iraqi morning sun, and before long our gracious hosts whisk us away to a distant end of the mammoth base in the heart of Baghdad. Maybe it's the dizzying plane ride, or the palaces, or the man-made lakes -- or maybe it's just the lack of sleep -- but the place sort of feels like a bizarro-world Busch Gardens. Without the beer, of course.
Over the next few days, I meet many other soldiers I've known from past units. I slowly discover that this is not the Iraq you folks at home see on TV, portrayed by all the news outlets. Although everyone -- even civilians -- carries firearms and ammunition, almost no one wears body armor or helmets. Mind you, we are on a heavily fortified, American base defended by hundreds of the best soldiers in the world. Almost every structure is surrounded by huge concrete barriers, to protect from mortar blasts which are infrequent, but a real threat -- and a reminder that just a few hundred meters from our sandbagged and air-conditioned buildings, a war is still grinding on. There is a constant buzz of helicopters overhead, and we occasionally hear distant explosions or car bombs -- other grim reminders of the battles raging nearby. Near some places on the base, there are Iraqi apartments overlooking the wire-topped walls -- and in some spots, soldiers running for physical training even get shot at.
Walking back to our hooch one night, I heard small-arms fire in the distance. One of the sergeants with us remarked that they do not have firing ranges -- to which I replied that they do, but it's a two-way range. The targets shoot back.
I could easily stay and work in Baghdad, and wouldn't turn down an offer if I knew my bosses in Kuwait would ever allow it. They don't need me, and they know it -- but would never admit it. At least in Iraq, I could live with the blissful delusion that I'd be defending my country. In Kuwait, I'm just a guppy in a sea of REMF's, doomed to my purgatory of making meaningless PowerPoint slides. In my Dilbert-esque existence, my pointy-haired boss happens to be a micromanaging tyrant, and the constant mantra chanted in our heads is: "research, analyze, coordinate, staff." Yes, the four functions of a staff officer tend to haunt me even in the shower.
I'm in a true catch-22 -- it makes too much sense to let me even consider the jobs I've been offered in Kuwait, much less anything I could ever find in Iraq. Anything other than my current cell would actually make use of my technical, tactical, and leadership skills that I've cultivated over the last 18 years. So, taking the advice of some of my equally disgruntled coworkers, I resolve to publicly decry any interest whatsoever in any other job, and will take every opportunity to highlight the undesirable parts of said jobs (made up, of course) that I secretly want. I'm sure they'll be all too happy to send me in no time at all. (Here's a thought: if "The Secret" is all about the power of positive thinking, then how do you explain reverse psychology?)
Besides the 2-day conference, which would bore you to tears, I got to see some interesting sights like Al-Faw palace, one of Saddam's old hangouts. The opulence is stunning, and the pics I've posted don't do it justice. In the rotunda is a huge, gawdy chair that Yassir Arafat once gave to Saddam. Apparently, some of the toilet seats were even gold-plated. We also got to see the lake houses at Camp Slayer, some of which still show the scars of war. We even caught sight of some soldiers fishing.
I'm sure I'll be back again, but as we stood on the tarmac last night, I paused for a minute to watch the helicopters buzzing overhead, and in the distance some tracer rounds arced across a small corner of the sky, which was briefly lit by an artillery flare. Somewhere, not that far away, where there are blood feuds and car bombs, this dirty little war still grinds on.
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