Happy New Year to my favoritest cell phone company in the whole wide world

Dear Sprint, 

I am an extremely dissatisfied customer despite more than four years of paying my bills on time with your company.  All I want is a refund of an erroneous charge, and your company is punishing me for being honest.  The phone number in question is 580-XXX-XXXX.

I was recently charged $200 because my wife had to get one of our teenager's phone replaced, despite the fact that I already pay $7 per month for the insurance and paid the $50 deductible.  When the charge appeared on our bill in October, I called Sprint and was transferred to Assurion.  I told Assurion the truth -- that is, my wife mailed the broken phone according to the instructions included with the replacement phone.  Assurion told me that I should see the refund in 1-2 billing cycles.  Two cycles have passed, and yet no refund -- and Sprint is punishing me by classifying my payments as late, even though I have paid all other charges ahead of time.

I attempted to call today (31 Dec.) to get this matter corrected.  The first supervisor was courteous, and attempted to get Assurion on the line -- a manager at Assurion put us on hold, then never returned and the call was dropped.  I called and spoke to another Sprint supervisor, who immediately transferred me to Assurion without listening to my problem.  Assurion again told me that I should see the refund on 1-2 billing cycles.  I again called Sprint and was repeatedly told the very same information by a supervisor-drone named George (#619675), and that there was nothing he could do until Assurion received the broken phone.  He told me he didn't care about my situation and that even if the phone got lost in the mail I would still be responsible for the $200 charge.

Note that I am an active duty Army officer and have been serving in Kuwait since March 2007.  I have been a faithful Sprint customer since November 2004 and have never even once been late on a payment.  However, in those 48 months I have had to make at least 45 separate phone calls over billing errors that your company cannot seem to get right (I wish I were making that number up).  It seems that every time I make a change to my account, Sprint makes some new error that causes me to have to call and berate some underpaid representative who has deplorable customer service skills or speaks English as a third language.  I'm sure George will drink himself into a stupor tonight just because he had to deal with me today.

The truth, the way I see it, is that I pay your company, not Assurion.  You take a part of my money and give it to Assurion to insure my teenagers' phones so that when they break or lose them, I pay you another $50 so that Assurion sends me another phone.  I should never have to talk to anyone in Assurion -- this should be a simple, one-stop process where I call Sprint, who handles every issue regarding the lost or broken phone.  In the four years I've been a customer, I have easily paid over $1000 just in insurance, yet you want to charge me another $200 for a useless piece of junk that got lost in the mail.

I could have easily lied and told Assurion that the dog ate the phone so our unsuspecting preteen daughter threw it away right before the trash was picked up, or my teenager left the phone on the bus coming home from a swim meet and didn't realize it all weekend.  That would have been more interesting and much less painful to deal with.  In fact, I could call Assurion right now and concoct any story I want about finding the mailing envelope on the kitchen counter and realizing we really did drop the phone in the shark-infested water while snorkeling off Cozumel because we were too hung over from the previous night's two-for-one margaritas on the cruise ship -- and I would have my refund, no questions asked, even if my imaginary flight got stuck in Houston and a week's worth of Montezuma's revenge was more important than calling Sprint to replace some stupid phone.

But no, since I decided to tell the truth, to be honest and follow your instructions, you still want to charge me $200 for a useless piece of plastic and silicon gadgetry that probably cost you $1.50 in parts.  I hope you at least paid poor George way more than that just to listen to me rant and berate him on the phone for an hour this morning.

Do the right thing -- refund my money now, plus the $.80 late fee and all associated taxes.  Then I'll stop calling George and all his other customer service supervisor buddies and telling them they need to find another line of work.  Either that, or cancel all my phones immediately without any "early termination fees," so I can take my business to a company that might at least have a clue what good customer service is.

Christmas musings and observations

Ah, Christmas...the time of year when Christians the world over celebrate the birth of our Lord in various ways -- college football, parades, movies, the giving of gifts, and the like.  

Here in the Kuwaiti desert, things have been festive.  Filling in for my Battalion Commander while he's been home on leave, by week's end I will have attended four days of holiday parties, all the while trying to mind what I eat.  To counter the extra calories and cholesterol, I've been cycling more.  Today I went on a 47-miler with a couple of friends, battling the Oklahoma-like winds that I miss so much.  On Christmas Eve, I did 21 miles after a mile swim, and on the 23rd I did 23 miles.

What better way to celebrate Christmas than with butter sculptures and ornately carved fruit?  The Dining Facility was chock full of them -- Mary & Joseph with baby Jesus, Santa on his sleigh (with only two reindeer), Obama and Bush shaking hands....wait, what?  Apparently the Third Country Nationals at the DFAC ran out of Christmas things to sculpt.  See pics below.

 

 

Even more creative, if not outright strange, was Joker Claus at one of the parties.  Yes, an enterprising junior officer dressed up as Santa from the neck down, but his head was dressed as the Joker in the latest Batman movie.  You can see a video clip here -- his performance was, creepily, pretty good.  He obviously had some leftover Halloween makeup he didn't want to waste...but, and those that know him will agree, only he could make it work and get away with it.

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As a kid of divorced parents, I usually had two Christmases:  one on Christmas Eve with Mom, the second at Dad's the next day, after travelling to see him.  I've always considered myself lucky in this respect: I have remained close to both of them my whole life.

This year, even though this is the first (and hopefully only) Christmas I have ever had to spend away from family in 19 years, I am especially grateful for everything and everyone in my life.  Lori and I celebrated 19 years of marriage this week, and I dutifully sent flowers (at work) and jewelry.  The best reason for us to be thankful is our oldest son recently walked away from a deadly car accident with nothing more than a bump on his forehead and sore ribs.  It was clearly not his fault, but the family of the other man is certainly in our thoughts and prayers.

Don't blame me, I voted for (insert losing Republican candidate's name here)

I normally don't wax political in this blog, mostly because I am forced to maintain my sobriety here in the desert. But waking up to The Announcement this week was hardly a surprise to me. I predicted several months ago to some friends that if Obama got the nomination he was a lock, and even last week told a buddy that Obama would win in a landslide.

I must admit that I am not anywhere nearly as dismayed as my conservative influences think I should be. President-elect Obama is either the Antichrist or the Messiah, depending on who you ask. There are a few things about this entire process that concern me, however.

First, because I didn't vote for Obama, I am a racist. I also predicted months ago that the left-leaning media would at least imply this. For the last several weeks, they did more than that.

Secondly, an alarming number of conservatives predicted all sorts of calamity if McCain didn't win. I even got a plethora of emails forwarded to me from some so-called "prophets" who either wrongly predicted that McCain would win, even going so far as to proclaim various "moves of God" were that to occur, or predicted that God would punish America if Obama won. One particular crackpot even went so far as to say that God told him in 2000 that not only would Bush serve two terms, but we would suffer an economic crisis toward the end of his second term. ("I'm not telling you who to vote for, but if Obama gets elected, God's gonna be really pissed!") Well, thanks a lot for sharing your incredible insight with us back then, pal! We could have voted someone else in back then and perhaps avoided all this mess. How much money did you make selling all your Freddie Mac and Countrywide stock earlier this year, by the way?

Most of this drivel was little more than recycled versions of Pat Robertson's book, "New World Order," that predicted similar woes -- in 1992. These sorts of things seem to have a nasty habit of creeping up whenever it looks like a Democrat is already ordering drapes for the White House.

The most disturbing feature during this election has been the calls for assassination of Obama -- even from audience members at Republican campaign speeches. Why these asshats aren't in Gitmo right now is beyond me, but had I noticed it before sent in my ballot, I would have changed my vote on that alone. I sure didn't see any condemnation of it by McCain or Palin, much less any conservative press.

So what happened in the election -- did God suddenly throw in the towel and decide sometime on Tuesday, about 9:45 p.m. EDT, that not enough Christians prayed for McCain to win? The prophets are thus far silent, but I'm sure when all the post-mortem analysis is over, we'll find that more people voted for McCain than for Bush in either 2000 or 2004. But McCain didn't lose because Christians failed to meet some pre-ordained prayer quota -- he lost because his campaign was too negative, too closely allied with Bush, and kept reminding us ad nauseum of the five years he spent in NVA captivity. Sarah Palin didn't help his campaign much either. Well OK, let's be real -- he lost because he got fewer votes.

I've never been on the "Obama is a communist, Moslem, terrorist-fist-bumping Antichrist" bandwagon that the false prophets are driving anymore than I believed Palin to be the inexperienced, backwater, religious wingnut (update: clueless hillbilly) that the left-leaning media did a pretty good job of portraying her to be. I'm not saying Obama should be immortalized on Mount Rushmore just yet, but I certainly don't believe any of these doomsday prophecies about him.

For the last century or so, Christians have been sheepishly deluded into thinking that America is God's second chosen nation after Israel, as if we've mystically achieved some heavenly Most Favored Nation status. I am equally unconvinced that God doesn't have better things to do than worry about how many Christians prayed for candidate X, anymore than he cares about high school football game scores. The God I believe in isn't that petty. There is not one shred of scriptural evidence to suggest that Jesus even cared about politics (or the almighty dollar) almost 1,800 years before America was formed -- so it seems to me that if God really does care enough about American politics that He wants to use only Republican Presidents for good in the world, then things sure would be a whole lot different today. Or at least they should be.

Am I really supposed to believe the world is about to be cast into hopeless turmoil just because a black Democrat got elected as President? Should I start buying my own generators and stockpiling supplies to prepare for the impending Great(er) Depression? I'm sorry, I just can't bring myself to swallow that -- anymore than I swallowed all the failed Y2K doomsday prophets about 10 years ago. Republicans have screwed things up for years now, even when they had the White House and with or without a majority in Congress -- maybe the Democracts can do something. Let's just hope they don't screw things up more, or even worse, continue to do nothing.

As unprecedented numbers of people voted this week, surely millions of true believers cast their vote for Obama despite all the desperate, eleventh-hour "warnings from God." After weeks of sitting on the fence, and marking unknown local Republicans for office, last month I finally sent in my absentee ballot for McCain -- regardless of whether or not it was actually counted, doesn't that score me extra points with God?

More importantly, since I seem to be so prescient, maybe I should be elevating my own prophetic status. Just start sending me all your money now.

Under the heat

Today is the 25th anniversary of the Beirut barracks bombing.  In honor of the brave Marines, Soldiers, and Sailors whose lives were taken that day, I offer only the simple lyrics of one of my most favorite songs, "Under the Heat" by The 77s.  The song was written as a tribute, and released on their 1984 album, All Fall Down.  Its lyrics seem eerily prescient today.

Like a snap of the fingers
It was just that quick
The building had fallen
And shattered and
Melted under the heat
We found a buddy
Who was covered in blood
He kept trying to get up and look
Lay down, lay down, lay down marine
Under the heat
All our lives changing
Under the heat
"Take your cameras and
get out of here"
"Forget it" said the C.O.
"You're out of line,
you're angry, I'm angry,
they're angry,
just do the job."
Under the heat
We stopped to listen for voices
And then we'd dig with
Whatever we had
Listen and dig, listen and dig,
Listen and dig
Under the heat
All our lives changing
Under the heat
Reaching through this
Curtain of fear
My arms are stretched
Beyond the limit
I take the heat from
Streaming tears
To bear the cold and
Walk out in it
Walk out in it
My plans for the future
Are a frozen picture
That has fallen and
Shattered and melted
Under the heat
All our lives changing
Under the heat

--Papers fluttered in the gentle October breeze and a page from a pocket-sized Bible lay on the ground. It was open to the book of Psalms. The passage said, "For they do not talk of peace, but against the quiet ones of the land they plot treacharies..." From the San Fransisco Chronicle Monday, October 24, 1983

Dude, it's just a shirt

When I'm either cycling or teaching spin class, I wear typical cyclists' garb: stretchy biker pants, special shoes, and some sort of loud riding jersey so I can be seen on the road.  My favorite top is a replica of the jersey worn by the 1980 Soviet Union Olympic cycling team -- it is bright red, and emblazoned with the infamously yellow hammer, sickle, star, and "CCCP" on all sides.  As you might imagine, this shirt elicits the most comments -- especially here at Camp Arifjan, where it is not uncommon to see Brits, Poles, Estonians, or any number of other coalition troops mingling around with us.  I've even had chow-hall conversations with some Eastern Europeans who have told me they speak Russian better than they speak English, as they were forced to learn it growing up.

 

Early this morning as I was warming up for a long ride, reveille sounded and as always I dutifully stopped, dismounted my bike, faced the music, and saluted.  Moments later I passed a bus stop and was flagged down by a curious Staff Sergeant who asked me if I was from Russia.  I chuckled and said no, explaining that I bought the shirt online.  He sort of cocked his head to one side and said, "Isn't that Communist?"  I realized he was serious, but I was in no mood for an argument so I replied, "You're kidding me, right?  I suppose if that works for you then whatever.  It's just a replica of a 1980 Soviet cycling team jersey."  But this guy appeared honestly offended.

After a short, dumbfounded pause the Staff Sergeant replied:  "But that represents Communism."

Eager to get on to my workout, I said, "Look bud, I was a Russian linguist in 1989.  You can think whatever you want,"  and off I rode, while the aghast soldier remained on the curb.  

When I was in Russian language school, our teachers -- all native Russians -- prepared us for the final exams in reading, listening, and speaking.  One particular assigment I remember was an oral essay in which I discussed the issue of flag burning with Mrs. Rudikova, whom we affectinately called "Rude Dog."  Instead of taking the predictable kill-em-all stance, I told my teacher, in Russian, that there should be no laws against burning flags because flags are just cloth symbols and inherently, don't really mean anything.  Flag burners are little more than attention whores and if we just ignore them, they'll probably stop.  The look on her face was priceless -- and it was hard for me to keep a straight face.

Maybe the Staff Sergeant was confused because he saw a guy in a Soviet shirt saluting the American flag at reveille, or maybe he is just too young to really remember the 80's.  Maybe he never saw "Rocky IV," which everyone over 30 knows is the real reason Communism is dead.  (For last night's spin class, I played all 80's music, and one song was Survivor's "Burning Heart" from the movie.)  Perhaps the young NCO, like most Americans, is tragically too jingoistic to understand sarcasm or satire -- or that sometimes, a shirt is just a shirt.

He would have really been confused if I'd answered him in Russian.

Of headphones and men, part deux

Not too long ago, I wrote about an incredibly absurd rule at Fort Sill that allowed Soldiers in PT uniform to wear headphones in the gyms, but only if the Soldiers were actually exercising on a treadmill, elliptical machine, or other cardio equipment. Some Sergeant Major, with apparently nothing better to do, once actually chased me down in a gym and tried to "enforce" that rule on me, solely because I committed the egregious offense of walking to the weight room while listening to music. The rule has since been changed, thanks to my questioning of it to senior leadership.

Not to be outdone, however, one of our illustrious commanders here at Camp Arifjail has decided to crack down, as it were, on some serious offenders at our outdoor pool. There are apparently things going on here that are so appalling, so unconscionably heinous even, that two new rules are about to be put into effect, or else the terrorists will win, and the Earth will stop spinning on its axis (if you believe that sort of thing). The first new rule makes Spandex shorts (a.k.a. "jammers") inappropriate, effectively banning swimsuits from the pool for guys. The second one, still under consideration, outlaws waterproof headphones.

I am not making either of these up.

Until recently, the only real dress code for pool patrons was no thongs, no two-piece suits for women, and no Speedo-style suits for men. Too easy, right? Well, for some guy a couple of weekends ago, apparently not. He was wearing knee-length jammers, the kind many swimmers like me wear when working out. Skin-tight yet modest, they normally cover far more than the bottoms of women's one-piece suits. Normally, that is, except for one Mr. Upper Thigh Tan Guy, who apparently felt it necessary to not only wear his jammers while tanning on the pool deck, but to hike the legs up to get more of an even tan closer to his crotch.

I confess I don't know the whole story, but apparently someone complained, pool management got involved, and suddenly the Area Support Group (ASG)-Kuwait unit leadership was aghast that guys were even being allowed to wear Spandex at the pool to begin with. So they called for a review of the policy -- and this is where the story gets stupid. Any leader worth his or her salt would at least call the alleged criminal's commander, ensure he or she was banned from the pool for a week or so, then drive on to bigger and better things like fresh bananas in the chow hall or fixing the rampant A/C problems here. That would make sense.

Instead, the leadership of ASG-Kuwait has astutely deemed it necessary to ban Spandex swimming suits for guys. That's right, hundreds of grown men who already comply with the very simple rules are now being punished for the actions of a handful of idiots, because some of the people in leadership positions are too lazy to enforce said simple rules. So now we all have to cover up with loose shorts that, arguably, can be less modest -- but not the ladies and their one-piece suits. Women are still allowed to wear Spandex and show off all their bumpy parts, camel toes, and moose knuckles but if you're a guy, you're screwed. OK, so there aren't hundreds of guys wearing jammers, but this new rule will apply to people like me -- those of us who swim endless miles at the butt-crack of dawn, when hardly anyone else is there -- despite the fact that we're not the ones prancing around the pool deck with our ass cheeks hanging out.

So I also found out that ASG-Kuwait is even considering a ban on waterproof iPod/headphone use in the pool, for no reason whatsoever other than someone "might get shocked." All I can say about that is, "what the hell?" It's OK to use headphones on treadmills, and even on the outdoor tracks -- but they will no longer be allowed in the pool. The new rule will allow iPods on the pool deck, however. Maybe someone complained when I used mine during all those endless laps to win the 21-mile "English Channel" race last month.

Besides, using an iPod on a treadmill is dangerous! I once fell off a treadmill while trying to pick up my iPod, which had slipped out of its case as I started a run. It was quite a comical scene made for YouTube -- me stopping running, obviously forgetting I'm on the thing, trying to pick up the iPod, falling on my butt on the treadmill which is now at full running speed, then flinging off of it and onto the floor. It happened in full view of everyone in the room, but the only thing I hurt was a little of my pride. Good thing there were no video cameras around.

Now most of you are probably thinking that if a ban on jammers and waterproof headphones is all I have to complain about on a so-called deployment, then life here must be pretty good. And you'd be right. Well, besides the perpetually incorrect movie schedules at the theater, the utter lack of fresh produce or enough Nintendo Wii's at the PX, or the fact that I have to pay $35 a month for crappy wireless Internet service in my room.

But all that aside, it's pretty sad when so-called leaders have nothing better to do than worry about these things. They must have so much time on their hands that all they do is sit around their offices, dreaming up more senseless rules to enforce on their minions. Forcing these ridiculous, junior-high dress codes on mostly responsible adults -- most of whom wear uniforms every day anyway -- is just plain asinine, especially when those that are making up these arbitrary rules don't even bother coming to the pool.

I guess my high school Physics teacher was right: common sense ain't so common. Maybe I'll just have to be a blatant double-offender. But only in the mornings, at the butt-crack of dawn.

A hellacious ride

This weekend some of us completed a grueling, 100-km ride around Camp Arifjan in honor of the "Hotter 'n Hell Hundred," an annual race held each summer in Wichita Falls, Texas.

The story in the local paper is here:

http://www.timesrecordnews.com/news/2008/aug/23/bringin-heat-worldwide/

And pics from all three events we staged are here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/dapowellii/HH100

The race's organizers sent me dozens of shirts this year, so some friends and I decided to sign people up to earn them through either a two-hour spin class, or the bike ride. The first spin class was on Thursday night, Aug. 21, and the second one was this morning starting at 0530. I taught the first spin class -- both classes saw 40 participants each.

Saturday's ride started at 4 a.m. We had about 25 mountain bikers, who rode for about 15 miles, mostly on dirt and gravel roads around the camp's perimeter. Five intrepid road bikers braved the dry heat for four hours, all of us completing the 100-km (62 mile) ride with only a couple of incidents. The sun started breaking over the horizon just before 6 a.m., and before long the temperature started climbing. We took a break when the mountain bikers finished and handed out their shirts and water bottles. Before that, one of the road riders wiped out coming around a corner at about mile 26 -- but she toughed it out and finished the ride. Another person had a flat tire about at about 40 miles, but he had enough emergency supplies with him to fix it long enough to get to his room and replace the tire and tube, then he completed the ride. The temerature at the end was right at 100 degrees -- not quite hotter than hell, but close enough.

In all we had well over 100 people take part in the events, and a good time was had by all!

It is finished!

At 1145 a.m. Kuwait time today, I completed the last 30 laps of the 21-mile "English Channel" swim contest -- and won the event in my age category and overall, by a good few miles.

The entire swim took just five minutes shy of 12 hours. I surpassed my goal of six days, once agin surprising myself. My strategy was to swim the 756 total laps by doing 120 laps every morning, then as much as I could at night -- in the first three days, I swam 200 laps per day. This morning I swam 126, then went back at lunch to plow through the last 30. I should get some sort of medal and a t-shirt in a day or so; a pic or two will be posted later.

I certainly wasn't the fastest swimmer out there, maybe just the most determined. A twentysomething soldier in my unit was always out there too, having swam in college a lot more recently than I. Another older gentlemen started swimming in our lane the other day, and introduced himself only as Mark. When I protested that I didn't want him to get in the way, he told me to keep up. He doesn't swim much more than 60 laps a day, but boy is he fast! I can't keep up for more than a couple minutes. Turns out he's 50, and he's a one-star admiral who used to swim at Annapolis.

I guess sheer determination, lots of Red Bull and Power Bars, and my waterproof iPod case were what fueled my quest. Sometimes I didn't know where the energy came from, but I slugged it out. Oh, and I decided not to go for the 100 miles. Time to get back to a normal routine.

Killing time when I should be sleeping (or working)

It is once again time for me to start "swimming the English Channel" -- 21 miles in a pool with 23-yard lanes. This year, the contest spans 43 days, from 6 August through 17 September. Since I've been back in Kuwait, I've been training for this at an average of about 10 miles per week.

Last year, I did this after a nearly 20-year hiatus from any type of swimming at all (besides coaching the kids' team in Korea). I surprised myself by finishing in 12 days, winning the 30-39 male category (despite some 30-year-old guy who swam his way through college, started the contest late, and finished with over 110 miles). This year, I plan on sprinting through the initial swim in at most the first 6 days, swimming only in the early morning or at night. I have every day in the contest mapped out as to how many laps I'll swim; when it's over, I will have completed over 100 miles. Time will tell how those plans go!

Additionally, some friends and I are planning on a long bicycle ride in honor of the "Hotter 'n Hell Hundred," a race in Wichita Falls, Texas, on 23 August. The race organizers sent me about 100 t-shirts last November, which I handed out. This year, they want to know if we're going to ride. Some of you know I have my road bicycle here now, and have ridden around Camp Arifjan a few times in the early morning hours. I only know of three others who also have road bicycles, and they're game for the long ride. We'll probably only do 100 kilometers, about 4 hours of riding.

So by the middle of next month, I will have completed over 100 miles swimming and over 100 miles biking.

I still hate running.

A word on leadership

I had an epiphany recently. I realized that rank can sometimes have the same effect as overindulgence in alcohol: it tends to amplify a person's most dominant qualities. A sober jerk becomes a complete moron when drunk; happy people tend to make jovial drinkers. The same can be said of one who has rank, particularly in the military. Good leaders tend to improve with rank and position, while bad leaders tend to get worse.

Case in point: my first supervisor at my last unit was a complete moron who fortunately got fired before he got anyone killed. I don't say that about many people, but the poor man was too dumb to realize he was stupid. One time, when I was in Atlanta preparing for my first trip to Kuwait (where he was), I sent him an email asking what I should do there to prepare for my job here. His reply was, "We'll talk about it when you get here." I was too dumbfounded to even ask, "Huh?" Unfortunately, the higher I climb up the Army ladder, the more people like that I meet. Does stupid just gravitate to me?

At the other end of that spectrum lies a different superior officer, who also works in the same Cubicle Hell that I did -- and who is too smart for his own good. Thankfully, I did not work for him; God help me (or him) if I ever do. This man was in academia long enough to add a whole bunch of impressive-sounding letters to his name, but was away from the Army so long that he forgot how to be an effective leader. This pompous blowhard has an ego the size of Texas, and treats everyone around him -- including some of his peers -- like West Point cadets. He's always the smartest man in the room, and makes sure you know it within about five minutes. For months on end I would hear him loudly proclaim his utter disdain for the organization, especially to his cronies over the phone. He once had the audacity to tell one of his officers that he knew my job better than me, and that his officer should strive to not be like me -- but for all his disrespectful bloviating, he never had the intestinal fortitude to confront me personally. When confronted by someone junior, he usually hides behind his rank.

It was people like those two who made the organization what it was: not a genuine team, but a loose collection of individuals. While both of these men were polar opposites in intelligence and education, they both either forgot or else never learned some basic tenets of leadership. I've always said that effective leadership -- motivating others toward a common goal -- is simple. Treat people with respect, before you expect them to respect you, and they will do anything for you.

Apparently for some this concept is too complex, while for others it is not complex enough. And that is unfortunate for the officers and soldiers who have to endure such incompetence.

Grab your helmets, here comes a war story

Many of you have heard me tell this once or twice over the years, but it bears repeating. A couple of you were there as well.

On July 11, 1991, at approximately 1100 hours, a thundering explosion shook me out of bed. I was at what was then Camp Doha, Kuwait, with the Germany-based 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment's 511th Military Intellgence Company. Some 75 Russian and German linguists strong, we deployed as part of Operation Positive Force, *the* contingency plan just in case the recently-defeated Iraqi army decided to re-invade Kuwait. I still have no clue why the Army in its infinite wisdom sent 75 Russian and German linguists, so don't bother asking -- but I can tell you that I heard more Russian radio traffic here than I ever did in Germany (probably from some border dispute with Kazakhstan at the time).

Still asleep from the previous night's guard duty, I stumbled out of the building to witness dozens of my comrades running down the street, gazing at the explosion's fallout some 1,000 meters to our north. Popular theories at the moment as to the cause of the ruckus ranged from enemy mortars to a guarding M-1 Abrams tank shooting a wayward vehicle. Or maybe a fuel tank exploded in the heat? I decided it wasn't my problem so I visited the latrine, then blearily headed back for bed.

Then a second, much louder explosion ripped across the desert, shaking the warehouse buildings where we lived and shattering the small windows atop the 20-foot walls. The curious were now running back to the barracks, convinced something in the motor pool was on fire. I hastily threw on everything I could grab in 10 seconds: boots, pants, flak vest, dogtags and helmet were all I could muster before we all gathered on the leeward side of the building. The explosions were coming fast now, one right after the other, and I won't lie -- I was scared at first.

After a quick accounting of every Soldier, our company joined the rest of the Regiment in running for our lives. It's quite a sight to see thousands of Soldiers streaking, yelling, and jumping over the fence that separated our compound from the U.N.'s, which was normally off-limits because they allowed beer. I sprained an ankle upon landing; I heard one buddy proclaim "We'd better get our combat patches for this!" (We did, later.) Over the next 8 hours, we sat quietly as the explosions still rocked the base and eventually died down. All day long, medics were carrying in Soldiers on stretchers, seemingly by the dozen. Most of them were heat injuries -- when the explosions started, the temperature was already well above 100 degrees.

We found out that indeed a fire in a vehicle in the large motor pool on the north side of the camp had caused a massive cook-off of ammunition. All of our unit's vehicles were combat loaded, meaning they carried a full complement of live ammunition just in case -- and all the extra ammo was stored in nearby containers, exposed to the searing heat. The subsequent investigation revealed that a Field Artillery unit had just returned from field exercises, and an ammunition carrier had experienced an electrical fire that didn't get extinguished before it was parked next to all the other vehicles. A Major on the scene called over a fire truck, stuck the hose in the hatch of the burning vehicle, and told everyone to run to safety. The ensuing chaos flung debris and unexploded ordnance as much as three-quarters of a mile; I even saw a whole engine on the ground, a half-mile from the motor pool.

My newly-pregnant wife and toddler son were in Fulda, Germany with the rest of the spouses. The initial radio reports they heard -- from none other than Paul Harvey -- were that at least 50 Soldiers had died as a result of the explosions which did rattle windows in downtown Kuwait City, some 10 miles across the bay. In truth, there were some serious injuries but no deaths until two weeks later, during the clean-up of the unexploded munitions, when three Soldiers were killed instantly after a tank round exploded without warning.

A couple of weeks after the incident, we had a previously-scheduled visit from Gen. H. Norman Schwarzkopf. We all stood in formation and watched as his helicopter circled the disaster site, then landed. The General awarded some medals for near-heroic acts during the incident, gave a thankfully short, hooh-ah speech in which he erroneously called us the "Blackhawk Regiment," then left. (The 11th ACR is the Blackhorse Regiment.) I found out later that "Stormin' Norman" ripped our Regimental commander a new one all the way there and all the way back. (Historically, some of his ass-chewings were legendary.) We returned to Germany in September after only three months deployed, and got a new commander the following March. The old commander, Col. A.J. Bacevich, was the only commander of that unit to not get promoted to Brigadier General. Another Colonel told me years later that Bacevich took full responsibility for the incident, even the faulty ammunition storage. The new commander was Col. William S. Wallace, now a full General.

The 11th ACR was my first unit in the Army, after nearly two years of Russian linguist/interceptor training. I've since run into many others who were there that day, and they have their own stories. One guy in my unit even had the presence of mind to take pictures of the explosions, and sold copies of the best ones (like this one to the right). One of those, which is buried in an album at home somewhere, even showed a guy sprinting from the showers in nothing but a towel and flipflops. I even later saw pics of the site taken from the air; it looked like a nuke had gone off in the center. The Army still considers that day the worst accident ever, and I'm told someone here in Kuwait actually has a safety video describing it.

[Interesting facts for you numerologists...

• Date: 7/11/1991
• 1991/11=181
• time: 11 a.m.
• Unit: 11th ACR
• Temperature: 110 F
• Hijri (Islamic) calendar year: 1411

...Coincidence?]

The German philosopher Nietzsche said, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." I guess I'm a better man for having lived to tell the tale.

My Presidential campaign kicks off

Here.

Some Independence Day weekend thoughts

I am reading an ongoing discussion today on Fark.com, my favorite time-wasting website, about Pettty Officer Michael A. Monsoor (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,376243,00.html) -- the Navy SEAL who in April was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his actions in Iraq in September 2006. In short, he chose to save the lives of his comrades by diving on a live grenade during a firefight -- when he could have jumped out of the way, likely meaning others would have died. This hero was buried in San Diego, and President Bush attended the ceremony.

In the Fark discussion, as in many of them I read, there were several trolls who were out to denounce the war, vent their opinions about Bush, or otherwise denigrate the SEAL's honor with their tripe. Most others came to the defense, telling the detractors to take their rhetoric elsewhere. One particular person, however, got my goat by bringing up 1st Lt. Ehren Watada, the Field Artillery officer who, in 2006, refused to deploy with his unit, the 2nd Infantry Division (of which I am a proud alumnus). This was part of my reply on the discussion thread [the abbreviations and apparent misspellings are particular to the site]:

"Watada is a first-class coward who deserves a blanket party, but instead walks off scot-free. He joined well after the initial Iraq invasion, -- and in the Field Artillery at that. If he truly thought it was an unjust war, he should not ever have joined in the first place. But oh, he saw the light after he started reading a little, eh? Sorry pal, too late now!

"The rest of us Soldiers might not all agree with what is going on in this part of the world (I'm in Kuwait), but we do what we do out of a sense of duty not only to our country, but to the men and women next to us.

"That farking moran Watada is a disgrace to the uniform. Any idiot who signs up knows that once you're in, you're at the complete disposal of Uncle Sam. That inlcudes giving up some of the Constitutional rights we serve to protect. You don't get to pick which wars you go fight, you just go -- and in the position he was in, he should have gone if but for the sake of the men under his command, to at least ensure everyone made it home alive. He could easily have vented his frustrations on a blog. Instead, he chickened out because he thinks we had no right to be in Iraq.

"Monsoor's selfless sacrifice stands in stark contrast to Watada's bad need of a good biatch-slapping. And your pathetic attempt at trolling in this thread is misplaced at best. If you really think that idiot is a hero, then I challenge you to sign up today. Otherwise, STFU and GBTW."

//Rant over.

More reminiscence

(Note -- after a four-month blogging hiatus, I am back...this time, blogging at work.)

June 23, 1989: A trepidatious, 20-year-old man left his home in Tampa, Florida, bound for the U.S. Army's Basic Combat Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Not having any idea what to expect, I endured the next eight weeks of training and conditioning and emerged a Soldier, ready to take on the myriad challenges the Army would throw at me. I even kept a journal of my experiences, which I'll someday type out and post here.

The only two people who saw me off at the airport that day were my mother, and the love of my life -- who was, at the time, three months pregnant with our firstborn. Two hellacious weeks of boot camp convinced me to do the right thing and marry the girl; I had finally worked up the nerve to ask her with 50 of my comrades in line behind me at the payphone booth, all yelling because I had taken up more than my allotted 10 minutes. For this particular weekly call, the haranguing was worth it. She of course said yes, and the rest is history.

Almost 19 years later, our son graduated from high school. My post-Basic training prevented me from being present for his entry into the world -- in fact, he was two weeks old at our wedding. This time, I would not miss his graduation for anything. After two days of waiting for a flight out of Kuwait in early May, I hitched a ride with a Reserve unit that left Iraq to finish their demobilization process at Fort Hood. I still had to rent a car and drive for 5 hours to Lawton, but at least I still made it home on Mother's Day.

On Father's Day, I returned to Kuwait for a second, consecutive year. Most people who know I have done this think I am crazy, and they're half right: I always tell them I love the searing heat and blowing sand that much. My closest friends know the consternation we went through, even coming agonizingly close to submitting my retirement paperwork when it looked like the assignment wouldn't come through (it took a General and four Colonels to make it happen). Our original plan was to move to Atlanta this summer, and look for my retirement job. But in the end, I decided to stay in for a while longer -- in one of our discussions, Lori told me whe wasn't ready for me to get out of the Army yet. She said she wanted to be married to a Lieutenant Colonel, to which I replied, "Ya got anyone else in mind?" It was not an easy decision, but it is one that my family and I are at total peace with.

When all is said and done, I will have been away from Lori and the kids for some 28 continuous months, minus all the leaves; 25 of those months will have been spent here in Kuwait. The benefits boil down to three things: (1) stability -- they stay where they are, and son #2 graduates from the same high school as his brother; (2) predictability -- returning to Fort Sill next year, I know with relative certainty where I'll be for the next three years; and (3) I am not with the last unit I was here with.

The old saying goes there are two best units in the Army: the one you just left, and the one you're going to. In my case, the one I just left is by far the worst I have ever experienced. Case in point: last week, I finally received my performance evaluation, and though the write-up was excellent, my pinheaded boss took one last chance to rake me over the coals -- six weeks after I left the unit.

My new job is night-and-day different from the last. I am a Battalion Executive Officer (or XO) , meaning I'm the Number 2 guy and I'm in charge of all the logistics and personnel adminstration for over 700 people. I have my own private office (as opposed to the cubicle Hell I had to endure before), a boss that gives me full rein, a staff that works for me, and my own room which is practically the Hilton compared to what I was in the previous 14 months. I can endure the heat and blowing sand (which was especially brutal last week) for another year, and if I thought for a second my marriage couldn't handle it, I wouldn't have volunteered. Lori and I have gotten pretty good at this long-distance relationship thing, and saying goodbye again last Saturday was tough -- especially to my precious little daughter. But as she reminded me last night on the phone, only 11 months and three weeks left until I come home for good!

(No more Saturday night spin-class teaching this time, though; I decided it would be better for me to focus my energies on the new job for now.)

Venturing into the unknown all those years ago was the best step in my life I ever took -- for me and for my family. Far more intrepid now, I'm more than ready to face the challenges of this next year, but this time I know what I'm getting into.


My three weeks at home were quite restful, and our vacation in Atlanta (while I outprocessed Fort McPherson) was fun. Pics will be posted at the link on the right.

Saturday Night Fever

Many of you know that since I've returned to Kuwait, I have become a fitness instructor. Spin class (see http://www.spinning.com/) has been a great source of exercise for me three nights a week since April last year, and in November I was asked to lead the Saturday evening class.

For the uninitiated, spinning in and of itself sounds dull, maybe even a little effeminate. I was once in that camp, until I tried it -- then I got instantly hooked. It's an hour (or so) of intense cardio exercise, using the tension knob on the cycle machines to simulate sprints or hills, coupled with standing and sitting for various degrees of difficulty.

As with most instructor-led cardio classes, music is of utmost importance. Some use typical aerobics-caliber songs, while others pick what they like. Our main instructor here uses a lot of R&B, soul, and rap -- baby-makin' music, or as one fellow spinner puts it, "makin' love by the fire music." I prefer straight-up, fast-beat rock, and am always looking for new and obscure stuff. For my playlists, I pick stuff that I like and let the music kind of lead me.

For instance, one playlist I use has nothing but 80's remakes. Some of the songs are remixes (honest-to-goodness remakes are hard to come by, even on iTunes), but there is some pretty good stuff out there. I included "I Love Rock n' Roll" by Britney Spears, "It's My Life" by No Doubt, and "Holy Diver" by Killswitch Engage -- that one was given to me by my older son, so you can figure out how hard it is. This week's list is all genuine 80's songs, and I'm working on one playlist using nothing but Foo Fighters songs.

My personal training invovles running before and after spin class. I'm up to a total of 5.25 miles in less than 40 mintues. I usually run only on the treadmill, to save my knees, and I do 2 miles fast before spinning, then the rest after.

I've found that I get a huge rush out of leading the classes. It kind of reminds me of when I used to be a commander and I could lead the company on 4-mile runs on Fridays, setting the pace up front with my guidon-bearer right behind me. My first sergeant used to make me slow down for the weaker runners, but every once in a while I'd take off and see how I could challenge the stronger ones. Leading spin class, I set the pace -- but I don't have to slow down.

Another one of those days you never forget

11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, Fulda, Germany -- almost exactly 15 years ago, when I was but a young pup in this man's Army, I sat outside the office of my Regimental Commander, Colonel William Wallace. I was about to meet with destiny; I was asking Col. Wallace for a letter of recommendation for the Army's Officer Candidate School.

I was nervous, and my Captain didn't help much. He was a helicopter pilot (UH-60's), and had been enlisted and a warrant officer before going to OCS himself. As we were waiting to see the Colonel, I asked him which was worse -- Basic Training, Warrant Officer Candidate School, or OCS? He said OCS was far worse, because boot camp and WOCS had rules, things the drill instructors couldn't do to you; OCS didn't have those kind of rules. He didn't elaborate, but it sure made me wonder why I wanted to become an officer.

The interview, what I remember of it, was short. Col. Wallace already knew me from the chapel service Lori and I attended, and I had once briefed him on the Electronic Warfare system I operated. What I remember most about that day was my euphoria as I floated across Downs Barracks with a signed recommendation letter in my hand.

I was elated because for the first time in my short career, someone recognized potential in me as a soldier. Up to that point in my life, it was my greatest professional accomplishment. I attended and completed OCS some four years later, and the rest is history.

Today, I ate breakfast with now General William Wallace (that's 4 stars). I've known for several days he was coming, made sure I knew his itinerary, and cleared my surprise visit with my boss. (They don't let just anybody show up to talk to Generals, you know.) He shook my hand before we sat down, then the Colonels all entertained him with diatribes about our world of Information Technology. I thought I saw some flashes of recognition in his eyes -- so I patiently waited to get a word in edgewise, and when he got up to go out, I finally introduced myself as someone who worked for him in Fulda.

He put his arm around my shoulder and told me he thought he recognized me, then asked a few genuine questions about what I do now. When I reminded him that he gave me the letter, he smiled and said, "I did? How'd that work out for ya?" (I was in uniform!) With his entourage in tow we strolled outside the chow hall and chatted about Fulda for a minute, then he was off to his next briefing. As I saluted, I told him it was good to see him again.

Last night, I related to Lori how during my one-year tour to Korea in 2001, my Brigade chaplain was the same man who was my Squadron chaplain all those years ago in Germany. One day at Camp Hovey, I was getting on a shuttle bus and there sat Chaplain Ahl and his wife, who had come to visit him. She immediately recognized me, and even remembered Lori and the boys -- even though we had had no contact for 9 years.

It's good to know that people remember.

Back in the Saddle

Now that I'm back into a manageable routine in Kuwait, my blog will be here from now on...can't really stand MySpace anymore, and I can access this page at work. [grin]

I haven't posted anything in quite a while...I've been busy, OK?

First, I had a wonderful vacation at home with Lori and the kids. 20 days went by way too quickly, of course, but I did get to spend a lot of quality time with them, see a few friends, and accomplish most of my honey-do list.

After returning to Kuwait in early January, I was sent to Qatar for a few days, then Bahrain for a week. Both trips were fabulous, and now I can say I've been there, done that, got the T-shirts (no, really). I won't go into too many details, but I will say that while Qatar imposes a 3-drink limit, Bahrain does not. We stayed in a 5-star hotel in Bahrain, ate like kings, and I celebrated my birthday there.

Speaking of saddles, January also brought my debut as the Saturday night cycling class instructor at Camp Arifjan. More on that later, but I must take the time here to complain that our pool is now closed for renovations, so my triathlon training is somewhat curtailed for the next several weeks. I was so mad that on Sunday, the last day the pool was open, I went and swam 4600 yards. That'll show 'em!

Lori and the kids are fine at home. Christian is preparing to swim in the Oklahoma State championships next weekend, in the 100-fly, 100-back, and 4 x 100 free relay. He's ranked in the top 10 in the 100-fly, so we're excited for him! He recently won all three events at the Conference chamionships as well. Dallas is getting ready for high school graduation, and our little Abbi is playing basketball.

I posted some recent pics under the "some cool pics" section to the right, and will get more on there soon.