The Gun Line MkIII

LSA Balad…

0800

It’s a gentle awakening…  The light through the blinds casts enough light for my brain to register that it isn’t night anymore…  I open my eyes to see Phoenix’s face, the wallpaper on my laptop.  I am warm beneath the covers; warm, dry and safe.  There were times, in this very spot, when war-fighters lived out of their vehicles, and were threatened daily with close action and indirect fire.  I reflect on this, as I check my personal threat receiver, and thank God, as I do everyday, that I am in a place that reminds me more of the Marine Base at 29 Palms than a war zone.  I am lucky, and I know it.  I reflect on the price that has been paid on this very site, in blood, that allows me to lay snuggled under a homemade blanket and be lazy about getting up.

Somewhere below deck I feel an overpressure warning, so I throw back the covers, don sweat pants and fleece, and stumble out of the CHU, treading on the square pads of concrete (and hitting most of them) as I make my way to the green porta john that sits on the edge of the walled off pod.  I am surrounded by the blast barriers that protect each “block”, but even here there are little birds, they look like chickadees, flitting about in the cold morning air.  I wonder if they speak the same “bird” as the same birds back home, or do they speak “Iraqi bird”…

Taking care of business, I return, and fire up the hot pot…  Coffee time!  As the water heats to boiling, I fire up my browser, and check my e-mail, as a day has passed in the “world” while I slept.  Mom has left a message, including pictures full of deep snow drifts and a small rural American town under a thick blanket of snow.  I am chagrined: the nightly temperatures here barely dropped below freezing.  The walk to the porta john wasn’t even bracing…

Phoenix e-mails that the septic system in her rented house has suffered damage, and so she and her two young lads are evacuating to her mother’s, just across the river, and so we won’t be able to chat this morning, as we normally do.  Again, I think of past deployments, and, even further in the past, past wars, where a letter every month or so was the norm, and I am in daily communication with the outside world – it’s almost embarrassing…

I pad around in sweats and flip-flops, making my coffee, making my bed, and doing a little housekeeping.  I ponder thoughts, and lift my thanks for the day to my God, and wonder what challenges will be posed today; I am thankful that, no matter what they are, they will not be insurmountable.

0900

Time to start thinking about getting ready for work.  Tomorrow is gym and shower day, so I apply a few wet wipes as my ablution, fire up the electric razor to de-fur myself (mustache is coming along fine – first one I’ve ever grown!) change out of sweats and into uniform.  My fingers brush the combat patch (see previous post) and I remind myself that we are still in a combat zone, no matter the appearance:  I have to remain frosty, but not such as to lose myself in that semi paranoid mindset required of those who face IEDs or firefights everyday.  I don my ACUs, making sure I have my I.D. card, my casualty feeder card, my Iraqi bloodchit ( new since the SOFA agreement), my Mini-Maglite, Multipliers, and 30 round magazine on my belt.  I put on my boots, blouse my trousers, and, oh yes, sip more coffee.

I finish my coffee and putter some more, until it is time to go, at about 1030.

1030

I bike to work.  I expressed a wish for a bicycle before Christmas, and 1LT “Clapton” suggested that I go ahead and grab the mountain bike that had been chained to the t-wall right in front of his door, which belonged to a soldier who rotated out before we got here.  It’s ironic that 1LT “Clapton” is, at best, an agnostic, taking his strength from his own confidence in his abilities (he doesn’t believe as I do, but he does respect the individuals right to believe whatever he wishes – he’d also one of a handful of leaders I would follow through the very gates of Hell at the drop of a hat).  This “unbeliever”, believe it or not, turned out to be my secret Santa.  So I now bike to work, as part of my physical fitness regimen.

With my M4 carbine, “Shiva”, strapped across my back, I happily pedal off down the gravel alley to the main road, Pennsylvania Avenue, and take my way towards the Bone Crusher command post.  I pass SGT “Westminster” on the way.  SGT “W” is a prim and proper professional, taciturn and crisp, with a dry sense of humor and a high opinion of himself.  In my days of youth, I might have bristled and clashed with him but today I have no need to compete with him to determine who has the bigger balls; he is entirely competent, and his professionalism sets an example.  For me, he reminds me not to forget, in the loose way of the Guard, that I hold myself to a higher standard.  We will never be friends, but we work well together, and any elevated sense of himself he may have is his own affair, and I think he has earned it.

1045

I pull into the Bone Crusher compound.  I park my bike next the Operation Center, the command post.  It is a secured area; nobody enters without a security clearance, so I shall not go into any detail about it (besides, if you’ve seen one command post, you’ve seen them all…)

SGT “Irish” had the early morning shift, and is tired, manifesting his fatigue by an increased gruffness in his manner.  That’s fine, he’s also my neighbor back home, and I’ve seen his jovial side.  Here, the reasons to celebrate are subtle, and SGT “Irish” is anything but subtle.  I bid him a good morning, cheerfully, because it amuses me.

He gives me a rundown of the night’s events:  Nothing of significance this time.  All Bone Crushers are inside the wire.  We conclude our battle hand-off and he and the Specialist that stands duty with him depart.  I wish them good sleep, and he gives me as close to a grateful smile as his ursine demeanor allows.

Sergeant First Class “Crane”, the Operations Chief, is in his cubicle, and I pop my head around the corner to wish him a good morning.  I do this everyday, both to gauge his mood, and to let him know, in my own subtle way, that I don’t care what he throws at me, it’s not going to phase me.  I think that he has received the message…  He’s a good man, knows what he’s about, but we have clashed in the past as we homogenized.  Things are smoother now.

He’s in a good mood this morning, and I resolve to keep him that way.

SGT “Westminster” has arrived, along with our day RTO, SPC “Chen”.  The Company Executive Officer, 1LT “Columbo”, also called “the Sex-O” (not for any particular reason other than grunts will corrupt anything they get their mits on), arrives shortly thereafter.  The XO is a “sleeper”:  diminutive, boyish, with a goofy laugh and geeky ways…  And fangs three feet long and built like sabers.  “Don’t make me use my outside voice.” he chides, but when he does, hang on to your ass, because he’ll bring the Devil himself into line.  I really like him, he’s an effective leader, and is going to make one hell of  company commander someday.

Another cup of coffee, and at 1100, the work day begins…