11 Days - is this trip ever going to end?

Well, once again, under the cover of night we boarded a plane.  On this plane however, there was no in-flight movie or beverage service to be found.  We did luck out and end up in a C-17.  C-17s are mostly cargo planes but they have real airline seats.  Everyone had at least two seats per person.  I picked a row, settled with all my stuff and turned on my iPod.  The flight wasn’t very long and before I knew it, we were landing at StinkySmells Air Field.  Why did I pick that name?  This particular airfield boasts a poo pond as one of the main tourist attractions.  Yes, I did say poo pond; as in a pond of poo.  The other main tourist attraction at this exciting locale is the boardwalk.  It’s a large square with an actual wooden floor outside.  The boardwalk has a plethora of little shops and food joints.  There’s even a Friday’s restaurant.  No beer, but you can get a burger for about $20 served to you at a real table.  The place even has the typical TGI Friday’s décor.

So, we arrive at Stinkysmells Air Field (SAF) early in the morning.  Our first sight in Afghanistan is an air terminal that’s literally falling apart.  It’s an old Afghan building that appears to have seen its fair share of warfare.  It’s missing chunks of wall and ceiling and there are cracks running through the entire structure.  IF Kuwait sits at the doorsteps to Hell, then SAF is on the edge of the trash dump.  After an inbrief and a lot of moving around, the NAVCENT team there told us we would leave that same day.  Miracle of miracles! 

We took our bags off the pallet and commenced loading them on a truck.  We walked from the arrivals terminal down the block to the departures terminal.  During that walk, it set in that we were actually in a war zone.  There were people in uniforms and vehicles flying flags from countries I didn’t even recognize.  Armored vehicles of all shapes and sizes lumbered down skinny roadways as people walked along the sides trying not to get hit.  OH, and yes it was hot .. and sandy.  I was back in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome; all I really needed was Tina Turner to show up with big hair and a black leather outfit.

Once we got to the departure terminal, we unloaded the truck and piled our bags on the ground outside.  By the time we got settled in, breakfast was being served at the DFAC.  We waddled down the street like a gaggle of geese in a single line to find food.  The food wasn’t bad but I just couldn’t get over the amazing sound track.  While I ate breakfast, we had 80s Madonna and Michael Jackson as our soundtrack.  We even saw some friends from Kuwait who got to call SAF their new home.  They travelled in another group…the one that didn’t get stuck in Kuwait for 5 flights.  They had already been busy at work while the rest of us were in the limbo that is Kuwait. 

After eating breakfast, we wandered over to the barely air-conditioned MWR tent and sat down to watch some TV.  Even though it was easily in the 80s inside, I think we all fell asleep for a nap.  It had been a long, overnight trip and we were exhausted.  Eventually, we woke up and headed back to the terminal.    In the departure terminal at SAF, there is no inside waiting area until after you pass security and there is little shade.  So, we all crammed into a 5’X5’ area and “chased the shade” as much as was possible.  By late afternoon, we all smelled.  Fortunately, so did the entire base so you it was hard to notice the body funk. 

Eventually they called our flight and told us it was time to go through the security.  Here comes my favorite part, the terminal wasn’t prepared for all our luggage and despite the fact we had just unloaded our stuff off the flightline, we now had to pass it all through security on an Xray belt to get it back on the flightline.  Would it have been so bad to let us leave our stuff on the air side of the terminal and re-palletize it?  Would it?  This is also about the time they informed us that no carryon bags are allowed on these flights.  Oh, and we had to tag every single bag. And it gets better, inside the terminal there was barely enough room to fit just us much less us, 4 seabags each and a carryon each.  So, we hustled to get out bags into this shoebox of a space, get everything tagged, figure out what we could take from the carryons and shove in our pockets and then empty our pockets, take everything off and send it through an Xray machine.  I will never f-in complain about any kind of airport security again.  It was freaking bedlam in there but somehow we got through it.

After getting through security and re-dressing ourselves we went upstairs and finally found seats in a semi-air conditioned space.  We sat some more.  I think our flight was scheduled for 4pm.  We were going to fly to another base first, take on some cargo and then head to Kabul.  At about 3:50, we were still waiting and I knew bad news was coming soon.  Sure enough, a British lady came up and said, “We have a bit of a situation.”  It went downhill from there.  Long story short; we weren’t getting to Kabul.

After a bit of conversation, we were told we would be manifested on a flight the next morning.  Originally, the people at the terminal wanted us to grab all of our bags and take them with us. Of course, where we were supposed to take them, no one could really tell us.  Finally, we got some Air Force guy to keep them on a pallet.  We were able to grab the items we needed for a single night and leave the rest; one small victory in a sea of defeat.  Our NAVCENT friends brought a bus for us and took us to the transient tents on base.  The best part of my trip was yet to come. 

We reached Camp Hood and I wanted to cry.  I can laugh at most situations, but this just wasn’t one of them.  Camp Hood is apparently an old British Camp on SAF.  The Brits abandoned it and gave it to us…I’ll have to thank them one day for that.

Camp Hood was nothing but tents..there wasn’t a single structure in site.  These tents might have actually been there since the war started.  IF so, they certainly had not been maintained.  Parts were flapping in the wind and the whole area had an air of desolation that was tangible.  This camp had none of the amenities we had grown accustomed to.  The tents had warm air  flowing in them.  The tolets and showers were in metal Conex boxes. There was no place to eat on the camp, no wireless internet, no phone.  There was nothing except tents and I mean that quite literally.  I am not exaggerating out of some twisted sense of artistic liberty.  THERE WAS NOTHING. 

The only good thing about Camp Hood was leaving the next morning.  NAVCENT came to pick us up and we were back on our way to the terminal.  Another flight awaited and if there was one place I couldn’t wait to leave; this was it.  We went through security again and made it upstairs to the luxurious waiting room.  Since we were there early in the morning, they had MREs available.  Of course, since we were starving, we attacked them.  Except these weren’t American MREs..they were from some other foreign land and had shit I never heard of and certainly didn’t want to eat.  However, after some digging I did find a tortellini MRE.  Once I opened it though, I found one main component lacking…freaking utensils!  Whatever foreign land produced these MREs apparently doesn’t’ believe in forks..or spoons for that matter.  Good thing I had a knife on me.  I set about bobbing for tortellini with my knife.  Man vs Wild has nothing on me…I can hunt down pasta in a savory tomato sauce and eat it fresh of a sharp blade.  If that sounds easy, you try it.

Eventually, our prayers were answered and we boarded our plane.  Holy shit, after 7 attempts, we were finally going to make it to Kabul!  This flight was on a C-130 which meant our seats were basically cargo netting attached to the side of the plane. I didn’t care…I still don’t.  C-130s aren’t terrible once you get used to them and it meant we were leaving SAF!  A few short hours later, I was able to look out the porthole and see mountains capped with snow.  Shortly after that, I could see real land….and eventually we were on real land and exiting the plane.

Next episode…Kabul, here I am!

11 Days...the Mystery Flight

I believe I left you when we found out that we weren’t leaving Camp Walkalot on our originally scheduled date.  We were the question mark flight.  As our travel brief ended, our chock commander (person in charge) was instructed to walk to the headquarters building the next day at 1400.  This meant he got to put on his uniform and walk about a mile just when the sun was reaching its most infernal temperature. Why our good Navy partners couldn’t manage to get in their air-conditioned vehicles and drive to him, I still don’t understand.

Regardless, it meant that all of us were stuck at the gates of hell to wait one more day.  Stacie and I had a grand plan; we bought snacks and sodas with the idea that we would have a movie day at the community tent in our area.  Great plan, right?  Seemel like it at the time..  The day started out okay. We woke up and hiked to breakfast.  Then, we watched the majority of our group depart at their regularly scheduled intervals.  With the crowd gone,  I got my Family Guy DVDs out of my luggage and we laughed as we watched the first episode.  When it came time to watch the second, there was no remote to be found for the DVD.  Being in the AV business and all, this did not discourage me.  I simply walked up to the DVD player and searched for the menu buttons.  Oh wait, there were none.  Faced with the choice of watching the same  episode of Family Guy on constant rerun, we decided to pick one of the movies available for our viewing pleasure.  Except almost every DVD case was empty.  Jackpot, we found “District 9.”  Have you ever seen that movie? I had heard about it and because of that, I assumed it must be decent.  I was terribly mistaken.  I still have flashbacks of what may very well be the worst movie I ever attempted to watch.  I don’t know whether I should hate the writer, the jackass movie guys who bought the script or the juvenile who actually made it.

Shortly before 1500, our "person in charge" had completed his journey back from headquarters and told us our mystery group was being split in two.  This was especially traumatic as I was being separated from Stacie.  I like most of the people in our entire training group but Stacie was the person I spent most of my time with.  I would wish that she got to stay with me, but I like her too much to wish the fate “Morgan’s Zeroes” would soon have to endure.

Our group was the first to leave on Friday.  So, I woke up Friday morning, re-packed (for about the 5^th time at this point) and we set about loading the truck with all our seabags.  If I never have to load another truck again, it will be too soon.  We boarded the bus and off we went.  We left the base and headed on the road. Finally, after 6 days of travel, we were headed towards our final destination; for about ½ mile.  Shortly after leaving the gate, the convoy turned around.  I was sitting towards the front of the bus so I was able to figure out what was happening right away.  The people in the back of the bus didn’t really have a clue yet.  It gave me some small joy to tell them we weren't getting on our flight.  We went back through the gate and found ourselves back at Camp Walkalot.  Our flight was cancelled.  We unloaded the truck (at least I got exercise that day) and hauled all our shit back to the tents just in time to help our friends load up their truck.  We waved goodbye and looked forward to another day of with less than nothing to do.  We were told we would leave the next evening.

The next day was one of the longest in my life.  Normally, I enjoy a full day of doing nothing.  It’s a great chance to recuperate from the stresses of life and let go of trivial worries.  Except this was a full day of doing nothing after 5 days of doing nothing.  I don’t even know how I spent my time. I’m sure I went to breakfast Saturday morning…may have even gone to dinner but I doubt it.  Our bus left at 1800 and it was still hot out.  I know I didn’t want to sweat before getting on a flight to another hot location.

We re-loaded our truck, got back on the bus and started out again.  This time; success!  We made it to the airport at Al Oxenfree.  Good times.  We started hauling our bags off the truck.  Then, out of nowhere came the order to stop.  Not good my friends, not good.  A minute later, we were told it was a false alarm and to return to unloading.  Just as our last bag hit the ground, we received word flight number two had been cancelled or re-missioned.  The cause.is irrelevant; the effect was the same.  We were spending another night in Kuwait.

However, this time we were going to enjoy the lovely accommodations at Camp Oxenfree.  Now, Oxenfree is probably the largest rallying point for troop movements in and out of theater.  This place is jam-packed with Sailors, Soldiers, Marines, Airmen and civilian contractors.  There’s a tent city about 20 columns wide and 8 rows deep.  Each tent has bunk beds and sleeps 14 comfortably (if that’s even possible).   I don’t know whether it was the surge or just the passage of time, but this place looked nothing like the Camp I ahd visited five years earlier.  Next to tent city was a recreation city of sorts.  There were many of the same amenities and stores as we enjoyed at Walkalot but in the space of half a city block.  If it’s a small city block…think Des Moines, not Chicago.  Though the living conditions were less desirable at our new location, it was still a nice change of pace.  Plus, we were scheduled for a flight the next morning with a 0900 show time.

We did have access to our bags, but had to sift through the pile of them to find the basic comforts of life.  At Walkalot, I debated vigorously over the pros and cons of packing a rucksack.  In the end, I listened to my shipmates in Walkalot who said “don’t pack a rucksack.”  That’s the last time (well, not really) that I second-guess my own instinct.

I sifted through the pile-o-bags with everyone else and eventually found the one that had the essentials. This included a towel, my sleep system and pillow.  I already had my underthings and shower basics in my backpack.  Fortunately, I’m not the dumbest traveller in the world.  After a brief stop at the USO and a late night snack at KFC, I settled in for the night and dreamt of the travels in store for me the next day.

The next morning is Sunday and we have officially been vagrants for one full week.  We wake up, repack our essential stuff and muster at 0900 for our morning flight.  Third time’s a charm and we are so on our way to Afghanistan.  Third time’s a bitch is what it turned out to be.  Someone in their infinite incompetency failed to actually manifest us on our flight.  So, we are stuck.  Again.

Our next flight, later that night was re-routed to another location.  Flight attempt number 4 and another night in Oxenfree.  At this point, all humor in the situation was lost.  I can’t figure out how we actually get people to war; I really can’t.  Somewhere along the way, we officially named ourselves “Morgan’s Zeroes” after our senior officer and the famed WWII comedy about American POWs.  It was fitting; I did feel a certain kinship to the characters stuck in a Nazi camp.  Yes, living conditions were far better but I could certainly relate to the hopelessness of ever actually leaving. 

We finally did make it out of Oxenfree late Monday night.  Apparently, when trying to leave Kuwait it’s the 5^th time that’s the charm.  Next stop, the backside of hell.  See ya there!

11 Days - Part 2

I'm picking back up after a 16-hour flight with a quick stop in Germany.  We landed in Kuwait City at 0001, Monday, May 9th.  Groggy and achy, we got off the plane and watched a team of our hard-working shipmates unload all 400+ of our bags.  They boarded us on busses and we began our trip into the desert.  An hour or so later (who really keeps track of time after such a long day?), we arrived at Camp Walkalot.  Once there, we were met by some of our counterparts who briefed us on the basics of life in the camp.  Here's what I remember:

    - It's hot in Kuwait so drink water.
   - Wear your glowbelt so you can be easily spotted under the cover of night.
   - Watch out for scorpions, desert foxes and mice.
   -  No booze of any kind.

I'm sure there was some other important information we were supposed to remember but I don't.  The above points are all that really stick out in my mind.

  After our in-brief, we unloaded the truck, found our seabags and threw them in our tents.  Yes, I said tents...this is life in the Narmy after all.  The tents were actually pretty nice; they were spacious, air-conditioned and offered real beds for sleep.  Sadly, no sheets or pillows to sleep with.  Good thing the Army issued each of us our very own, slightly used sleep system.  There was also nowhere to store our weapons which meant they went everywhere we did from that moment on.  Yaaay. (insert sarcastic voice here)

  By the time our bag drag was complete, it was already light out and time for morning chow.  So we set out walking for the DFAC.  We walked through deep sand, past an abandoned tent city and then walked some more.  By the time we reached the DFAC, I thought it might just be a mirage.  Inside though, the food was worth the trek.  Considering I had just spent the last 3 weeks eating some of the worst food the Army has to offer, I was in hog (or cow) heaven.  They had cook-to-order omelets, Lucky Charms cereal, fresh fruits, hashbrowns, juice, soda, english muffins..you name it..they had it.  Except for decent bacon.  

    Sometime during the breakfast discussion, Stacie, Kat and I decided we needed to get on the correct time-zone.  So after spending the last 36 hours or so in travel mode, we decided to stay awake as long as we could.  We walked around and experienced all Camp Walkalot had to offer.  It actually had very nice facilities.  There was a USO with free internet and phones, an MWR with pool tables and couches, Starbucks, McD's, Taco Hell, Green Beans Coffee (love this place), spa and other fine establishments. 

     It was like a mini-Army resort until someone turned the heat on.  Our first morning started out cloudy and quite overcast.  That didn't last long.  When the clouds dissipated, we soon discovered that the sun is about 10' off the ground in Kuwait.  It burns into the core of your flesh and cooks you fromt he inside I think.  Sounds pretty bad, right?  Oh wait...it's not over yet.  Just when you think you're probably registering a nice medium-rare, the wind kicks in.  I'm not talking about a nice seabreeze or a wind that rustles through the trees...(oh wait..there are no trees..as a matter of fact there is no green in this place at all..just dead bushes and sand)...I am talking about a 15000 watt hair dryer turned on full blast.  The temps while in Kuwait were somewhere in the 110s and the wind is HOTTER THAN THE STILL AIR!  This is when I realized I was located just south of the gates of hell.

     Of course, with the wind comes the sand/dust/filth.  Since the showers are a short walk, staying clean is pretty impossible.  Of course...given the 3-digit temps...staying clean really isn't possible anyways I guess.  I know why Moses walked for 40 days..he wanted to get the hell out of Kuwait. (okay, okay..so he led the people out of Egypt..but I bet it's all pretty much the same) 

     SInce Camp Walkalot didn't have indoor plumbing, that meant we got to enjoy all that port-a-potties have to offer in the middle of the desert.  As an upgrade, we did have small modular structures that also housed toilets in them.  These structures are kind of like portable executive washrooms; the blue-collar version.  They had no air-conditioning and no electricity.  If the smell didn't get to you, the heat certainly did.  Entering these damn things was like moving from the frying pan into the fire; or maybe the oven is a better analogy. Oh..and they ran out of water daily so you couldn't flush the toilets.  It just keeps getting better and better folks.

   At the end of our third vacation day at the Hotel Steps of Hell, we had our travel brief.  We all gathered in a different tent and found out when our next leg of travel would begin.  We had folks on their way to Qatar, Iraq and Afghanistan.  Becuse of our size, they had to split us into multiple groups.  As they discussed travel plans and informed us of our travel groups, they got to my group.  We were Afghanistan 2...our flight plans..."?".  That's what the slide said folks..."?".  While everyone else got to leave Thursday, the 12th, we were optimistic that we might leave at some point in time on Friday the 13th. 

     I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  While our time in Kuwait had required very little action on our part and virtually no actual work, I was stuck enduring heat that could cook a meal and I had already experienced all the Camp had to offer. I had experienced it all 5 times over.  By Wednesday, I had refused to go to lunch because walking a mile one-way through the desert in a mostly abandoned camp was not an acticity I was willing to pursue. 

      I thought I would go stir-crazy spending an extra day a Walkalot...but it turns out I hadn't yet begun to know the depths of boredom and frustration I would later experience.  Stay tuned for the next chapter.

the bathroom experience...

                                               the morning bag drag

                                               our luxurious accomodations

                                               ..just like the Ritz

                                             I bet you even Ronald's smile turned south in the sun.     

                                               Kat and Stacie...in the midle of nowhere.

11 Days - Part 1

..that felt like 111 to get to my final destination.    I’m not sure if I will get this entire experience in one blog so it may be split up for your reading enjoyment. Maybe I should make it 11 installments.

Seriously though, I left the States in the wee hours on the 8^th of May and got to my new station on the 18^th.  Here’s the story of my journey:

 As I already mentioned, we left under a cloak of darkness on the 8^th of May.  We had to check out of our barracks in SC, load our bags on the truck and clean our spaces.  We were done with all of this by 2pm on Saturday, the 7^th.  Then, we waited…and waited…and waited in the blistering heat some more for night to fall and our departure time to arrive.

Sometime around 11pm that night, motorcycles arrived flying oversize American flags on their bikes and grateful sentiments in their hearts.  We loaded our busses as these well-wishers escorted us all the way to the terminal.  It really was heartwarming to see but the best was yet to come.

When we reached the terminal and got off the bus, I heard clapping as we entered the hanger.  There was close to 200 people of all ages there to wish us well on our way overseas.  It still brings tears to my eyes to think of the gesture.  They clapped for each of us as we entered.  The Girl Scouts were there with free cookies, the Boy Scouts were there with homemade survival cord bracelets, local government representatives, church groups, veterans’ groups and patriotic people were there thanking us.  They served us our final meal in the United States with pizza, nachos and Krispy Kremes.  They offered us dolls to beat up on during stressful times, snack bags for the trip, Bibles and all the hugs we could want. 

As we entered the plane, the entire group formed a pathway for us with American flags and every person thanked each of us as we headed to the plane.  Some people shook our hands and some insisted on hugs.  I was carrying a laptop bag, a backpack and two weapons.  Beyond being amazed and honored at the support we had, I was also a little afraid I would hit someone in the head with the butt of my rifle.  I wish I could thank each organization that went out of their way in the middle of the night to ensure we felt appreciated but unfortunately, the entire evening was a bit of a blur.

We boarded the plane and finally settled in for a long flight.  Stacie and I shared a 3-seat row and before long most of the plane’s occupants were fast asleep.  I dreamt of family and friends I knew I would miss.  Fortunately, I felt like they were with me in the faces and handshakes of the good people in South Carolina.

                                                Stacie and I "chucking dueces"

One chapter closes

I have worked with the Army before, alongside them but not for them.  As the training phase of my deployment closes, I thought I would share a few key observations from my time here:

 - The Army is scared of the damn heat.  Like, kind of psychotic scared.  This is really odd considering their prime deployment locations.  Maybe it's because they spend so much time in the Middle East; they may have had too much experience with the effects of heat stress and overexhaustion.  It's either that or they are just afraid us Sailors are going to fall over dead on them.  All military have some way of determining the heat category on any given day.  That heat category determines the amount of physical activity allowed outside in a given time period.  In the Navy, that usually comes from one central location on base and is communicated throughout.  Here, the Army carries a damn bubblicious monitor everywhere.  Okay, so it's really not called bubblicious..it's a bubble drop meter or something but bubblicious sounds so much better.  Anyways, there's this bubblicious monitor that calculates the temperature, humidity and probably Earth's rotation and spits out a Heat Category.  This is all fine and dandy, but this damn thing comes out even when we are in the classroom all day!  What is that?  Who cares how hot it is outside when my ass is sitting in AC all day getting my learn on?  Furthermore, why can't they just go by the same Heat Category as the main post?  Is the difference that palpable 8 miles down the road? Really?

- The Army seems to be almost obstinate in achieving its goals.  In the Navy, we believe in "work smarter, not harder."   I can't really tell if it's bred from an average Sailor's laziness, efficiency or intelligence, but it is a cultural trait.   The Army seems to believe in "just work" and it's a strange thought process to me.  I believe that if you had a team of Soldiers and a team of Sailors both faced with the task of getting into a house with a locked front door, the Soldiers would blow the door open while the Sailors would find the unlocked back door.  They both achieve the same goal but the Army way is definitely  more straighforward.  Set goal; achieve goal.  If they get to blow something up, even better.  That simple.

- The Army doesn't seem too worried about spelling and grammar.  I can't tell you how many spelling errors, misuse of the words insure/ensure, their/there and missing or extra commas I saw on a daily basis.  It became a game of mine during training; spot the errors in TRAINING BRIEFS!  wtf? In the Navy, every presentation I have ever put together has been checked, edited, chopped and then rechecked by multiple people.  I'm guessing the Army doesn't see the value in it.  They are too busy blowing shit up apparently. 

  - Standard Operating Procedures; please note the word "Standard" in the phrase.  Apparently, every unit has their own set of SOPs which can differ depending on the unit.  This applies even for the exact same evolutions.  We had two companies in our training group.  Both companies had to qualify on the M9 pistol on the same qualification course.  However, there were some pretty severe disparities in the way each company conducted its qualification course.  Alpha Company had to drop to one knee every time they changed a magazine in their weapon.  They were told this would make them a smaller target in battle when they needed to reload.  Charlie Company did no such thing.  Alpha had to wear the neck guard on their IBA, Charlie was told to pack the neck guard away.  I would think these are pretty standard procedures but again there seemed to be no consistent standard.  In the Navy, if there's a standard way to conduct a specific operation; it's done that standard way throughout the Navy.  Otherwise, it wouldn't be standard, right? I just don't get it.

I had a few more points to share but these really were the big three, so to speak.  Training is over and it's time for my next big step - getting overseas.  Before I close this chapter though, I wanted to share some of the sayings and slogans I have picked up over the last few weeks from both Sailors and Soldiers.  Enjoy!

 "You are here to learn.  You are here to learn how to kill" (Army)
  "If you want to cry, go see the Chaplain.  That's what he's here for" (Army)
  "What does OIF/OEF stand for?" (sadly, Navy...and an Officer at that)
   "..makes me want to suck start a 9" (Navy)
   "It ain't rocket surgery" (Army)
   "Indiscriminate defecation is a common practice in the Kabul area." (Army training PPT)
   "Just stick your finger in it.  It's just like wiping your ass, keep going at it until nothing comes out" (Army...teaching us how to clean the star cluster on the M4)
    "Do ya'll know how to wear clothes?  Then you know how to wear this" (Army...teaching us how to don a JLIST suit)
     "You got to reach in and get between them butt cheeks" (Army...teaching us pat down procedures)
     "a millimeter of an inch" (Army measurement)
     "there's no extra credit for Jesus carrying sheep back to the pasture" (Army)
     "Let's face it, sometimes being a small Asian man puts you at an advantage" (not really sure but it's still good)
    

..more to come on this one.  Sadly, I packed my notebook and have some more to get from on of my classmates.

Have a good night all.

They try so hard to teach us.

Hello again,

   In my neverending effort to share and chronicle my experiences, I wanted to take a moment to share with you some of the personalities that entertain, teach and put up with our shit here.  They are the Drill Sergeants of Charlie Company Cobras.

     These guys are some of the most patient souls I have yet to run across in my adult life.  Their motivation and dedication never publicly waivers though I have to believe they want to throw their hands up and walk away on a regular basis.  I certainly wouldn't have the patience to put up with us.  Unfortunately, I don't think they quite understand our culture.  We don't quite believe in group think as much as they do.  It's understandable given their core mission and need for unit cohesion at even the lowest level but it takes some getting used to.

   The first day we met our cadre (the team of Drill Sergeants), they put on a little show for us.  They marched in and introduced themselves with slogans and Hoaahs and all I could think is "Oh my Lord. Where the hell am I?"  Then they proceeded to share with us the Cobra call to arms: "Cobras....sssss." I would have expected something tougher but I guess not everyone gets to bark so hissing is the next best thing.  At least we weren't the Owls or some other sisssified shit.  Could you see ninety Sailors doing a half-assed attempt at "whooo, whooo?"  Our half-assed attempt at hissing was embarrassing enough for one lifetime.

    As time moved forwad, we saw some of the members of cadre more than others.  Not all of them are mentioned below, but here are some of the guys who had the extreme pleasure of basking in our presence:

   Drill Sergeant Folder:  This guy loves the group chant.  He may have been a cheerleader in his high school days.  I can just see it now...."When I say Win, you say Team."  Every other sentence he would give ask us a question and expect a 10-minute synchrnized answer.  I'm don't know if we actually learned anything during his lectures but boy can we chant in unison.  Some of my favorites:

    Folder: Are you motivated?
    Us:   Motivated, motivated, down right motivated. You check this out, you check this out. Hoaah!

    Folder:  Ya'll tracking?
    Us:  We're tracking Drill Sergeant, tracking like a GPS!  (Now I don't know about you but my GPS likes to get me lost and usually in the ghetto.  My GPS likes to recalculate on the regular.)

  Folder always has a smile thought and that's contagious.  He seems happy to see us and that usually makes the group happy to see him.  So if I have to spend 40 minutes chanting to absorb 20 minutes of information,  I can live with that I guess.

  The Jones boys: We have two Drill Sergeant Jones in our Company.  In order to keep them straight, someone along the way classified them as Pretty Jones and Slingblade Jones.

    Pretty Jones looks like he might still be in his teens and could have walked out of an Ambercrombie and Fitch ad.  He has a bit of that Southern Belle lilt in his accent which is both soothing and disarming at the same time.  He seems pretty down to earth and is probably knows what he's talking about when he gives us a lesson.  However, I can't be positive as I have a hard time hearing him over the sounds of the young girls cooing in the audience.  I find their reactions absolutely adorable and then get caught up in watching them watch him.  It really is entertaining.

     If I had more time to get to know them, I would bet that Slingblade Jones has the most genuine heart and motivated attitude of the Cadre.  While Pretty Jones looks like he might still be in his teens, I'm pretty certain Slingblade Jones may actually be a teenager.  He still has the fresh eyes of youth and experience has yet to give him an ounce of cynicism.  He also hasn't yet refined the social skills necessary to teach an audience twice his age.  When every story relates to bootcamp, high school or your mother the audience loses patience and interest.  I also think he may have watched Major Payne about 50 times too many as a child.  He speaks in that stereotypical Drill Sergeant manner:

    "Todaaaay....Iamgoing....to teach you peeeople about....NBCwarfare.  Weee...willgothrough...the slides in order.  Nnnnext."

      This kid also has some of the most amusing and unusual sayings I have ever heard.  According to him, "there's no extra credit for Jesus carrying a sheep back to pasture."  If you're confused, join the club.  When he speaks, I usually grit my teeth and lower my face to keep the disdain from being too evident.  The older I get, the less patience I have for shit that doesn't make any sense.  The clock is ticking and I don't have time to decipher your cryptic and/or nonsensical sayings.  I bet he does well teaching the 18-year olds that come through bootcamp but speaking to senior enlisted and officers, most of whom have at least a decade on him, is not his strength.  I'd like to meet him again in about 10 years once he's grown hair on his chest. I hope he keeps his enthusiasm.

      Drill Sergeant Bruce:  He chews tobacco.  He chews tobacco a lot.  However, he's very direct, straight-forward and easy to understand.  Bruce knows his shit or at least fakes it extremely well.  If I have to watch him spit juice from the golf ball-sized wad of tobacco in his mouth, then I guess I'll learn to cope.

      Drill Sergeant Hustle:  If I were concerned enough to be intimdated by any of our Cadre, he would be the one to do it.  He seems to be the maddest or maybe it's the most annoyed on a daily basis.  I will say my favorite moment of Ft Jackson life comes from him though and kind of sums up the entire experience of having Sailors soldier. 
      Platoons 3 and 4 were in formation and the DSs wanted us to combat walk to our next training.  Hustle starts explaining a relatively simple concept to us.  I lead and the other lines follow.  We create two lines, one on each side of the road and with the people staggered to close gaps in coverage.  It should look like this:

           X    X    X    X    X

       X     X    X    X   X

Get the concept?  Well, I randomly start walking and people follow me, but it's not in any kind of order or formation.  We fell out in a gaggle folks, that's all I can call it.  I look behind me and see a blob of folks walking in various directions looking at each other trying to understand what we are doing.  I look ahead of me and there's Hustle.  He looked like someone stole his birthday as he watched this cluster unfold.  His mouth had dropped and his eyes filled with wonder and despair as he silently mouthed "Hoooooly Fuck."  It was a fabulous moment and one I will cherish for years to come.

      Drill Sergeant Mariomoto:  If the girls have Pretty Smith, the boys have Mariomoto.  She's pretty quiet but certainly made an impression with the male audience.  Enough apparently to have one of them calling her name while asleep in berthing.

      Drill Sergeant Herbie:  He seems to be the group favorite.  Drill Sergeant Herbie has a deep South twang and infectious laugh about him.  I think he tries to keep a straight face and has even mustered a stern voice once or twice during training but it takes quite a bit of effort.  I think we frustrate him more than any of the Cadre but he takes it in stride.  I know he catches more shit from the group than anyone else in the Cadre.  I secretly think a few of our Officers have a man-crush on him.  Quite a few of them have learned how to imitate him and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  Some of my favorite quips have come from Herbie.  I'll share them in a later post.

The daily grind...

Hello again,


   I originally planned to chronicle the events and adventures of these last three weeks.  However, I didn't account for the toll this high speed, low drag training would take on my energy.  So, as this evolution comes to its end, I thiught I'd share some random thoughts and observations with you all. Please forgive me as this will likely be a random stream of consciousness. I will try to keep this one focused on an average day here in training.

     About half of our days here are spent on the range or out in the woods for training of some sort.  You wake up really early and drag about 60 lbs of gear to the classroom.  There, you are served a lukewarm breakfast of eggs, meat product and grits.  I ate cereal bars most mornings.  (Thank you Jennifer - those were a lifesaver)  Then you carry your 60 lbs of gear out to the grinder (Navy term for what most of you would call a parking lot without parking spaces).  You muster and then carry your 60lbs of gear onto the bus. 
   Now, I'm pretty certain Ethopians wouldn't be able to fit on this bus.  The seats are munchkin sized and the aisles more narrow than Southwest's airplane aisles.  Since the seats are about the width of one ass cheek and we have our Ninja Turtle outershells on, you are left with oh...about 4 inches of aisle space in which to maneuver.  Fortunately, we all get to share in the joy of being hit in the face with either the butt of a rifle, someone's body armor or backpack.  To add to the fun, don't forget we have velcro pasted on the entire uniform so we get to stick to our shipmates as we pass them.  It really does kind of enhance the overall experience.
    Once we load the bus and arrive at our destination, we carry our gear usually to bleachers.  Then we set it down and await further instruction.  Often, we pick the gear back up a few minutes later and put it all on.  Then we conduct training until lunch.  At lunch, we remove our gear and get our choice of MRE (they stopped putting a bottle of hot sauce in them..that is just cruel) and sit in the grass to eat the tasty meal.  After lunch, we put our gear on and continue training.  There is a lot of down time due to the logistics of it all.  If you have 16 shooting lanes and 90 people who need to shoot, it's gonna take awhile.  We spend most of this time taking off our gear, hiding from the sun, trying not to get caught with our cell phones and bullshitting the day away.  If there's a nice breeze, I try to take a nap but it rarely works out for me.
    When the training evolution is complete, we take our 60lbs of gear back on the bus and ride home.  Then, we haul our gear and put it into our barracks and usually reconvene in the classroom.  We clean weapons, conduct classroom training and generally drive our Drill Sergeants nuts.  It's not intentional but Sailors can't do anything without asking why nor can we do anything without pointing out the 20 different ways we think it should be done.
     My day typically ends with a stellar meal at the galley, laundry, more weapons cleaning and preparing for the next day.  Before I know it; it's time to start all over again.

And even more shit

Just a quick addendum.  I just unpacked and repacked my stuff and wanted to share the full experience of the load I have to carry with me to Afghanistan...

   A waist pack (yes, it is actually a tactical fanny pack)
   Sun Screen (which immediately exploded in most people's pockets)
   Purell
   A water-proof clothes carrier
   Army Green Laundry Bag
   Combat pack to hold all sorts of random combat items.  This thing is large enough to cover my entire chest.
  
That's really still not all of it but I can't spill all our trade secrets but believe me, I have more stuff than one person should ever be expected to lug half-way around the world.