The sun is setting on one of the last pleasant evenings I’ll see for a year. The skies here are thick with gnats and also with cliff swallows; I’ve watched them since May when they were just starting to build their little mud houses. Now the young are all fledged and flitting about all day long, scooping up bugs by the bucketful (or so I hope) on jaunts across the grass, stopping now and then to preen their rough new feathers while perched on the wires overhead. Soon they’ll pack up and fly south for the winter, only to return next spring and repeat the whole process.

We too are almost ready to fly away for a year; indeed, our schedule closely mimics that of the little swallows. Our perspective, too, is just as businesslike – I don’t know that there’s much excitement or fear for the year ahead, just the rhythm of Army life in an age of war, familiar and imperative like the change of seasons.

Some of our people are already in Kuwait, and send back reports, most of them of them unsurprising. It’s hot, there are many fine facilities for our use, sand everywhere, and we anxiously await the epic yard sale of the departing unit. One surprise though: CRT televisions are everywhere. I asked if they were left over from Desert Storm or from the start of OIF in 2003, but no – they can be bought, new in the box, at the PX. I haven’t looked lately, but it seems as if CRTs have all but disappeared from domestic electronics stores. Where did these come from? A small mystery, then, for me to investigate soon. A tantalizing glimpse of the excitement that awaits upon the burning sands!

The human world passes in a blur

The human world passes in a blur

A four-day pass over the 4th of July weekend was a welcome distraction, but like lost souls, we soldiers cannot linger long in the human world.

Coming back to Fort McCoy on a beautiful July night, I feel a familiar melancholy, the sensation of leaving home after being reminded of what I’m leaving. Last time, I was leaving almost nothing behind; it was a clean break, a fresh start, a new adventure with the ending totally unwritten. Now, I am leaving something behind – a wife, friends, pets, a house, a job, things, hobbies, other trappings of the human world.

I’m not resentful, for I chose this path freely, knowing what it entailed. I’m not an embittered old soldier, cursing the organization that’s trained and paid me and given me these strange experiences. Still, volunteer or not, leaving home for a year is nothing that’s easy.

The next time I see my home, it’ll be blanketed in snow. Some are trying to time their leave dates so that it’s not so cold, but not me; I embrace the winter fully, as a full-faced reminder of the contrast between home and away. The blast furnace and the frozen north: the starker the differences, the stronger the reminder of what home truly is and that for all its thin comforts, Kuwait will never be anything like home. A scene from Apocalypse Now recalls this idea: They choppered in T-bones and beer and turned the LZ into a beach party. The more they tried to make it just like home, the more they made everybody miss it.

But what else can we do? We can no more stop trying to make our deployment feel like home than we can stop missing home altogether. And the sadness gives me focus, an emotional reference point to keep my bearings no matter how far from home, a reminder that I’m not a just a cog in the green machine of the Army.

Last year, at annual training, we (the commo guys) decided that Weird Al’s Dare to be Stupid was the theme for the operations section; it was a bit of good-natured humor at their expense, with their being mostly infantrymen and tankers.Yesterday, though, as I watched the Frenchman (our boss) enter his twelfth hour of unraveling the mess of hand receipts in which we’re ensnared, I realized that the song was really the theme song for the whole trip so far. The largest example, an awesome video-montage in my head, follows:

Instead of bringing a shitload of computers, phones, and other networking equipment, the installation provides most everything we need to conduct our training here. It’s a great idea in theory, but our supporting brigade’s terrible property management has turned it into a nightmare. I should’ve known we were in for trouble when I walked into their supply building on the first day and saw the piles of random computer gear strewn at all angles, the shelves bursting with collections of parts in no discernible order, and the Frenchman and the Other Brigade’s guy vainly trying to make sense of the damn thing. The two of them had to count and recount just our allocation of IP phones three times that morning – twice after being loaded into our van and we were almost leaving.

Since then, it’s been a seemingly endless shell game of issue, return, re-issue, swap out, and scavenge, all meticulously (if often incorrectly) documented on the favorite form of supply sergeants everywhere, the DA Form 2062. More commonly known as a hand receipt, the idea of the form is simple: you write the item and its serial number on a form, I sign it, you keep the form, I get the stuff. When I’m done with the stuff, I give it back, you destroy the form, everyone’s happy. Works great – unless you’re handling a brigade’s worth of computer equipment, in which case you’re soon buried in an avalanche of paperwork, as shit is moved around and sub-hand-receipted and generally mucked-with.We’re talking about fifty or a hundred hand receipts, all pointing different directions, a breadcrumb trail leading straight into the sarlacc’s mouth.

This would be bad enough, but thanks to the Other Brigade’s insistence on dealing only with us and not with any of our subordinate units, the paperwork is effectively doubled (and sometimes tripled), as the Frenchman must sign for the equipment from the Other Brigade, then the units must sign for it from us, thus maintaining a chain of accountability. The madness is compounded by the fact that a not-insignificant amount of the gear ended up broken (out of the box, as it were), resulting in numerous substitutions and swaps, and a couple of insane moments where the Other Brigade actually signed for gear from us, even though we signed it out from them, since we would eventually get it back.

The Other Brigade’s commo NCOIC (who is a whole story unto himself) has bombarded us from the beginning with threats that if we don’t give all of his stuff back, “you’re not getting on the plane.” Not much of a threat, really, and it’s a tiresome one anyway, since any property accountability problems will be ones of his making. We joked today (in his presence) that we’d just drive by his office in our van and kick all of the crap out of the back, driving away hollering. He didn’t think it was too funny (and repeated his threat), but we all thought it was hilarious. If only…

Sunset over McCoy

Sunset over McCoy

The weapons of the signal soldier

The weapons of the signal soldier

Two of our laptops needed repair this last week, so we requested warranty service from Dell. No problem – I’ve dealt with Dell’s enterprise warranty service many times, and it’s generally been excellent. Imagine my surprise, then, when a pair of boxes arrived, and inside was a pile of parts – two sets of three-piece motherboards and a disassembled display. When I say disassembled, I mean there was a raw LCD panel, a nest of wires, a backplate, and a bezel. Evidently the Army’s warranty doesn’t include labor, so I spent a whole day elbow-deep in the two computers, stripping them completely to the chassis.

Luckily I had my trusty M9 by my side, should any wayward jihadists try to steal my gear.

At the height of the operation, the brigade sergeant major walked in, Diet Coke in hand, and goggled at the pile of parts on my desk. “What the hell are you doing?,” he exclaimed, gesturing with the can. “Depot-level maintenance, sergeant major.” He asked if I was qualified to do that kind of disassembly. I just shrugged and said, “Sure!” He laughed and walked away.

***

Today I had to go to the maintenance bay and one of the guys offered me a ride. “Nah,” I said, declining, “it takes longer if I walk.” As long as I’m walking, I can’t answer my phone, and I don’t have to talk to anyone. Plus, the weather here the last few days has been phenomenal, so I wanted to enjoy it. I took in the cool breeze, the warm sunshine, the waving grass and sighing oaks, the layered symphony of bird songs, all somehow unsullied (or maybe even enhanced) by the rumble of Humvees and rows of white-sided Army barracks. The beauty of the day, though, just sharpened the contrast between the beauty of central Wisconsin and the scorching sand-hell of Kuwait that awaits us, just a month away. Even worse is that I know what it will be like, to yearn for the sights, sounds, and smells of a living world instead of the dessicated alien planet of the desert, surrounded by nothing but sand and the artifice of man which both sustains and constrains us.

Maybe some Jim Brandenburg and Craig Blacklock posters are in order…

Holla holla

A few too many late nights at the shop

Today marks only our second week here, but it feels like an eternity. As you can see in the picture to the left, two weeks of sixteen hour days have reduced us to the mental state of drunk chicks on Facebook. This photo was taken on one of our good nights, where we weren’t bickering about some weird detail of computer equipment or trying to make sense of the rat’s nest of intertwined plans that are somehow designed to drive this organization towards the war.

I guess what we’re experiencing would be called the “fog of war,” except that we’re not in the war yet and everything that’s happening to us is self-inflicted. It’s like fratricide on a vast, organizational scale; killing us with spreadsheets and regulations instead of bullets and explosives.

It’s hard to estimate how many spreadsheets even our modest shop produces in a day. Every task, roster, list, and table needs to be captured and have a “tracker;” so two to five new spreadsheets a day would be a reasonable guess. I suppose there isn’t much other way to keep track of stuff; we don’t have enough room on the walls for endless whiteboards, so spreadsheets it is. Still, I cringe when I think about the man-hours spent on creating beautiful color spreadsheets to track tasks that take less time to complete than the thing made to track them.

The uniform situation is another way in which we kill ourselves a little bit each day. First, the infamous reflective belt: a simple, fluorescent-colored belt, designed to make you more visible. It’s a fine idea for periods of low visibility, especially while riding a bike or something. But the Army definitely believes that you can’t have too much of a good thing, thus the rules: belt worn all the time with the PT uniform, and worn with ACUs during low visibility. This of course becomes expanded by some units – so as to make GODDAMN SURE the rule is met – that it’s worn any time before breakfast and after dinner. I think it’s also required if you’re riding in the back of a troop carrier (like a 5-ton truck or LMTV). I protested the whole thing in front of our previous first sergeant, and his response was, “well, if it saves one soldier’s life, it’s worth it.” Where does it end, then? Reflective bodysuits?

The Army Combat Shirt (ACS) is another example. The ACS is a nifty shirt designed to be worn under body armor. It’s light, cool, and close-fitting, for better mobility and comfort. It’s a great piece of kit, which naturally means its wear must be brutally restricted. Naturally, it can only be worn with body armor, but additionally, we could only wear it with these restrictions: a) only with flame-resistant ACU pants (not regular); b) you must carry a FRACU top and tan undershirt with you while wearing it and c) you must put on your undershirt and FRACU top if you take off your body armor. Thankfully, the last two restrictions more or less went out the window when the first sergeant started walking around before and after our training convoys wearing his ACS with nothing over it (the horror!). Nevertheless, the angst and heated discussion that surrounded the whole situation was energy that could’ve been better spent on more important things.

Luckily, our “army guy” training is out of the way, so now we can concentrate on our actual jobs of networking, communications, and cursing the names of our higher headquarters (Eagle Brigade! Above the Best! Set the Standard! Yell Cliches Loudly!). I’ll write about the Wheel of Taclanes to which we’ve been strapped, rotating slowly in agony, in a future post, but suffice it to say that it sometimes feels like we’re the first unit to ever mobilize here. One would think that they’d have the network figured out by now, but…

The amount of preparation that is given to each American fighting man (and woman) is staggering, and largely invisible to the average civilian. In the last three days, we’ve been subjected to a battery of administrative procedures and medical tests that boggle the mind, both in their scope and in their efficiency. All of the pay, legal, and other administrative issues were handled the first day, which included, but is not limited to: combat pay, housing allowance, subsistence allowance, life insurance, family life insurance, spiritual health, health insurance, emergency contact information, next-of-kin, wills and power of attorney, and free MP3 players with relaxation music.

On the second day, we ran the gauntlet of medical procedures, that dreaded ritual of Army life that involves sore arms and interminable line-waiting. My day went quickly, since I only had to get a hearing test, do a half-hour cognitive assessment, sign up for new glasses, get two vials of blood drawn (HIV test and chickenpox (!) test), get four shots (including the burning needle of anthrax shot #5), and talk to a doctor. Other activities included dental screenings, smallpox inoculations, and pregnancy tests for the ladies.

Today we got yet more equipment, totaling about $1600, which was only eight items: four ballistic armor plates, a duffel bag (my fifth), a poncho and poncho liner (in digital camo pattern!), and yet another neck gaiter.

As much business as we were put through, what isn’t immediately obvious is the tremendous level of organization that occurs behind the scenes to make the whole process work smoothly. How many people had to do their job before the medic stuck the anthrax needle in my arm? The medic who delivered the shot, the people who handled the syringes, the clerks who ordered the doses, the truckers who delivered the stuff, the workers at the factory who produced the vaccine…so the trail goes, and back again, until there I am in Wisconsin, woozy and sore from being stabbed and bled.

And so we’re the most exquisitely prepared fighting force in human history, with every possible administrative, medical, and logistical duck in a row, swaddled in thousands of dollars of Kevlar and ceramic armor, all to fight an enemy who shits on rocks and carries nothing but a bowl of rice and a Kalashnikov. There’s something profound about the clash of cultures in that image, but that’s best expressed in another post.

After two weeks together, the company is just starting to wear in. Like the parts of a machine, groups of people need time to break in before operating at full efficiency; each person and group has different threads and teeth and splines and ratios and hardnesses, all of which must be reconciled if the group is to work together. Some are composed of materials too hard, or have broken parts, or are too worn down, and thus will never align with others, reducing the effectiveness of the whole.

In the Army, assembling a team is often like putting an engine together using spare parts picked randomly from a mixed bin while blindfolded. You don’t always get to choose your people, so you just take a look and hope you got good ones. The idea of the military system is that, ideally, everyone is as close to a baseline spec as possible, so that you’ll be putting your engine together with parts from a single blueprint, instead of some from a Nissan V6 and others from a Cummins turbo diesel and others from a leaf-blower. This works about as well as can be expected, but it doesn’t account for differences in personality, which seem to account for most of team problems.

Team S6 is coming along well, since by blind luck (remember, blindfolded parts-picking) we ended up with a compatible team. Our integration with the rest of the staff, though, is not going so well. Already we’re falling into the old computer guy trap of responding to immediate requests as they come in, rather than prioritizing and directing traffic, which is turning our operation into a dog’s breakfast of scribbled notes, hastily-made spreadsheets (fucking spreadsheets!) and terse e-mails. Hopefully, this will just be a temporary phase during annual training, so that when we arrive at the mobilization site, we can reboot our operation in a more structured mode.

We’re also suffering from the “too many chiefs, not enough Indians” problem, being rank heavy. We have a captain, a warrant officer, an E-7 (soon E-8), an E-6 (soon E-7), another E-6, and two E-5s. Sergeants and officers all, we’re all used to giving orders and getting things done, which makes for a lot of crossed paths.

My dad always says that alcohol is a “social lubricant,” and we applied some of that last night, since the first sergeant surprisingly “lit the lamp,” as they say, and allowed us to drink – two drink maximum! We drank while playing a couple of rousing games of Three-Dragon Ante, and while Borg barfed during the night (he blamed it on the canned oysters), we enjoyed ourselves, breaking in the team and looking ahead to the next year together.

Perhaps ironically, our first task on the first day of this new deployment was weapons qualification. Unlike The Last Time, in which every training event was laden with portent and every task a reminder of the grim, guns-blazing drive to Baghdad we were about to face – I’m not gonna lie to you, we’re gonna get hit! – this journey begins with a jaded attitude of “let’s get this Army shit out of the way so we can get to the desk work.”

[An aside about The Last Time: inevitably, this deployment will be continually compared to the last one. Unfortunately, this entire thing will be viewed through a lens of comparison, which I think will reduce greatly the sharpness of my observations. I'll try to keep things as fresh as possible, since I'm getting tired of my comparisons already, and I'm only on day three.]

Stone cold pistol shooter

Does this look like a guy who fixes your computer?

In a rare fit of common sense, it was decided that everyone “going forward” would only qualify with the M9 pistol instead of the M4 carbine, mostly for logistical reasons I suppose, since there’s no sense in transporting a bunch of weapons for people who will never use them. I was thrilled about the news, since a) I’d never qualified with the M9 and b) it’s a much shorter, easier qualification process, which meant less time spent soaking up the sun (or rain or…) at the range. At least, that was the idea – an idea which would be proven wrong in short order. Like some sort of blob, weapons qualification always expands to fill all available time, regardless of the difficulty or length of the task.

We arrived at the range at 0730, but it took hours for the range to open, for various reasons that remain unclear to me. Then, firing was repeatedly interrupted for aircraft flyovers, since apparently any air traffic shuts down range operations, no matter how high or what the flight path looks like. My turn to shoot came around 1100, and after a warmup round, I shot expert, hitting 27 of 30 targets. This may sound like a great feat of marksmanship, but you get 40 rounds to hit 30 targets, and the targets are all E-type silhouettes, which are human torso size. The targets are ranged from five to twenty-five meters, and all hits count, which makes for a fairly easy course of fire, if one has experience with a pistol.

I spent the rest of the day on the line, serving as a range safety. Luckily the weather was good – hazy and 60s and 70s – and we somehow avoided being rained on. Unfortunately, some had a great deal of difficulty with the M9 (mostly because of flinching), which meant I spent about eight hours on the line, until we broke for dinner, only to return for night fire.

That’s not to say that we ended up with a company of expert pistoliers; some had a great deal of difficulty, largely because of flinching. After my turn at shooting, I was pulled for range safety duty, so I spent the rest of the day in a road construction vest, checking pistols and picking up spent brass. I guess the vest was so that the range safeties wouldn’t get hit by any passing dump trucks or something.

We bitched mightily about night fire, though we were in bed before midnight, which is more than you can say if you’re shooting rifles at night. Despite everyone’s grousing at the time, I can’t now elucidate why this range was particularly bad. In light of some of the ranges I’ve visited in my service, it was downright functional. Maybe it just seemed inappropriate to start a year of Army time without bitching, warranted or otherwise.

It’s just a footlocker, but that few cubic feet might as well contain a black hole, creating an event horizon beyond which I cannot see. Staring into the box, trying to decide how to fill it, I’m gripped with indecision. What to bring, when your life for the next year is reduced to three bags and a box?

This weekend, we loaded our bags for shipment overseas. We won’t see them until the peak of summer in the mideast desert, when the hot-on-the-eyeballs wind greets us and we curse it from the very first blast. It’ll be like a time capsule, opening that box to see what I thought was important months ago. I hope my foresight is accurate.

The load so far consists almost completely of comfort and entertainment, since all essentials will be provided. A blanket and some sheets will give color to our cell, and will beat sleeping in a bag for a year. A practice pad, books, and sticks will let me practice my drumming, since even a Rock Band set is impractical in our shared quarters. Board games, my new obsession, will help pass the time, though I have a burning desire to fill the entire box with them, so desperate am I to avoid boredom. Other tools and useful equipment round out the load, though I can’t help but think that I’m forgetting something critical.

The whole thing veers into life-as-RPG territory, as I visit the item shop to get geared up for the unknown mission. Inventory space is limited, so you have to try to cover all the bases, yet not spread yourself too thin so as to have bits of useless stuff. Luckily, my base stats are good, so equipment doesn’t matter as much, but still…

On the night before drill, I felt like I was really leaving the next day, as I scrambled to throw things into the box. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t really leaving, that there was still a month to go, and that it’s not like we’re deploying to Mars. If something gets left home, I can acquire it or have it sent to me. But now that the bags have been packed away I feel much better, as if the physical weight of that stuff was an emotional weight as well, a weight now lifted. Maybe it’s that by loading that trailer full of bags, it’s a concrete signal that this journey, so long discussed and anticipated, is really about to begin, and I’ll do it with nothing more than I can carry on my back. Or, maybe it’s that I should heed Friar Laurence’s advice to Romeo:

A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love:
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

Indeed, there are many worse ways to start a journey than  friends at your side, sixty pounds of bags stuffed with ceramic, velcro, and ballistic nylon, and your loved ones, wishing well, at your back, waiting for your return.

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