Nearly every day, people ask me, “hey, do you guys have any open slots for the deployment?” Maybe I missed it the last few times around, but I don’t remember anyone being this excited for a mobilization until now. During my trip to the war, they managed to piece together one working company out of the whole battalion; now, soldiers are lining up at the door. Different time, different unit, I know, but the comparison is there nonetheless.

The bottom line is that nobody wants to miss what might be the last big deployment for the Red Bulls. Nothing official has been said, but everyone has the same feeling: this one just about wraps it up. Sure, there may be troops in Iraq and Afghanistan for many years to come, but the numbers will likely never be like those of years past. That means fewer rotations and less important missions; no more will the Red Bulls be the terror of the Iraqi highways, but rather consigned to the drudgery of base security and “joint visitor’s bureaus” (which I’m sure are just as dreadful as they sound).

No more deployments also means no more easy money. Going to a combat zone is generally profitable for soldiers, what with hostile fire pay, hazardous duty pay, family separation pay, combat zone tax exclusion, and all the other pay (which comes out to about $68,000 a year for an E-6 like me, almost none of which is taxed in any way). With our mission likely headquartered in Kuwait, the mission is basically a one year money-saving tour with virtually no risk for a TOCroach like me – or any of the other strap-hangers trying to get on board.

The end of combat rotations also marks the end of an era. For all but the longest-serving soldiers, the Global War on Terror has been a career-defining event, and for those like me, serving in a wartime context is all we know. The negative impact of the heavy use of the National Guard on units, soldiers, families, and communities has been well documented, but the positives have been less publicized. I’ve written about this before, over four years ago, and the same comments apply today.

The Guard’s role in the GWOT has given the entire force, from Guard Bureau down to the individual soldier, an important sense of belonging to an integrated Army, rather than a weekends-only social club. It has given the Guard an essential sense of pride and provided structure to the career of its soldiers. Most importantly, the GWOT has delivered vast sums of money to state organizations for new equipment, facilities, personnel, and training, bringing the Guard fully up to par with (and sometimes exceeding) their active duty counterparts.

Personally, I would not still be in the Guard if it were not for my trip to Iraq. I wouldn’t have this career, nor would I be the man I am today. Many of my counterparts feel the same way, and maybe they don’t want to miss what might be the last chance to be a part of history, fearing that the Guard may fade into obscurity again, as it did during the 1970′s and 1980′s.

Look at these two hunyuks

World Explosive Device, activate. Never thought I’d be saluting this guy, and yet…

Here I am.

Congratulations to our future adjutant general and benevolent dictator, Lieutenant Pontiff!

Rotate that leaver

If there’s one image that combines my frustrations about the Army, it’s this one. It’s got it all: safety protocol nannyism, the mandatory misspelling, and a helping of mealy-mouthed Army writing.

First, the whole concept of the clearing barrel needs explanation. It’s a barrel (duh), filled with sand, into which soldiers point their weapons and dispose of extra rounds by accidentally firing them. The idea is that the barrel is a safe place to clear a weapon before entering a building (or, in this case, a tent). The problem: the way the instructions are written all but guarantee negligent discharges.

The key step is #7: “Aim the weapon into clearing container, rotate selector lever to semi and squeeze the trigger.” No. No, no, no no no nononono. Pulling the trigger is not a part of the clearing process (despite what the Army tells you)! It violates one of the four rules of firearms safety (keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire) and even if it didn’t, it’s a redundant step, since you already verified that the weapon is clear. Literally hundreds of millions of civilian shooters don’t clear their weapons this way, for exactly those reasons. But here, in the safety-obsessed world of the Army, we are inexplicably directed to perform an action that literally guarantees a certain number of negligent discharges.

Those chamber rounds are a lot more dangerous

The M9 clearing instructions are almost the same. Two key differences: one, you remove any “chamber rounds.” Obviously, this is an error (they mean “chambered rounds”), but it’s also clumsy wording. The M9 (like any modern firearm) has an extractor and ejector, so unless your pistol is broken, the “chamber round” will be ejected when you lock the slide to the rear. The second difference: no dry firing of the weapon. Why would you dry fire the M16/M4 but not the M9? There is no mechanical or procedural reason for the difference. Maybe somebody smart wrote the M9 clearing procedure. Note that in step 6, you “release the slide forward.” As opposed to what, backwards into your face?

I just...I...I don't know

As I read the instructions on this clearing barrel and began taking pictures, I found each placard to be more bewildering than the last. The M2 .50 caliber instructions were the most bizarre of all. The numbers apparently refer to a diagram (a diagram that is nowhere present), but it’s step 6 that’s mind-blowing.

Step 6 says, “Place the cartridge extractor down and close the cover. (WARNING: may fall to surface and possibly explode).

What? Place the cartridge extractor down? And what may fall to surface? The cartridge extractor? Is it made of TNT? What’s exploding? My head hurts.

Note also that this weapon has the extra dry firing at the end, which seems especially dangerous considering the complexity and lethality of the M2, where a negligent discharge could send a round traveling a mile or more (instead of into a clearing barrel).

Sometimes my job is about undoing Army training for my soldiers…

Sunset at the range

As seen just before night fire on 8 August, at the A-3 range complex.

Tactical two-wheeled tech support

Never will you see a dorkier thing. Luckily, I’m not the only one around sporting the bike + rifle + helmet combo – quite a few people realized that the impound lot situation would be easier with some form of wheeled transport. And you thought the Army had Humvees!

OK ..

As seen on the inside of the gate at North Circle. If you can’t read it, it says, “IF YOU UNLOCK THIS GATE, THAN LOCK IT WHEN YOU LEAVE. OK ..”

OK!

The green box would be the football in this example

A well-worn phrase in military life is “that looks like a monkey fucking a football.” It’s used when something looks wrong, or when one or more people are doing something that’s convoluted and prone to error. As pictured at left, yesterday’s scene at North Circle was the very definition of the term.

The unfortunate box at the center of the picture is a power distribution unit. One cable comes in from a generator, and other cables go out to various pieces of equipment (including the shelter truck in the background). Each connection on the box (six total) has a corresponding circuit breaker. There are only four cables connected to this particular box; one input and three outputs.

Despite the seeming simplicity of this setup, no fewer than ten people hovered around that damn thing, all talking simultaneously, for half an hour before figuring out how to make power go to the right places. I’d estimate that there was nearly two centuries of combined military service gathered there, which comes out to about fifty years of experience per power cable.

OK, got it.

This was actually drawn on the board in the classroom this week, by our warrant officer, who I think will be called Mr. Malaprop.

If you can figure this out, you’re hired.

(Click for larger image.)

Now I’m on the verge of promotion to E-7, in a different MOS (locked in the back of a humvee no longer – I’m now a true TOCroach!). I’m in charge of a few soldiers, and as part of the headquarters, I’m making decisions that reach far beyond my immediate presence, and can even extend far beyond my perception. It’s a strange feeling to know that I can make somebody’s life – somebody I’ve never met, in some far flung armory on the other side of the state – a living hell based on some flippant comment or hare-brained recommendation during any one of our innumerable meetings.

Indeed, flippant comments are my stock in trade; I find that levity (sometimes bordering on outright sass) is the only way I can deal with my job. When we’re told to plan for a mission, and the mission consists of nothing but “we’re going to go somewhere and do something,” you can either a) get angry or b) laugh. Most pick the first option, but for me, stuff like that is comedy gold. Luckily, this attitude hasn’t gotten me into trouble; I guess my services are so useful that everyone is willing to put up with my insouciance – so far.

Hudson, get over here!

But I always wonder: is this the “right” attitude to have, as a senior NCO? E-6 seems to me like the last “screw-around” rank, where you have responsibilities but you’re still closer to the bottom than the top of the organization. But E-7, hey, that’s a different story: now you could be a platoon sergeant, a senior drill sergeant, a staff NCO, in charge of a lot of serious shit. Ideally, you’ll be like Sergeant Apone from Aliens: chomping a cigar while yelling obscenities and gesticulating, commanding respect and obedience with only a withering glance. Apone, however, wouldn’t be much good on a brigade staff; he’d probably just put out his cigar on the face of some uppity major and get busted back down to a line company as an E-5.

Anyway, this thinking dovetails with this blog: how does my role as a writer on the internet change with my advancing rank? As a senior NCO, I’m expected to be a “company man,” toeing the line of the command (at least in public), while keeping my grousing about command policies to a minimum. It’s easy to bitch about things when you’re at the bottom of the pyramid; indeed, complaining is the God-given prerogative of every junior enlisted soldier. But closer to the top, such complaining is unseemly, particularly in public – and though this is quasi-anonymous, the internet is as public as it gets.

Many milbloggers in this war have been leaders, though, so it’s not like I’m treading new ground. Some of them have even blogged while leading troops in combat, something that you’ll likely never read about here.

These quotes come from a recent briefing about Iraq and Kuwait.

The purpose of this briefing:

To gain the Commander’s concurrence and/or decision that results in
an approved deployed restated mission statement and commander’s
planning guidance.

What? My jaw hurts just reading that, let alone trying to say it.

Next, from the S2 (intelligence) portion of the brief, regarding likely threats inside Kuwait:

Most likely form of threat activities include; verbal insults, hand
jesters, rock throwing and theft.

(Emphasis mine.) This line highlights the dangers of spellcheck – sure, “jesters” is a correctly-spelled word, but…

Finally, the S2 (once again) answers the question: just how big is Iraq?

slightly more than twice the size of Idaho

Oh. Since, you know, Idaho is the benchmark by which we measure the size of things. Isn’t there already a state that’s twice the size of Idaho? That’d be California, by the way.