In Kuwait

Just wanted to shoot off a quick message. We are now at Camp Udairi, Kuwait by way of Shannon, Ireland and Sicily. We will be here for about two more weeks before we head up to our area of operation in Iraq. Most the battalion will be flying up, but my platoon will be part of the convoy that drives up. Yay.

For now I have internet access. Not sure what it will be like once we get to our AO in Iraq. As I imagined, we're being put in the middle of nowhere. At least we have what seems will be a pretty good mission.

So far the weather here is awesome. I'd say it was in the high 70's today.

You should hear from me again soon. Thank you for supporting me, I really appreciate it.

Wazina

It's an unusual concoction of emotions I'm feeling tonight on the eve of what will be the longest flight of my life. I keep thinking I should be dreading my departure, but I feel oddly eager to get there. On a basic and immediate level I'm fairly nervous, but I also feel an inexplicable excitement and undeniable optimism about the future. It's hard for me to admit that most of what I feel is positive for fear that I'll later regret my naiveté. More than ever I find my unremarkable life to be sublimely precious. And it's also hard for me to admit that the rest of what I feel is a sense of incredulity at how colossally absurd it is what I'm about to do. There are people who are going to try to kill me and I'm going to try to kill them. (Don't these assholes know that all this killing stuff is dangerous? Someone could get hurt for chrissakes!) But fighting is something so basic to humanity that ruing it is just plain futile. Duality is intrinsic to mortality, so as motivated as we are to preserve life, we still succumb to the lust and necessity to destroy life. To transcend this cycle would mean to transcend our own mortality-- not a trivial feat. I don't assume to know so much as even the first step in this process. But I suspect a good start would be a simple sense of compassion and determination.

My heart is full and my weapon is clean.


Foster and polish
The warrior spirit
While serving in the world;
Illuminate the Path
According to your inner light

THE ART OF PEACE, Morihei Ueshiba



I would like you to meet Wazina.

This Is Not An Exit

I'm sitting at a war-torn 50's era desk in a small dirty room of a stuffy garage-like building that acts as our company's supply building, arms room and CQ office. I've been in the Army for so long now I've forgotten what CQ stands for, but I know that it means I have to answer the phone if it rings. The standard answer goes something like this: "Charlie company, first of the hundred-and-twenty-third Infantry, this is Sergeant Smith speaking, this line is not secure, how may I help you sir or ma'am?" When I want to savor the absurdity of this verbose announcement, I clearly enunciate it in its entirety. If I'm feeling lucky, I truncate it a bit. But in most cases what guys do it just smear the phrase into one inarticulate ogrish exhalation, something like what Mormon kids do at the end of every prayer: "INTHENAMEOFJESUSCHRISTAMEN".

The bare concrete floor is covered in a nearly-even dusting of sand which is incredibly annoying because no matter where you plant your feet while sitting, you have no traction. This in turn means you have to re-adjust your feet more often to try and find a comfortable position, but this also means that you have to feel the skin-crawling grind of sand between foot and floor. I swept the area under desk, but then because of the still air of the unventilated office, I had to sit suspended in a cloud of dust that only Pigpen could have appreciated. This is what you get for trying to eke incremental gains in comfort out of the Army-- different discomforts.

Sitting next to me is José, a mortars sergeant that I've known for a few years from my original company in the city. He's watching Carlito's Way on DVD on a laptop. He turns to me and says excitedly, "Look, look! See? That's me and my baby!" He has the movie paused and points out a man in the near-background of a nightclub that looks like a younger version of himself wearing a spic-tacular brown polyester suit wiggling to the club's music with an attractive Latina woman. I've known for years that he was in a scene in Carlito's Way, but this is the first time that I've actually seen it. He and his wife appear a few more times throughout the scene which he proudly points out to me. It's almost as if he bought the DVD just to pore through this part of it. I guess if I were in a film standing right next to Pacino, I'd review it a few times too.

The funny thing about José admiring himself in the movie is it seems to have been a real highlight of his life, something he says he loves showing his kids. But it's the timing of this self-validation that I find interesting. It's almost as if this is the most meaningful record of himself, something that makes permanent a more perfect version of who he is-- younger, thinner and better dressed and all on celluloid (or in this case DVD).

And he's not the only soldier that seeks a sense of permanence. Every soldier that had a "girlfriend" before this deployment had a "fiancé" once it started. Over the few breaks we've had, more guys have clandestinely gotten married than I can count. The same can be said for guys that made conscious and concerted efforts to impregnate their wives while on leave. There have also been a whole slew of deployment tattoos, most involving religion (a rosary, a crucifix) and loved ones (wives' and children's names). Myself, I'm as fixated on releasing myself from attachments as some guys are with establishing them. But this half bullshit. I've worked very hard over the last several years to strip my life down to a state of minimal attachments, but my inner-drive to create my own legacy is manifest in this journal, so I can't self-righteously pretend that there are not things to which I cling. I believe that the only genuine stories are the ones that never get told. When someone records history, you get their view infused with their motivations and insecurities and their myopic observations of events. Not only am I no different than any other historian quack, but I'm the worst there is. I'm obsessed with trying to recount events as accurately and honestly as possible, but in practice the only thing I'm really any good at is telling you how I feel.

In a few days we leave for Kuwait. From what I hear, the logistical mosh pit that is Kuwait has hit epic levels not seen since World War Two. The fear of going to a place where there are people who actually want to hurt me is something I've never felt before. And I can't seem to overcome the feeling that there is something more I need to bring that I haven't gotten yet. Gearheads like Chris really go bananas at times trying to decide these things, like which optic to purchase for their rifles-- the ACOG or the Aimpoint??! I left my room in my apartment basically clean but not organized in any way to make the lives of those easier who would have to clear my room out should I be killed. I am a rabid record-keeper. Every email, every instant message conversation, every digital photograph I have kept. I'm too lazy to actually keep a journal, so I keep a real journal-- my actual conversations, or at least the ones that can digitally be captured short of me wearing a microphone twenty-four hours a day. My maternal grandfather was in the Navy for twenty-three years retiring as a lieutenant commander. He helped raise me for the first four years of my life and was my first (Jungian?) male role-model. He's dead now (I took by force the flag that was draped over his coffin) and I wish I could have known him better. Maybe someday there will be a grandchild wishing they knew more about me. So I leave every inanity I can find a way to save for future generations to sift through. So much for no attachments. Oh, and by the way, the two hard drives with all this priceless and worthless data are in static-free bags in a huge Rubbermaid container full of electronic equipment under the spare bed in my bedroom in New Paltz.

I feel like so much is left undone. There are friends I didn't see before I left, there are bills I still need to pay. I haven't written much about JRTC at Louisiana and there are countless other things I've said that I wish I could correct, but this is a process that would never end. When my grandmother died she left a library full of books she never finished reading. This is how I feel now. I don't even know how to end this entry.

But I guess that's the Tao of it all. Learning how to leave things undone and still be at peace with it. Nothing every really gets finished anyway, nothing every really ends, so why this need to create an end state? Maybe this explains humankind's apparent need to destroy itself.


"There will be no resolution." -last line from SMILLA'S SENSE OF SNOW by Peter Høeg

"This is not an exit." -last line from AMERICAN PSYCHO by Bret Easton Ellis

Ray and the Coin

Hi.

As you know, I've been asked to end my days as a blogger. But the Warrior Ethos states that I should never give up. So now we have to do things a little more on the down-low. Our mailing list is small and this makes things fairly intimate. I consider you a friend. If you are reading this it's because you wrote me a personal email asking that I keep you in the loop on infantry and deployment hijinks. I sincerely appreciate you taking the time to do this. So let me ask a few small things: If I ever start to offend, please ask to be taken off the list, I won't hold it against you. Also, if you are in my unit or even remotely related to my chain of command, please tell me now. My writings are SPECIFICALLY not meant for you. Please don't forward this to anyone that you think may take offense or be insulted. If attention is brought to my writings again, things could be bad. Until the Army starts regulating more strictly how soldiers are allowed to communicate with the outside world, we get to have things like blogs and emailing lists. Please help me keep this going by helping me keep it between us and others like us.

I love America more than I can describe. I love the Army and the invaluable opportunity it's given me to give back to a country that I love with all my heart. And as much as I love the Army, I love to exalt it by sharing with you exactly how ridiculous it really is. If you can grok what I'm saying, you are amongst friends. Thanks.

-Jason

Now a quick little story?

--------------------------------

There's a tradition in the military with coins. When you are in the right place at the right time, someone with rank may give you a special coin-- usually engraved with a unit and rank or place-- if you've done something that merits a pat on the back. Sometimes entire units are given coins for certain accomplishments, like completing a rotation at the National Training Center in California. In general, receiving a coin is a prestigious thing. How many coins you have and where you got them gives you certain bragging rights. If you are out drinking and someone drops a coin on the bar, you are expected to drop one of your own coins in an attempt to trump it. The guy with the least prestigious coin (or no coin at all) is expected to buy that round. There is no official standard for the hierarchy of coins, but if you have a coin that a two-star general gave you while you were in Bosnia, you can rest assured that the guy with the coin his unit received for attending JRTC at Fort Polk is going to be the one buying the drinks. If both you and the other guy have coins from Sergeants Major, the coin that came from the 82nd Airborne Division will trump the one from the Three-Hundred-and-whatever-th Finance Brigade in Toledo, Ohio.

Some guys take the whole coin thing very seriously. I knew a soldier in my old unit in Utah that used to carry around a small coin purse that held his collection for the sake that if anyone should ever drop a coin on him, he'd be prepared to trump it or at least try to impress them with the number of coins he had been awarded. There are also guys that do not take the coin thing too seriously. Ray is one of these guys.

On the last day of our rotation at the Joint Readiness Training Center (JRTC) at Fort Polk, Louisiana, our forward operation base (FOB) was crawling with brass. Generals, colonels, sergeants major, and the like were all visiting to see how the newest batch of soldier set for Iraq were faring. These guys usually make the rounds to all the command tents and shake hands. Our snipers are a part of our headquarters section, so it's no surprise that the Adjutant General of the state of New York (the guy in charge of the New York National Guard) should meet Chris and Ray on that day. Chris and Ray were in their ghillie suits looking like a couple of cold-blooded killers when the AG came around, so not surprisingly he decided to give them coins.

Ray is a no-nonsense kind of guy. He's not a big fan of accolades being given for nothing, so he tends to see coins being given for something as pedestrian as running into a general while wearing a ghillie suit kinda lame. Ray took the coin, undoubtedly with no expression, but he had been waiting for this moment for quite some time. After accepting the coin, he told the general, "Sir, I have something for you now", at which point he dropped his rucksack on the ground and started rummaging through it. Knowing that Ray is prone to certain eccentricities, Chris really started to sweat not knowing what stunt Ray was most likely about to pull.

After a short search of his ruck, Ray plucks from it a coin of his own with the rank of Specialist engraved on it that he bought at the PX for four bucks. (Many coins are very elaborate and somewhat pricey to produce, unlike this trinket.) He hands it to the general and says, "From all the high-speed Specialists in our unit I'd like to give you this coin. We think you're doing a really good job sir. Keep up the good work."

For years Ray has wanted to give a general a coin like this. He figured if generals were going to walk around giving out stupid coins to Joe, Joe was going to walk around giving out stupid coins to generals. And he finally got his chance. Flawlessly executed, perfectly hilarious. But here's where this little joke went sideways. The Adjutant General took the coin, thanked Ray, then started to get teary-eyed and emotional. Feeling bad now that he had mistaken jocular ribbing for sincerity, Ray played along and kept a straight face. The general said a few more things that Ray was too petrified to process or remember, then he was gone with his Sergeant Major companion in tow, like generals do.

So now it's a few weeks later, we're out of the temperate climate of the Louisiana winter and we're standing in formation at our deployment ceremony on the basketball court at the gym at freezing-ass Fort Drum. The ceremony is plodding along as is to be expected: a low-cost master of ceremonies bungling people's names, politicians giving listless speeches, female soldiers passing out in the formation because they forgot to not lock their knees. Then the final speaker gives his words: the Adjutant General. And what story does he recount? The Specialist Who Gave Him A Coin. By this point everyone had already heard it, so to hear it from the general himself was priceless. We could barely contain ourselves. I have to assume he was kidding. So thank you, sir, for making my deployment ceremony completely worthwhile. Your sense of humor is obviously so wickedly sharp for you to retaliate a soldier's feigned sincerity by making it the key note of our deployment ceremony. Thank you, General.

Dear readers:

This blog will be going offline. I have been informed that I have violated operational security and additionally that I am smearing my unit and the Army. I, of course, strenuously disagree.

I am taking the blog offline at the request of my Company Commander. I do so under protest and I do it as a favor to my Platoon Sergeant and First Sergeant.

If you want to read the archives, you have only a few hours to do it.

I will continue to write, but I will no longer be be posting it here publicly. I will be emailing my writings to my friends and family. If you would like to continue to read the ramblings of just another soldier, send me your email address and I'll add you to the mailing list.

You can reach me at jason@recognizant.com

Illegitimi non carborundum

A couple nights ago me and some of the guys went out. I didn't write anything that night because I was out getting hammered. I didn't write the next day because I was terribly hung-over. Now here's the thing: we got into a little trouble at the last bar we were at. There was a small fight in the parking lot between some soldiers and we were all out after curfew. I didn't realize I was even at that bar until someone told me the next morning that we were there. I barely remember the third bar we went to. Anyways, the point is there was a scuffle and mom and dad found out about it. All I really remember was this guy taking off his shirt to fight. Keep in mind that it's like minus one-hundred-and-wicked degrees up here. Now it's this whole big thing. Today I was questioned by the battalion executive officer regarding the incident. There is now an "investigation" ongoing. What the hell they are investigating is a mystery to me. There's nothing to investigate. A bunch of guys were out after curfew (just like they have been every night for the past four months), we got drunk, we got in a fight. Better question: of all the things that a battalion XO could be spending his time doing a month before going into combat, why is he investigating a fucking curfew violation? So now as part of my punishment I have to guard ammo on some range for twenty-four hours starting at 8am tomorrow with my fellow curfew-breakers (except the guy that started the fight-- he was out at the mall tonight while the rest of us were on lock-down), but here's where it gets really fucked up: Word is us rule-breakers are going to lose some or all of the time off we have before going overseas. We are supposed to have the 7th thru the 9th off, and again for four days on Valentines Day weekend. Our deployment ceremony is on the 7th. Plane tickets and hotel rooms have already been paid for by my father and sister so they can come up for the shitbird deployment ceremony (to be held in the most run-down gymnasium on post). I haven't seen my father (the New York one) since my deployment began four months ago and this is the last chance I'll have to see him. If I can't spend the night of the 7th with them, there is no point for them to come up for only the ceremony as it will most certainly be fucking retarded-- we'll stand around while every local politician wishes us well. Hey local politicians, you want to do something for me? Keep your remarks short at the ceremony. We don't know you and the longer you talk the longer we have to stand at attention. If I don't get to see my family, I'll live, it's not that big of a deal. However, my family may feel differently. They may really want to see me before I go into combat. If I get blown the fuck up, what do I care? I'll be dead. But if I do get transformed into a fine pink mist because I was on point for an IED patrol as punishment for not clearing my weapon properly before entering a military building, it may draw the ire of my family that they didn't get to see me that last time because I was being punished for breaking my 11pm curfew. I'm a thirty year old infantryman that will soon be given the ultimate authority of killing anyone that I adjudicate to be a threat, but until them I have the same curfew I did when I was in junior high school. I realize that this kind of argument is really unoriginal and too easy to use (such as the younger soldiers complaining that they can kill and die for their country or any country we decide to care about, but they can't legally drink), but the thing that really scares me-- and I'm being serious here-- is my command makes this big of a deal about me and a few guys being out after curfew, what's gonna happen when we actually start getting into shit? Am I going to be interrogated everytime I pull the trigger? Am I going to be investigated everytime I look at someone sideways? Here's the thing: My commander is a prosecutor in real life. The guy is a pitbull. He is competent, solid and ferocious. He loves Hemmingway and Melville. His vocabulary exceeds mine. I love him as my commander. Right now I feel that if he wanted to make a big deal about this, we'd be fucked. This guy prosecutes organized crime in New York City for a living. When I truthfully say that I don't remember shit because I was completely blotto that night, I really mean I don't remember shit. But this isn't necessarily to my advantage. If my commander decided to get involved, he could place me at the scene of the crime wearing a white hood like my other two-dozen Klansmen with my boot on the throat of some mentally retarded nun, clubbing a baby seal with one hand and igniting a cross with the other.

I'm sorry. I'm really agitated right now about this whole stupid mess. I truly have better things to write about. Like how much ass we kicked at JRTC at Fort Polk in Louisiana. Or like how I got my first injury ever in the Army in twelve years (second degree sprained ankle). Lesson learned: just because you can jump across a ravine, doesn't mean your ankle is not going to give out from the body armor and all the gear you wear when you land on swampy soft ground. Or like how we got issued M4's finally. Or like how we recently found out that we are going to be part of the main effort for the 1st ID where 90% of our missions will be combat missions in the Sunni Triangle (translation: we will being seeing a lot of action). Or like how Tim Smith and his coworkers at Maxis Software/Electronic Arts in Walnut Creek, California hooked me and my guys up with some GameBoys and a ton of games (including for the PC and PS2). This is truly cool. There are care packages (brownies, stamps, toilet paper) and there are Care Packages (a couple thousand dollars worth of video games). Tim, you are now in our cool book. Matter of fact, here's the start of the list:

The Cool Book
Tim Smith
Suzanne Sargentini
Brooke Cahalane
Griff McClellan
Debbie Carlin
Jake Simpson
John Cook
Steve Schmitt
Joe Byrne
Rob Ivey
Virginia McArthur
Lisa Dennis
Thomas Vu
Kevin Byall
Tamra Kaccern
Johnson Lee
Calvin Tsai
(all above are those that donated from Maxis/EA)

Also in The Cool Book: all those that donated to the paypal account (j_paypal @ recognizant.com):

my uncle Chris in California. I still can't thank you enough, Chris.
DGC in Florida. Serious props to you.
JB
MR of PA
GR of CA
DF of NY
MS
AL
FB of Switzerland
DB of WA

At some point I'll actually get to the part where I cover what we did in Loozee-anna. I'm just pissed that I missed half of it because of my stupid ankle. I did however take part in the assault that got us an enormous enemy weapons cache and the squad leader I was attached to at the time (Jeff) the "Hero of the Rotation" award. This is twice now that I've found myself working with this guy where I've had a blast (no pun intended) (see last door-demolishing sniper-killing entry).


After twisting my ankle, I had to man the radio in our tactical operations center (TOC). Being that I was now working with the command structure, I thought I'd try out my Patton look.


Socky is really into Medal of Honor for the GameBoy Advance. Socky says thanks, Tim!