UDT (Useless Deployment Training)

From the Soldier side: Back in Jan 2003 a bunch of us from the National Guard unit I was in were called up. We were told that we were being attached to another unit for Pre-mobilization Training for possible deployment to Iraq. So off we went for a few weeks of fun and paper work.
Then we went home and waited. The wait was not long when our own unit told us “you’re not going with that other unit because our unit has now been tasked with going to Bosnia.”

Oh cool! So I would get out of the job of going to Iraq. Great…I thought that meant that whatever happened in Iraq would all be over with and I’d never have to go. (I did go the next year, but this is not about that.)

This posting is about the Bosnia Deployment. The strangest thing I can say about going to Bosnia is I actually loved it. The job I got to do there was the absolute best damn job I ever got to work on in my entire life!!! I loved the folks there, I loved the country (despite the half a million land mines still scattered about) and I loved what I got to do. Someday I’ll actually be able to write about what I did there... (My main goal there was to not be an Ugly American).

One of the things I didn’t like about the Bosnia Deployment was the useless, poorly planned, off the wall, stupid ass, made up training we had to do before we went there. We were on active duty orders for a total of 9 months, but we actually were called in for over 60 days of training before we were even on orders. Most of the time, we’d get a call on a Wednesday or Thursday telling us to show up on Saturday. Many of these extra weekends were training conducted by other soldiers who’d never actually been to Bosnia or, apparently, even studied the country. The stuff that they were training us, was stuff these instructors made up. Crap.

This was really odd, since the US Army had been deployed in Bosnia for several years by that point in history, there was no logical reason that they couldn’t actually find soldiers who’d been there to come and train us. I suspect that these soldiers were trying to do the best that they could on short notice.

Even later, when we were on active duty orders and going through even more pre-mob training with the Minnesota 34th Division- The Red Bulls, we were subjected to even more really poor training.

Some of this training, that later proved to be wrong, was on the culture of Bosnia. You see, until just a few years before, there was no country of Bosnia. It was all part of the former country known as Yugoslavia. So, trying to train on the culture of Bosnia was difficult…made even more difficult by people who had poor information and seemed to just make shit up.

Once I was in Bosnia, I quickly learned that almost all the training we had been given was crap. Total crap. Even worse than crap. For, if I had not gone through this useless training, I would have no embarrassed myself when talking to some of the folks in Bosnia.

There were two basic religions in Bosnia. Orthodox Christians and Muslims. I could never tell the difference by just looking at them. One clue I did figure out was whether or not a village had a church or a mosque. (in police work we called that a clue.) If you knew me, you’d know I’d never “normally” say something to piss off somebody I didn’t even know. But a few times our retarded training did just that. After a while, I got smarter and started to ask my “terps” culture questions before I pissed somebody off.

One day I was walking in one of the mostly Muslim villages. The folks there really loved the Americans because our intervention into the war there prevented them from all getting slaughtered. They loved President Clinton and when we visited they always told us. (I never got around to explaining that if Clinton had not been such a pussy, we might have gotten there sooner and prevent more bloodshed.) This day I was in this village, I saw a man, Mohammad, walking with his wife a few meters in front of him. I was confused.
I stopped Mohammad and said: “I thought your customs required your wife to walk a few paces behind you.”

He looked at me with a toothless smile and said: “Yes, when they wrote the Koran, they didn’t have land mines all over the damn place.”



More culture training to come.
(Note: the dude who did our culture training for Iraq the next year, had never actually been to Iraq, but had lived in a country near Iraq 25 years before.  This would be like me giving a culture class about Germany to a bunch of folks from China-- Crap.) 

We went to war with e-mail~

From the Soldier side:  As some of my readers may know, sometimes I can't think of nothin' to write about...then at other times I have several thoughts of random stuff.  I was going through one of my old e-mail accounts and found some stuff I e-mailed from when I was in Iraq in 2005.  Some of this info may still be useful today for those who are getting ready to deploy.  So, in the interest of trying to help a brother or sister going off to war, here you go:

1.) For the rain season...(yes it does rain in Iraq) mix lots of oatmeal, Elmer's glue, rocks, and something that smells like shit with lots of water. Spread this everywhere you go and make sure it's at least a foot or two deep where you have to walk.  Only walk where this goo is.  Track it into your home, bedroom, work space, and your car. Make sure you put some in your ears, navel, nose and anywhere else. Make sure your feet and clothes are wet all the time and make sure the heater at home is broken so you can't dry out.

CI Roller Dude at Camp Fallujah, Iraq in spring 2005

2.) Make a vest out of bulky material that sticks out 5 inches and weighs 35 pounds. Put on a 5 pound hat, and carry a 7.5 pound stick with several pounds of stuff in pouches on your vest. Wear this everywhere you go including when you eat.

3.) Move into the garage and sleep on a cot with a broken leg. Have somebody open and close the garage door and turn on the light as soon as you fall asleep...then open it again and yell out: "Hey Joe, are you in here?" 

4..) Keep a lawn mower running outside all the time for the proper generator sound. 

5.) Carry a gun with you all the time, to eat, to shower, to the store, church etc.

6.) Have a neighbor throw fire crackers in your yard when you are in the middle of doing something, like eating...then run to a bunker---

7.) Build a bunker in your back yard for all the times you have to run into it...only make it 4 feet high and make the entrance 4 inches more narrow than your you and your body armor.

8.) Take a shower in the front yard with a garden hose--- only use cold water, and make sure it runs out before you fully rinse off. Once a week have your neighbor throw firecrackers and run to your bunker--totally naked. (with your weapon of course.)

9. ) have the electrical power shut off at random times.  Make sure during the day it's when the sun is the hottest and at night when it's the coldest so you never are totally comfortable.

8.) Only watch CNN on TV, 24 hours a day.... but as soon as they do a story on your camp, have the neighbor cut the feed (acting like a dumbass sergeant major).

10.) Have 6 main courses prepared for dinner each night, with potatoes, rice, noodles, etc, roast, chicken, pork, then eat a hamburger.

11.) Only drink Kool aid, but make it very watered down...only serve warm coke or soda.  When you actaully find Starbucks Coffee, it's only decaf. 

12.) Build a bathroom outside, and never leave any toilet paper by the toilet... have a hajji use it and get shit all over the seat. 

13.) Make up acronyms for everything you have and do, and make sure you tell nobody what they mean.  Then only use those acronyms for all conversations.  Like: "Please wear your IBA, FTF, APCO, thank you."


Update:  ACIRWS (All CI Roller Wire Service) Iraq------------In a surprise visit, OSHA inspectors swept through Iraq this week and declared that the Islamic extremists, various rent-a-martyrs, and other malcontents are creating an extremely unsafe workplace environment.




OSHA was also investigating complaints that Colt, Bushmaster, Beretta, AM General, Boeing, Sikorsy, McDonnell/ Douglas, General Dynamics and other aircraft manufacturers were making their products are entirely too noisy.

Silent. Nothing.

Silent. That’s the sound a person makes when they are no longer alive. Nothing. Nor more thoughts, no more words. No more laughing. No more crying. No more nothin’.



This is also the sound our news media has for our troops who die in war everyday. Silent. No words of the losses our troops suffer everyday.   Maybe a few numbers.  If you look on page 8, you might find some names.  But, pretty much, Silent. 

America’s First Sergeant, http://castrapraetoria1.blogspot.com/ reported the loss of another US Marine in Afghanistan. He died in what I consider a heroic manner. He’s still dead, but he died trying to save another human, and that is a friggen’ hero in my book.

Still, the press was silent. No headlines. No mention on any TV news. Nothing. Silent like the hero Marine.

Maybe a few weeks from now, or a few months from now, the media will catch up. But, if there is some famous movie star having marriage problems, that may bump the story off the media’s daily event. Maybe someday when the news is slow they’ll tell this story:

The Department of Defense announced the death of a Marine who was supporting

Operation Enduring Freedom. Cpl. Joe L. Wrightsman, 23, of Jonesboro, La., died July 18 while supporting combat operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan. He was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division, III Marine Expeditionary Force, Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii.

It doesn’t matter that it was a river that killed this lad. He’s just as silent as if a bullet or bomb had done it’s deed. It was his actions and as “Top” said:

“Upon hearing what happened on July 18 nearly every one of us that knew him immediately thought: "But Wrightsman can't swim!" Fortunately, America still breeds men with a bias for action who don't dwell on what they can't do. I imagine Cpl Wrightsman thought to himself: "I can't let this guy down!" Then he heedlessly went after a man who wasn't a fellow Marine or even an American.”

Many good citizens don’t get it. Why would anybody risk their life to help somebody else. Soldiers, Saliors, Airmen and Marines do it everyday. Cops and Firefighters do it everyday.

Why?

Because we’re supposed to. WE CAN’T DWELL ON CAN’T!!!

Semper Fi Joe.  I never knew you, but I'd be glad to have you on my team anyday! 

Yeah "Top" is tough.  A bunch of us are tough.  But when we loose a friend of ours... it hurts.  Most will never admit it.  But it hurts.

Flying Cars....

From the Cop side: Many years ago when I was a rookie cop first learning how to do police work, I was assigned to work with a traffic officer. I’ll call him “Jim.” I had the privilege of spending a whole 2 weeks with Jim and learned a lot about crash investigations. (There are very few “accidents” but lots of car crashes.) Most citizens call them accidents, but when a trained investigator looks at the mess, he or she can usually figure out in a short time which driver or drivers were at fault. The usual reasons for the “crash” are because one or more drivers violated some traffic law, or law of physics.
When you take away that "one factor" that if it had not happened, you wouldn't have had a crash---that is then your Primary Collision Factor PCF. 


One method I was taught at got pretty good at was estimating the speed a vehicle had been traveling at just prior to the crash. There were a few ways to figure this out, but one good bit of evidence often found was the skid marks left on the pavement.

Friction and"The Stopping Force"

A skidding vehicle is decelerated at a rate which is related to the frictional force generated between the skidding tires and the roadway. The friction is dependant on the weight of the "coefficient of friction".

(This may look like Bosnian writing, but it’s not) µ = V2 / 255 S

The following steps are used to find the coefficient of friction:

Now keep in mind, in my early days of police work, we didn’t have the really good pocket calculators that are around now. Some of this we had to do on paper.

Then I found a book with a chart that had all kinds of skid factors, so you could just look on the chart and be close enough.

I got pretty dang good at this shit…then something happened…in the 1990’s they came out with anti lock brakes. So much for all that skill and training…now the dang car would try to actually help a driver stop without skidding. Crap, no more skid marks.

But what do you do when the car you are looking at during an investigation violated the laws of gravity? Many of these flying cars are still unforgettable over 20 years later.

1980: I was on patrol in the nice friendly city where I started out working. I was dispatched to a motor vehicle accident with possible injuries. I responded from a few miles away with my emergency lights and siren on (Code -3). Upon arrival, I found a 1970’s something GM product on its roof with several yards (meters) of debris scattered along the road. The speed limit on that road was 35 MPH, so at first I had a difficult time comprehending how a car could end up like that.

I parked my marked patrol unit in a manner to protect the crashed vehicle and myself while I checked for injured persons. When I got up to the crash, all I could see were a pair of female legs sticking out the passenger side window. That was the only part of her body I could check for a pulse---but I lacked the Human Anatomy background at that time to know where to find a pulse besides the carotid and radial pulse (neck and wrist).

So, I did the next best thing and yelled: “Hey lady, are you OK?”

She moaned and moved, so I figured she was still alive. Then she started to swear…and that was when I could smell the “strong odor of an alcoholic beverage upon her breath and person.”  She was alive. 

No need for me to say that she was a very intoxicated driver. She went to the hospital and was booked in abstention due to her injuries. She fully recovered from the crash by the next day.

But, what a mess. I had to do the “T.C” (Traffic Collision) report. I blocked off a lane of traffic and got out my “roll-a-meter” and walked from where the car had landed, back to where it had first impacted the curb, brush, fire hydrant, street signs etc. It left only 50 feet of locked 4 wheel skid marks before it impacted the curb.
Then it lost control, went sideways, and landed on its roof….and slid for about 100 yards.

I had no way to figure the speed of a metal roof slide….maybe at least 85 MPH?


More flying car stories to come.

Model 57, Soccer Ball & Шљивовица

From the Soldier side: As most of my readers know, I am a very careful person and I follow the rules. I have rules about handling weapons and things that can hurt people (like cars.) One of those big rules is to not drink and drive and not drink and handle guns. Mixing alcoholic beverages with either can lead to bad things happening.


This story also has something to do with soccer balls. Can anybody tell me why in the US we call soccer, soccer and the rest of the world calls it “football?”

Anyway, this story goes:

This one time in Bosnia (sung to the tune of “this one time in band camp” from the movie “American Pie”). In the late part of 2003 while I was on deployment with SFOR 14, I had just taken on a new team member. His name was “B” (for this story the names were changed to protect the innocent.) “B” had just been re-assigned to my team after his team got moved around and split up. Don’t ask me why his team was split up, as that is a long, boring story.

.....as I was starting to say, “B” was a good soldier and got along well with everybody. He also liked to trade things and had accumulated a good collection of military items since he’d been deployed. These were all items that were legal for us to bring home and some of them were pretty dang cool!

As soon as “B” was put on our camp, he started talking to some of the locals who worked on the camp. Within a few days, he knew a guy who had a buddy, who knew a dude, who had a brother …or some such shit who knew this former Bosnian Army commander that had some military items from the Bosnia war that we could purchase or trade for.

“B” came to me and asked if on our next mission we could stop by this guys shop and see what he had. I always liked to explore and meet new people, so I said: “sure, why not.”

This dude had all kinds of “stuff” (the polite word for shit) at his shop. After we did some trading and talking, he invited us to his home for a drink of Шљивовица šljivovic (Slivovitz).

This was also called Rokia, or if it had been made in America, we’d called in Moonshine.

It was home made from plums, and was estimated to be around 150 proof! Hot stuff.

The first time I tasted it, I thought it tasted like rubbing alcohol and lighter fluid. But after a few months, I actually got to where I liked it.

The "rule" for some of us in Bosnia was, if anybody offered you a drink of Slivoitz, it was ok to take a sip, but never drink more than one shot. It was mighty powerful stuff that would kick your ass.

We went to the guy’s house. It turned out he had been an Army commander during the war in Bosnia. He was a hero and actually committed no war crimes! He explained to me what a hero was: “A hero is somebody who does something that has to be done when nobody else can or will do it.”

Simple.

Then, “B” sat down and had a shot of Slivovitz. I just sipped mine. I didn’t notice, but “B” drank his shot down…then the former Army commander poured him another, then another, then another. In short time, “B” had several shots.

Then we started talking about guns. “B” started telling the former Army commander what a great shot I was with a pistol.

So, the former Army commander brought out his old Army pistol.

(I had my M9 hidden under my shirt.) He handed me his old Model 57, 7.62X 25MM pistol and pointed to a flat soccer ball on the hill behind his house and said: “can you hit that foot ball?”

I looked around and saw that there were only trees beyond the soccer/ football, but I had to ask what the neighbors would think. He said: “Oh, they won’t think anything of it. Go ahead.”

I took the old Model 57 pistol in one hand, lined up the funky sights and pulled the trigger. The soccer/ football was about 40 yards away. I missed it by about 6 inches. I checked the pistol and saw it was empty. I asked if he had any more ammo. “Nope, that was it.”

Dang it. One shot and I missed… and I only had one drink.

“B” was useless to drive us back to camp, so I had to drive. I really wanted to keep that Model 57 pistol. It was kind of cool.


(So, what…are you disappointed I didn’t get into some kind of gun fight or something?)

--

About 12 pounds of pressure...

From the Cop Side: When I started out as a young copper over 30 years ago, we were issued nice shiny new Stainless Steel Smith and Wesson Model 66 .357 magnum revolvers. At that time, they were about the best pistol you could get. (I still think the Colt Python was the best revolver ever made, but they were too expensive to issue)

S&W Mod 66

As a kid in the police academy I learned how to fire the Smith and Wesson revolvers “double action.” The means without cocking the hammer back. On a un-modified revolver, this took about 12 pounds of pressure. If you cocked it, it only took about 4 or 5 pounds of pressure.

The entire time Smith and Wesson has been making double action revolvers; they really haven’t changed much at all. If you fired one made in the 1950’s it felt about like one made in the 1980’s.

I’m sure there are some who read this and argue that you could “work the action” and make it smoother and lighter…but for an issued weapon, we did not mess with them.

I remember how proud I was when I got hired on and went in to the station for all my equipment issue. They measured me for my uniforms, issued boots, gun belt and when they handed me a brand new in the box Stainless Steel Smith and Wesson Model 66 .357 magnum revolver, I was very happy. I did not get a used revolver, but a brand new one…never been issued to any other copper. That was a good day in 1979.

12 pounds of pressure

My first night on patrol by myself after I was off the F.T.O. (Field Training Officer) Program, I was so happy. I look back now and realized I really had no idea what the hell I was doing... and if we had a cop today with no experience, he or she would get a good solid 18 week with a few F.T.O’s, not the two weeks I got with some old guy on day shift who kept falling asleep as I drove the car around.  I really DKS (Didn't Know Shit)

…anyway, my first night I made 3 felony arrest and got into a foot pursuit. Well, I actually didn’t chase the idiot who ran away from me on foot…he was on foot, I got into my patrol car and figured I’d just let him get tired and all. He ran for about 6 blocks, never realizing that he wasn’t going out run that old Dodge V-8, but he finally just got tired and fell down. Fat kid was really out of shape. He just went to jail tired.

A few months later is when I remember the 12 pounds of pressure.

One of the other coppers I was working with one night--let's call him John--- called out on the radio that he was at some kind of disturbance at the Stop & Rob Market. I rolled over to back him up. As the other John the cop was talking to some dumbass about not disrupting life and peace of the rest of the world, two other turds were walking out of the store arguing. It was a very loud and nasty arguement...lots of bad words and yelling. 

I was trying to cover my partner, but I had to turn to see if the other two were going to be a threat to us. One of the turds had a small pocket knife in his hand and was telling the other turd that he was going to cut him.

Without even thinking or realizing it, I had my Shiny Stainless Steel Smith and Wesson Model 66 .357 magnum revolver out of my holster in my hand and pointed at turd with a knife much quicker than I could have ever drawn if I was only at the range.  That draw impressed me and I don't think I've ever been able to draw that fast again.  It was truly amazing. 
I began yelling for turd with the knife to drop the knife, drop the knife, drop the knife, drop the knife, drop the knife,drop the fucking knife. All for nothing as he didn’t even blink or turn to look at me.

.....the other cop finally figured that what ever I had going on was now more important than the loud turds he was talking to….and he called for more cops. I’m not sure where he thought they were coming from, because I knew that we were the only two cops within miles who were not really busy. (yeah I know of TV they always have plenty of cops for everything…but this was real life cop work in them days)

So, by this time my partner John, was now looking at turd with a knife, except where John was standing John couldn’t see the knife. I’m standing there yelling at the idiot to put the knife down, and now the cop I was backing up is my back up, but he still doesn’t see the problem so he’s just standing there with nothing useful in his hands. (Something useful in those days might have been a baton, gun, or mace).

So about the 50th time I yell at turd with a knife to drop the knife, I realize that he’s not looking at me, but he’s lookin’ at the other turd whom he’s pissed of at about something. I think to myself: “Maybe he doesn’t see that I’m a cop because he’s not lookin’ at me standing here with the blue uniform, badge, police patches, cop haircut, cop mustache, gun belt and this really big friggen gun in my hand.”

So, I say a few magic words: “I am a police officer, drop the fucking knife or I am going to shoot you!!!” in my best outside voice.

He dropped the knife, I spun him around, put on my shiny new handcuffs and threw him into the back of my patrol car before a crowd could form and come and rescue his dumb ass.

Oh yeah, when he dropped the knife, I kind of looked down and my pistol and realized that I had already applied about 6 pounds of pressure on the 12 pound trigger. He never knew how close to being shot he was. I was really glad that I did not have to shoot him.

The "Gunner Dance" Part II

(from a March 08 posting, a story about a mission into Baghdad in spring 2005)


From the Soldier side: Well, I took a few days off from "blogging" (where did that word come from, sounds like someone got sick on the computer...He blogged all over the keyboard.) Well, I got complaints that I was taking too long getting on with this story. Now don't forget, it's not the job, but how you had to get there that made for the "rush" and adventure.

M-249 SAW- Squad Automatic Weapon

Gunner Dance: Part 2. As our convoy of 3 Hummers exited the main gate, we paused to charge our weapons. I chambered a round in my M-4 ( a 5.56mm gas operated carbine that could fire semi auto and 3 round burst) and my M-9 (a 9mm 15 shot pistol made by Beretta.) I had field stripped both the night before to clean them and make sure they were in perfect order...I knew they'd work if I needed to fire them.

The hero of this story is the Gunner. I was sitting next to "Big J" who was standing up in the turret with the M-249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon ( a gas operated belt fed 5.56mm machine gun) pointing forward and around in a 180 degree arc.

As we got further from the base, local traffic got worse. Remember, Baghdad was the worst place in Iraq at that time (early 2005) and it had more people in one city than Bosnia had in the whole country!

We had heard that suicide bombers would ram a car full of explosives into convoys, so every time a car came at us from an intersection, Big J would spin around the gun and hold up his hand and blow a whistle. He was so big, 6-6 and over 250 LBS, I think he scared the shit out of a lot of would be suicide bombers just by his size.

The entire time we were driving, Big J kept spinning and jumping around in the turret always looking for a threat and keeping cars and people away from the vehicle. He never stood still...not for one second.

I had two concerns: #1) Keep scanning out the windows and look in whichever direction Big J was not look.

#2.) Keep my hands and other body parts away from Big J’s feet as he danced around next to me.

It was hot and I was sweating just sitting on my ass in the rear passenger seat....even with the AC on full blast. I know Big J was getting a work out. Every once in a while he'd yell down for me to hand him a bottle of water from the ice chest. He emptied a few liters in a short time... and still kept dancing around.

Every time a car came towards us, I would get ready to drop my window and point my M-4 at the car and fire if it didn't stop. But there was never any need for me to take any action since Big J had us covered.

45 minutes later, we were at the FOB where I had to do my investigation. I still can't discuss that, but the chow at that FOB was some of the best I'd had in Iraq. I completed what I could do for the day, as we had to head back by 1500 hours.

We loaded back in the Hummers and drove back. Big J doing the same dance the whole way. One Iraqi pulled in front of us and seemed to not know we were behind him...trying to pass. This is what we called in Civilian Law Enforcement as a "HUA Driver" (Head Up Ass) So the team leader told his driver to give the car a little "tap" to get his attention. That did it and the idiot moved out of our way. I so wish I could do that back home in the patrol car...and don't think I haven't been tempted.

When one old Iraqi Toyota pulled infront of our convoy and drove slower than Driving Miss Daisy, the team leader told the driver to give him a bumper tap.

Big J never stopped dancing the entire time. Thinking back on it now, I might have called this “Dancing with the Stars”

We made it back to base without incident (sort of). I got out of the Humvee feeling very tired. I looked at the 3 gunners, the drivers, truck commanders and the team leaders and thought:"these guys do this almost every day and I just did it once and feel worn out." (this would not be my last ride) Those guys were real heroes.

In June 2005, Big J was doing the Gunner Dance on a convoy into Baghdad. His normal team leader was called off for something else that day, so another friend of mine, Roberto, took the team out.

An IED hit that Humvee that day, killing Roberto, and severely wounding the two new replacements and Big J. We were told Big J was medivaced to Germany, and he might die.

He did his Gunner Dance for the doctors and is back on duty for the California Army National Guard. Roberto is taking teams out in heaven everyday.

I called it: "The Gunner's Dance"

(OK readers...I have to go off to some cop training this week, but I couldn't leave you all hanging.  This is Part II of a three part adventure I posted in March 08.)

From the Soldier side: For those who've been reading my blog for awhile, you know I think I'm very lucky to have worked with some real honest to God heroes while I was in Iraq.

M-1114 Up Armored Humvee-Turbo Charged with .50 Cal

Mission East Baghdad Part 2:


The "team leader" (I'll call him "W") for the convoy I needed to hitch a ride on was a one of the best leaders I knew in Iraq. He did everything he could to keep his folks alive. One of the people who worked with him on almost every mission is a man I'll call "Big John" the gunner. Now as a team leader, for a very small convoy( 3 Humvees) going into Baghdad 6 days a week, "W" could have taken the #2 vehicle "Victor" position in the convoy and had one of his security teams take the lead...but "W" would have none of that...he lead the way.

(In most IED attacks at that time, the first vehicle was usually the one hit and killed.) For my mission, I wanted to ride with "W" in his truck and have Big John as the gunner. I gave Big John a lot of his weapons training prior to going to Iraq, so I wanted to see how he took the training...he exceeded my expatations!

The morning that I was to go with these guys, I have to admit, I was a little worried. I'd only been on a few convoys so far, (and I'd been in country 4 months at this time) but "W's" teams had been out about 70 times at this point. I wasn't worried about insurgent assholes, I was worried that I wasn't as good as these guys.

For the convoy briefing, "W" said I'd ride in his truck so we could chat on the way out. I felt good about this, so I loaded my spare ammo and crap in the back seat. Big John would be standing beside me in the gun turret. My secondary job would be to take over the gun if the gunner got hit or anything....so I went over the weapon really quick with Big John. It's funny now he was the teacher... Like where the extra ammo belts were stored, current rules of engagement, sectors of fire, etc.

The brief was done and we started rolling towards the big gate on the other side of the camp...to roll out into Baghdad....I'm glad that I had eaten a big breakfast (remember one of my rules of combat: "you can't shit your pants in fear on an empty stomach!")

To be cont.

It's not the job, but how we got there that was exciting!

(This is a recycled story from March 2008, this was when I was telling the "public" version of some of my Iraq missions.- CI Roller Dude)
From the Soldier side: OK, on with the next mission story...this will be called:" Mission: East Baghdad."

USMC CH 53

When I returned to base from my last mission at Al Asad, I was told that I was giving up my "team" and getting a new team and assignment. This assignment was coming from a very very high place...but the battalion I worked for was still trying to figure out who I was getting on my new team and where they'd get us a vehicle.

Airborne Taxi Cab Lightening thing patch

So, in the mean time, I reported each morning to the Ops office and drank coffee. My second day sitting in the Ops office I was approached by the civilian who worked there. We'll just call him " Jim". He asked me if I had ever done any kind of investigations before. I told him I'd been a cop for over 25 years at that point, and was a detective at one time and did a bunch of shit in Bosnia. He said that would work, so he told me of a little mission he needed me to do.

This sounded very interesting...the mission...but getting to the job was where the real excitement was. I would have to go to one of the Forward Operating Bases (FOB) in Baghdad. The funny part was, we were on the far west side of Baghdad and the mission was on the far east side. So, to get there required riding in a convoy.

I discussed the investigation with the civilian and then had to wait for one of our "teams" to return from a mission so I could ask the team leader if I could ride out with them one day to do my "job."

The team leader came in with his team at the end of the day. They were very tired, so I waited until he'd unloaded his gear and presented him with my travel needs. He was all for the mission, so he said he'd be happy to haul me out to the FOB in 2 days (they needed a few days to submit a trip ticket.)

Now, I had to get my self ready. Wow, riding a convoy into Baghdad, Iraq. When you looked at the average daily events in Iraq, Baghdad usually had more "Sig Acts" in a day than the rest of all of Iraq put together. It was a shithole of activity. IED, VBIEDS, Snipers, Suicide dogs, pot shot takers, bad drivers, Suicide Vest Bombers, camel shit, donkey shit, people shit and all kinds of other assholeinsurgents.
(And the really funny thing is...the roads were still better than the freeways in California!)

All I needed to do was get my gear squared away and have my notes ready for the investigation I had to do. The Drivers had to prep their vehicles, the gunners had to prep their weapons, the convoy commander had to make a route plan and list all soldiers who were going etc etc. I had the easy job.

To be cont.

My Flag Day....

From the Soldier side: It’s Flag Day (in the USA for my readers in other countries)

There are some special days when many folks put up the American Flag. I know some who fly theirs every single day. I regret that if I left mine up all the time, some delinquent would steal It.—which should be a special sort of crime I think.

I’ll ask both the Vets who read this and others, what does the Flag mean to you. I know I have folks from other countries reading, so I’ll ask you the same question. Your country’s flag should mean something to you. (I have a flag from each country I’ve “visited” out of a matter of respect for that country, but I only fly one outside my home.) If you live in some really screwed up country, maybe you don’t care about your flag. Sorry about your luck. (It's funny, I've been to some countries that have no runny water, but they have internet and cell phones.) 

Have a beer for the Army's Birthday!

When I was about 19 years old…a young Private First Class in the US Army in the famous Berlin Brigade – Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 6th Infantry C/2/6, we’d have to pull some kind of guard duty every few months.  Life was: Go to the field, go to training, go to guard duty, then go to the field, then go to training, then go on guard duty...repeat.
One type of guard duty we had was called “Brigade Guard”. This was guarding the Brigade Headquarters and special ammo points. This was mostly for show, but we took it serious because our sergeants wouldn’t let it be any other way. We were not really concerned about what anybody else thought, but we wanted to impress our sergeants—we had to since we looked up to them as some kind of Gods or something. After all, they were all Viet Nam Vets.

This type of guard duty required that we have two types of uniforms ready. The Army “Class A’s” with all your awards and stuff (I think I had one ribbon back then) and the old OD Green Fatigues. The Class A’s were worn with jump boots tucked into the pants –“bloused.” The Fatigues were highly starched and pressed--- like cardboard. We were inspected before each guard mount and if we weren’t perfect, the sergeant would send us back to our room to correct the problem.

The jump boots were highly polished, so shiny, that they looked like glass when we were done. Just to help them shine a little bit better, we’d put a little Glo-Coat floor wax on them. Man what a shine. Good thing we didn’t have to kick anybody’s ass, or the shine would have cracked off.
I figured the first time I was going on Brigade Guard that I’d get stuck on the ammo point. After all, I was the new guy just out of AIT (Advanced Idiot Training).

Nope.
The Platoon Sergeant looked at me, asked me some questions about my “General Orders” and such. Then he told me to put on my Class A’s…I was going to be on the Flag Detail.

This elicited a bit of bitching from some of those who’d been there longer than me. This was an honor…and the best detail. All we had to do was raise the flags in the morning and take them down in the afternoon. We didn’t have to rotate on and off a 4 hour guard post every 8 hours. Cool!

I don’t know why, but every time I stood by the Berlin Brigade flag pole and raised or lowered the flags each day, I felt something special.

Keep that weapon pointed down range!!!

OK, don’t tell anybody I got all warm and fuzzy, it’d ruin my image.

Out!

Sight Picture, Breathing control...

A re-do of an old post.

From the Soldier side: When asked: "CI-Roller dude, how did you get your team and yourself to keep going out over and over whilst in Iraq?"


I know some of you reading this are in leadership positions, and others are, but don't yet know it. I used a combination of things to get my team and the teams I took over to keep going. If I didn't tell you this story...when we were going into Falljuah on our first mission, in Dec 2004, I could tell my lads were a little uptight the morning we got up before the mission. I looked at them and could see it on their faces.
As we loaded stuff from our tin cans (trailers) to take with us, I told them: "we need to go eat a big breakfast!"
"Eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, oatmeal, cereal, apples, oranges, SOS, coffee, tea, milk, orange juice, toast, everything we can eat!"

The younger soldier looked at me and had a puzzled face and said: "I'm not sure I can eat anything right now..."

I looked him right in the eyes and said:
"Men, you can't shit your pants in fear on an empty stomach."

That got them to breath, laugh and we had chow and drove on.....
Somebody asked me one time, if I had to shoot anybody in Iraq, how could I do it.  I answered with:
"Sight picture,control your breathing....trigger press.  FIRE!