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.