“Do not leave the bunker!”

I have been on the road the past few days visiting the officers who work for me outside of the IZ. It was actually a nice break in my routine to get out of Baghdad and see some more of this country. Not only did I get a break from the endless meetings, but I was able to get a better understanding of what my officers are doing.

I was surprised to see that both locations have just as good (if not better) accommodations than what I have in the IZ. Now, when I say “good accommodations”, I’m speaking relatively good accommodations as compared to life back home. No matter how you cut, soldiers over here are not living in luxury compared to what they have at home. Having said that; I still have no complaints. The living conditions I have now are much better than what I had as a Second Lieutenant during Desert Storm.

Even though we have good food, clean living areas and actual plumbing, there’s no getting around the fact that you’re living in Iraq. But then again, there’s no sense in complaining about it so you might as well accept it. The fact is that everyone here is a volunteer and we all knew what to expect before we arrived.

I saw a bumper sticker that pretty much summed it up: “Embrace the Suck!”

But to be honest with you, I think it is good for a man to live a Spartan’s life from time to time. It cleanses the body as well as the soul and helps you appreciate better what you have at home.

One of the places I visited was called the Kirkuk Regional Air Base or KRAB. I liked it up there. It was big and open and I was able to going running outside instead of on a treadmill. The temperature was not as excessive as in the IZ and there were enough trees to help maintain your morale. Of course, anyone who attended our wedding (inside joke) or who knows me at all will see the humor in the fact that I felt comfortable at a place called “KRAB”.

While I was at KRAB, I took the above picture of an old Soviet made MiG 17.

Once done there, I hopped on a plane for the short ride down to Basra. The plane we took was a chartered flight and the plane itself seemed to be as old as the MiG I saw. It had a Ukrainian crew that spoke no English which made for an interesting trip.

During my second night in Basra, I was woken up when the trailer I was in started to shake. I thought that maybe the person next door had slammed their door shut. But then I had the camp alarm go off and I knew that it had been a mortar round impacting close by.

I got up and grabbed my gear as quickly as I could and followed the line of flashlights as they made their way to the closest bunker. I was very impressed by how quickly and orderly everyone huddled into the small cramped bunkers. Each one had a “bunker warden” assigned to it that took accountability of who was there and then ensured no one left until we were given the “all clear” signal. A loud voice would come over the camp PA system demanding that we “do not leave the bunker”. I can assure you that I had no intention of leaving the safety of the sand bagged igloo until I knew it was safe outside. We ended up making two trips to the bunker that night and didn’t get back to sleep until sometime after 1 am.

While I was sweating it out in the bunker, I couldn’t help but recall that my uncle had lived through this same (but more prolonged) experience as a boy. My uncle is British and is old enough to have lived through the Battle of Britain when residents of London had to spend their nights in bunkers due to Nazi air raids.

Back then, the enemy was on the offensive and brought the war to our doorsteps. Now, I feel the emeny is on the run and only able to get off sporadic shots at us and is limited to operating to a confide area.

When I got back to my bed, I came to the conclusion that it is far better for me and my comrades to live through this experience over here in Iraq than for Mara and the kids (and your kids as well) to live through a similar experience back home, the way my Uncle did.

We have a tie!

The results of the election are in and we have an even split between keeping the mustache and shaving it off, so in the spirit of democracy, I found a compromise that both sides can support.

Not really.

Actually, to prove that I haven’t lost my sense of humor, I took these pictures a few days ago to send to the family and now I’ll share them with you.

Although the voting was rather lopsided, what spelled the demise of the “stache” was the fact that I found myself pulling at throughout the day and that I had to constantly groom it to keep from looking very cheesy. It’s easier to just shave it clean every morning than to clip it.

Rest assured that I have shaved all of it off before going into work.

:-)

Bitten by the Baghdad “Bug”

Living abroad finally caught up to me this week. On Tuesday I found myself fighting off bad stomach cramps and a fever. By Thursday, I was dealing with some nastiness that I won’t get into. By midnight last night, I walked into the Army hospital down the road and let the good people there take over.

Apparently a very nasty virus code named the “Baghdad Bug” is making its way throughout the ranks in the IZ. I didn’t even have to tell the nurse my symptoms. She had seen it many times already.

I ended up get 3 liters of fluids pumped into me by an IV tube and was sent home with antibiotics. Ended up having to go back there in the morning for some more help. My boss gave me the day to rest and get my strength back up. I slept for a couple of hours this afternoon and now I’m starting to feel human again.

While I was in the hospital last night, an Iraqi mother and her small daughter came in. They had both been hit by shrapnel. I felt rather embarrassed for being there when I saw how badly the mother and girl were hurt. But what really left an impression on me was the manner in which they were treated.

I’m sure you have all seen TV hospital shows where everyone jumps into action as the ambulance arrives at the ER. Well this is exactly what occurred last night. It was amazing to see all of the US Army doctors and nurses work as a team to help them; the little girl in particular.

When I left the hospital, the mother was walking on her own and the little girl seemed to be getting all the help that she needed.

This may not be something you hear about too much on the news, but rest assured that the members of your military are doing great things for the people of this nation.

All for now.

My very own PSD!

For those of you who are complaining about not enough photos in my blog entries: here are some pics that I took mere minutes ago. These gentlemen are part of the Private Security Detail that is posted outside of the building that I'm currently living in.

I believe they are Gurka's. Either that or Romulans. I can never tell.

But one thing is for certain: I look like a giant standing next to them!

Honestly, there are numerous different PSD contractors from all over the world who are all over Iraq right now that are in charge with defending our camps, our office buildings and our convoys.

If I could just get around that pesty little Pinkerton Act, I would hire them to go on the offense and we Army types could all go home! :-)

Sorry, a little Army Contracting Officer humor. :-(

All is well

5 Complete Rows!

Well, I have been here longer than a month now, so that entitles me to wear the “Iraq Freedom Campaign Ribbon” on my Class A uniform. (The Army stipulates that you have to be in the combat zone for 30 days before you officially being recognized as had participated in this particular campaign. This stops people from showing up for a day or so and then declaring themselves as being an “Iraqi Freedom Vet”.)


Once I add that ribbon, I will have 5 complete rows of ribbons adorning my uniform. The standard row consists of 3 ribbons (or medals) that a soldier has earned. With this campaign ribbon, I now have 5 complete rows (15 different medals) and now must get ready to start my 6th row.

An accomplishment?

Something to brag about?

Perhaps.

Certainly there was a time when I thought so.

Back in ROTC, we cadets cherished the ribbons that we wore and would view them as a way to measure up against each other. Coming home from Desert Storm, I ensured that my fellow Second Lieutenants saw that I had the “Iraq Rack” of no less than 3 different ribbons, awarded to me for my service during that war, included on my uniform to show that I had been somewhere that many of them had not.

Through the years (and through the deployments I ventured on), my “rack” continued to grow and continued to impress more and more people; myself included. After “the Storm”, I got the “Bosnia Set” of ribbons that put me over the 3 row level and along the way I accumulated many ribbons based on individual achievements. Before I knew it, I had an array of multi-colored devices compiled on top of one another pinned upon my chest that stood out against the dull green background of my uniform.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Indeed, I am very proud of my ribbons and can quickly explain to you the name of each one and how it was earned. I will never disgrace my ribbons by throwing them to the wind like a politician who will remain nameless. I will kerry my ribbons with me forever. In fact, when my time in the military is over, I intend to display these ribbons in a place of honor within our house.

But as I accumulate birthdays as well as ribbons, I think the medals are becoming less a source of pride for me than some other multi-colored signs of accomplishments that I have started to compile.

I can’t help but think that these ribbons resemble the many different finger paintings and crayon drawings that my kids have produced over the past 5 or so years. And I can’t help but feel an even stronger sense of pride as I watch those drawing start racking up on top of each other on our refrigerator back home.

Maybe when I get home, I’ll place all 5 complete rows of ribbons on the refrigerator and have them blend in with the drawings my kids have made. But then again, that would take up room as my kids begin work on their 6th complete row of drawings.

Drawings that I would probably trade in all my ribbons for.

New Job

I find myself sitting at a different desk from the one that I first occupied a little less than a month ago. When I first arrived, I was assigned as the Chief of Contracting at the Regional Contracting Office-Baghdad. However, about a week ago, my boss quietly pulled me aside and told me not to get too comfortable. It seems that my small office had been identified to be absorbed into a somewhat larger office in the next few months. This move would pretty much leave me out in the cold without a place to call home (or “work” in this situation). So rather than wait for the inevitable to occur and then move me, my boss decided to move me now and have someone who only has a few months remaining in his deployment take over my original job.

So where does that leave me?

Well, I am now the Oil Sector Chief for the Joint Contracting Command-Iraq.

In a nutshell, I am responsible for overseeing the contracts that the US has in place to rebuild the Iraqi Oil Infrastructure (mainly, rebuilding pipes, pumps, oil processing plants, etc). Anything that deals with getting the oil out of the ground and getting it to market falls within my sector.

Now, of course, I am not making decisions about where to pump for oil. There is a whole office full of smart people working with the Iraqi Ministry of Oil doing that. But when those people need a contract to have a civilian company come in to do work to rebuild an oil plant, I’m responsible for making those contracts happen.

This has been going on since 2003 and we have major contracts in place throughout the country, so what I’m doing in overseeing the administration of those contracts and adding new work to them.

Its exciting work and I’m actually glad that I was pulled away when I was. I’ll be learning a lot from this job and getting experience with a type of contract that I haven’t work with before. I’ll also be able to do some traveling outside of the IZ from time to time. I’ve got a great group of people working for me and the days are certainly going by faster than in the other job.

When you think about it, I was born to do this job. I mean, after all, how many thousands of gallons of gas did I pump at my Dad’s gas station growing up?