Joshua Ball performs incognito in a Washington D.C. subway.

Washington, DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007…

The man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approx. 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

After 3 minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.

4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the hat sitting on the floor in front of the violinist and, without stopping, continued to walk..

6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

10 minutes:

A 3-year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

45 minutes:

The musician played continuously.  Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace.  The man collected a total of $32.

1 hour:

He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the Metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people’s priorities.

The questions raised: in a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:  If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made…

How many other things are we missing?

The past two months have been frustrating for me.  I have been trying to land a job, but I don’t seem to have found the right “groove”.  I can write well, but that skill doesn’t seem to carry over to resumes or cover letters, apparently.  I am taking advantage of the programs offered by both the VA and the Employment Security Agency, but there was a question of how my schooling fitted into the mix, and so I haven’t received any unemployment benefits for three weeks, and the GI Bill money is beginning to run out.  It’s frustrating, but I’m not destitute, just unused to the uneven tempo.  There are many out there far worse off that I am, and I am thankful for the roof over my head, the food in my belly, the fact I paid off my truck when I could, and the love and support of friends and family.  To vent too very much would be selfish, but not to vent would be to bottle it up and make it fester, so just consider this a bit of house cleaning.

Of a more serious note, I have noticed that I get anxious in crowds.  The crowds in a local store triggered some anxiety, not so much “fight” than “flight”, and Phoenix saw it, and suggested that I get out of the store for a breath of fresh air.  It’s a little disconcerting – I have no idea where that came from, as there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it…  If it continues, I’m going to double-time to the various programs offered by the VA, and “get it looked at”.

The good news is that my overall stress is manageable; I’m not “self-medicating”, and I’m not depressed.  The path is just a little rocky right now, but it will all work out…

At the tail end of every deployment, one of the rituals that the deployed soldier, sailor, airman, and Marine must perform is the “culling of the crap”…

For some reason, we seem to amass a collection of assorted health and comfort items during our stay on foreign shores:  Posters that livened the otherwise naked walls of our CHUs, letters, knick knacks that were iconic of the support we received over the course of the mission, and the well-loved debris of a time spent far from hearth and home.

Most of it is theater specific, and is boxed up to be passed on to the folks who relieve us, or left out in a public area to be scavenged by our fellow inmates…  All done under the auspices of the original sender, who approved the idea of succoring the poor schmucks who have to stay in resident in this armpit after we have kicked the dust from our boots and departed this blighted land on silver (or grey, or green) wings…

But there are things with which we would not part, and these are packed up in various containers, and either stowed in the CONUS-bound CONEX boxes with the Company’s gear, or delivered into the hands of the United States Postal Service for transport back to the World.

Yesterday, I delivered one such container to the Main Post Office here on JBB.

Entering the building, I first filled out the Customs Declaration Form, and then made my way to the sign that said:

WAIT HERE TO BE CALLED BY THE NEXT POSTAL INSPECTOR.

And then heard a surly “Next!”

The woman who called was obviously having a bad day.  Her face bore the expression of somebody who did not enjoy here job, was prepared to lambaste the miscreant who dared to flaunt the Rules and Regulations of the United States Postal Service, and had obviously been dealing with the worst that the United States Army had to offer.

“Put the box on the table.” She ordered.

“Good morning!” I exclaimed as I lifted the black footlocker onto the waiting tabletop.  (Devious soul that I am, I learned that a person who is determined to have a bad day is absolutely infuriated when they are forced to deal with a perky and cheerful fellow like your truely.   “Killing with kindness” – not just for breakfast anymore!)

She grunted, and then ordered me to turn the box around so that it might be emptied of all of its contents for inspection.  (I pity the poor soul who tries to send his assortment of whips, leather tutus, and ball gags back home!!!)

She continued to be terse as we emptied the various items out of the box: CDs, little stuffed animals, extra uniforms, a few coffee cups, my GPS unit, until we reached the bottom of the box, and she saw a layer of red flannel, trimmed with white fur, with little golden bells, contained in a protective garment bag.

She lifted the garment out of the bottom of the box, and recognized it for what it was, and I saw the realization of both the garment, her own conduct, and the implications…

She was being a sourpuss to Santa Claus…  Himself (incognito, of course!)

Santa and two Bonecrushers - Christmas in Balad 2008

The flash of Yuletide Red caught the eye of one of her fellow inspectors, a younger man with a more amicable personality, who watched the proceeding with interest…  He made eye contact with me, cocking an eyebrow to see what would happen next…

I couldn’t resist the opportunity…

MY inspector had to make sure that I wasn’t trying to smuggle anything out of the country in my Santa Suit (like a T-72 tank or .50 caliber machine gun), so she had to actually pat the suit down, and with each palpitation, the bells on the coat tinkled merrily.  I thought I saw the beginnings of a carefully restrained smile, and I even think that she gave the coat an extra shake, just to hear the tinkle of Christmas again.

“Did you buy it?” She asked, her demeanor rising through 32 degrees Fahrenheit, and ascending, “How much did it cost?”

“No.” I said, lowering my voice just an eensy bit, “It was made specifically for me.  The cost is paid when I put it on.”

She looked at me, “I have a certain reputation to uphold…” I explained.

The other Inspector sat back in his chair and began to grin.

My inspector looked me in the eyes, not sure to believe what she was hearing, but, boy, did she need something to brighten her day, even just a teeny bit.  (My Mother actually crafted the suit, as a functional garment, to last for years, and her workmanship is of the highest caliber…  But I am sure that, knowing Mom, she was channeling the essence of Santa’s elven tailors when she put THIS rig together.)

“My tailors have been doing this for a very long time.” I said, allowing just the hint of the deep base tones I use when I portray the Jolly Old Elf, and holding my finger to the side of my nose, causing the other Inspector to almost roll out of his chair in silent laughter.

“Uh-huh.” She said, and continued to inspect the suit, and tinkling the golden bells (a few more times than she really had to…)

We loaded the box back up, and she sealed it, affixed the required documentation and stickers to the outside of the box, and then gestured, with a wave of the hand that was far less surly than her original demeanor, where I should take the box for payment and shipping.  Her whole attitude was warmer.

I thanked her, and moved off to the counter, where I handed the box, suit and all, to the clerk behind the counter.  I paid the postage, and then left.

On my way out, I veered past the woman who had inspected my box, “Merry Christmas.” I said, in a low voice, and I meant it.  I didn’t think she heard me, and I kept walking.

… But just before I walked beyond earshot, almost at the exit, I heard a very quiet voice:

“Merry Christmas…  Santa…”

You know, every time a bell rings, that’s the sound of an angel earning its wings, right?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a Good Night…

Merry Christmas!!!

Particularly poignant here in Iraq.  It’s never too far from my mind, the fact that we have lost brothers and sisters on this very post.  Having been here for the better part of a year, and being the curious soul that I am, I know most of the place where, in times past, a lucky rocket or mortar round impacted, snuffing out the life of American warriors.  The scars of the shrapnel still pock the walls, despite the best efforts of the Facilities Maintenance workers to hide the damage.  I walk by one such place every day.

We carry on, however, and try to push the awareness out of our minds, and continue about the day’s business, ignoring the fact that we still face the same dangers, although our ability to defend against such things has increased considerably.

We do remember, however…

Memorial Day, 2009, began for me at 0530, when I gathered with the other Headquarters Bubbas for morning P.T.  I’d like to say that I lead these sessions, but the truth is that I am simply a participant, trying to wage a personal fight against a once expansive waistline and my “advanced years”.  It has been a hell of a fight, to that I will admit.

We gathered at Holt Stadium, for the running of the Joint Base Balad 5K fun run.  5 kilometers, not a far distance for a young warrior in his prime; barely enough distance to find his or her stride…  A hell of a long way for a old dog who doesn’t “run” so much as “lumber” along.

The race starts, and the pack moves out, the human greyhounds in the lead, the occasional runners in the middle, and then come the old, the overweight, the not-so-fast folks, like me, who simply plod, head down, moving forward, forward, out of the stadium, onto the streets of JBB, winding our ways through the side-streets and tributaries, stretching out as the seconds tick by.

I’ve made progress, though.  Through the encouragement of my amigos, I have stepped from the mind-numbing pain of the out-of-shape, to the normal aches and pains of the relatively conditioned.  The pain is there, but it is no more than is to be expected, and my mind is free to step into the “zone”, where the feet and legs are on autopilot, and the mind can go someplace else as the miles tick by.  I’m not a fast runner, but I am a steady one.  I am by myself on this trip.  In some ways this is good, in some ways bad.  I admit that I miss the formation runs with my fellow Marines, but, as has been pointed out to me:  I’m not in the Corps anymore…

I keep my pace, pleased at my progress, one foot in front of the other, dogtags clicking out a soothing rythymn as they click against my chest, and I realize that the end is near, the road to the stadium, and the finish line, is just up ahead!

I pull in:  One final lap around the stadium’s running track…  I’m tired, but moving well.  I reach the  halfway mark, and a voice calls out my name:

“Come on SGT B.!  Almost there!”

It is Specalist “Firebrand”, a young, cocky Scout, a strong athlete and a determined warrior.  He finished many minutes ago, but stayed at the finish line to encourage the rest of us.

I run, beginning to feel the wane of energy, but giving a better showing of myself than would have been expected even just a month ago.

Suddenly, I see SGT Snuffy on my left, and SPC Firebrand on my right, keeping pace with me, running with me for the last turn of the race.  It reminds me of the air war in WW2, where a lone, lumbering B-17, limping home, is suddenly joined by a pair of red-tailed P51s, who keep cover to the end of the mission.

Last turn, 50 meters to go.

“If we must end, let us make such an ending as to be worthy of a song…” said Theoden, king of Rohan, to Aragorn, at the Battle at Helm’s deep.  I reach deep, and am almost surprised to find reserves of strength…

Firebrand is carrying the company guidon, the flag that identifies the Bonecrushers to the rest of the world, and if you are going carry it, you had better be on your “A game”.  Firebrand holds it out, “Put you hand on it!  We’ll finish together!” he cries.

The old wolf inside of my growls, “Give it to me, I will carry across the line!” I growl, and he hands it off.  I take it, and my feet grow wings.  I see the look of a few Air Force runners, still standing around the finish line.  They look up at astonishment at the sight of this old war horse, thundering towards them with a full head of steam, sprinting now, flanked by two younger soldiers, each shouting encouragement.  They scoot out of the way, and our trio crosses the line…  There are few who will ever appreciate what has just happened…

But the memory will remain with me, always, of the morning when I broke through another level of my mind, with two of my brothers, two of my sons running beside me, carrying the colors of my company in a glorious finish…

It was a good showing, and I even got a t-shirt out of it!

The rest of the day is spent in quiet work; the Command Post is a steady source of activity.  I help to process some of the paperwork that will get us out of this place, interrupted only by when SGT Snuffy makes an appearance:  We have a pact, he and I, to help me recondition my upper body…  When we see one another, we drop, and do ten push-ups, nose to nose.  By the end of the day, we will have knocked out 100 of the damned things, with burning arms and chests, and we do it with grins on our faces, skimming the very top of that pool of camaraderie that makes men to ridiculous things when in stalwart company… Like win battles and wars…  SGT Snuffy doesn’t need to do this…  He does it for me, for whatever reward he finds in helping me become stronger, a smaller indication of a large realization:  We do not need to be here.  We could have chosen to remain home, safe and sound, and let somebody else leave hearth and home, and come to this foreign land…   But we didn’t…  We are here, by our own choice…

Why?

The sun sets, and I am afforded the opportunity to complete a final task…

I am not here for glory…  There are but four tasks I needed to accomplish here in Iraq:  First, GET here.  Second, earn the right to wear a combat patch.  Third, find myself.  Fourth, play the Pipes on the battlefield  for Those Who Have Gone Before, with my Commander in attendance…

I didn’t think that I was going to forget, did you?  The Pipes are alive and well, and on the evening of Memorial Day, 2009, before the flagpole upon which flies the Colors of our Nation, I struck up, and raised to the Heavens my tribute to the Fallen, with my Captain, my Captain looking on, the sweet sounds of “Amazing Grace”…

At the end of the day, I looked back.  It was a good day.

A day of achievements.

Why?  I asked that earlier…

I will tell you.

For Them…  It is all for Them.  I am here because of the memory of so many who have laid it all on the line for the principles of Freedom, and the willingness to risk their lives for it.  I could not meet their eyes, were I not to take advantage of the youth I have left to contribute to that Cause.

I sought the moral high ground…  Not for the sake of punditry, but to be able to simply say, “I was here.”

Lafayette, we have come…

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars

And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the King (COL Taur), Bedford (CPT Z) and Exeter (Snuffy),

Warwick (Dill Pickle) and Talbot (Crane), Salisbury (Jeff the Elder)  and Gloucester (Zoltan),

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

For my part, I remember older faces, lost before this current fight.

PFC Keith Woodfork, USMC, Marine Barracks, NAS Brunswick ME, taken by a drunk driver in 1985.  He was my roommate, and best friend.

SSgt Tony “Tigger” Molino, USMC, 33 Area Camp Services Admin Chief, MCB Camp Pendleton, CA, succumbed to cancer believed to be related to Gulf War Syndrome in 1996.  He, too, was a close friend, and my immediate supervisor, whose shoes I then had to fill.  My only solace is that he accepted Christ into his life during his last hours.

I miss you, my brothers…  I mourn you to this day.  Be at peace.

Conan of Cimmeria would tell you:

“To crush your enemy; see him driven before you, and hear the lamentation of his women!”

Wellll…  In today’s age, not so much…

What I would see is a country rebuilt.  A country strong in standing, rich in history, and full of realized potential.

However, in the warrior’s eyes, what is best in life is to bring home the weapons of a defeated enemy.  It shows that he was victorious in the encounter against someone who was trying to kill him, for how else could he have taken possession of his enemy’s weapon, but by vanquishing the foe.

Now, gentle reader, you must understand that my enemies in this country are not the people, but the remnants of a defeated government, and the criminals who would try to usurp power at the expense of their own people.

In this light, I take a great degree of satisfaction at the discovery I made here, and although I cannot bring anything home, the pictures speak for themselves.

(Truth be told, given some heavy lift equipment, shipping resources, and a toolbox, I could have a field day in this scrapyard!!!)

Dead Migs... How many of them dropped bombs on their own citizens..?

Mig-17...

T-72 anyone?

There is something satisfying about your own aircraft flying over the remains of an enemy’s…

I was fortunate, one of the vehicle maintenance operations aboard base is managed by an Iraqi, an Iraqi who speaks outstanding English, and has worked with Americans since the start of the war.  While I was getting one of our vehicles serviced, I had the chance to talk with him, and actually get into some deeper subjects; like how the Iraqis felt things were going.

“Haseem” is a slim man in his mid thirties.  His English is laced with properly used expletives when he speaks of foreign nationals coming to his backyard to kill Americans, and there is anger in his eyes.  He has served as an interpreter with the Coalition Forces, and carries the scars of five gunshot wounds, earned while leading American patrols through dangerous areas.  “If the Americans were willing to hunt down and kill the bad guys,” he said, making his point with the stab of a cigarette, “the least I could do was go into the house first.”

He is frustrated at the procedures to get aboard base, “We come in late, and leave early, by the time I get here, I’ve got five trucks waiting…”  Typical concerns of a business manager.

I point out that it won’t be too long before the Americans are out of here, and I mention that I see good signs for the Iraqis; they are actively pursuing the bad guys, kicking them out of their communities, “It’s not the Iraqis I worried about, it’ the Syrians, the Saudis, and all the guys who come here to take a shot at the Americans.”

“Yes! Yes!” he says, nodding emphatically, “And our own ‘religious leaders’-” he spits “who are filling our young peoples minds with garbage!  al-Sadr, he is a thug!  He is known for his father!  His father was a good man, well educated, but the son, he is not!  He is an ignorant savage riding the fame of his father.  He is no good!  al-Sistani, he is a man of peace!  He understands.”

I listen with rapt amazement.  Haseem is a patriot.  A patriot for Iraq.

The Iraqi people are a good, proud people, and to have us here is certainly a frustration for them, but they are well on their way towards breaking out of the mindset forced upon them by Saddam Hussein, and they are beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I will be glad when this place can be turned over to them with the knowledge that they are firmly in control.  There are many here like Haseem, who want their country back, and work with the Coalition to make it happen.  They understand that there is much to be done, and they are doing it, with their minds and their talents.

Someday, when this is over, I would like to visit here, to get to know this place in the light of peace.  To sit with a group of men my own age, drink chai, and swap stories.  I am proud to be here supporting that goal.

I had the chance to meet another local, “Achmed”, who was 22 years old, a newlywed of 3 months.  We talked about his home in the neighboring village, and how he and his wife wanted babies.  (I told him to keep practicing, it would happen, and he gave me a sly, sidelong look, and then laughed.)  We spoke of children like fathers and prospective fathers, and not once did we speak of war, or strife, or the troubles of the government, or anything other than what two men might speak of about their families and their homes.  I told him about my three boys and my daughter, and he wanted to know a little bit about them.  I told him how proud I was of my children, I told him their names, and want they were like, and my fatherly concerns about them.  When I spoke of Katie Kat, he was interested in how Americans regarded their daughters, and was impressed that I thought Katie Kat would go to college, and become a strong young woman.  (Very significant.)

I enjoyed our conversation, and bid him farewell at the end of the day…

I wish them both, Haseem and Achmed, prosperity and success, and I feel confident that men like these will take charge of this country and do well by it…

The workday begins…

In the CP, the oncoming shift familiarizes themselves with the happenings of the previous night.  Nothing out of the ordinary, this time…  I dread the day when I wake up in the middle of the night to the din of confused conversation as everybody tries to wrap their mind around a tragic incident, or I come into work, and find the entire command group there, with a small constellation of higher-ups on scene.  The day when a few of my brothers won’t be coming home with us…

…Hasn’t happened yet…  Didn’t happen to the folks we relieved.  if we play our cards right, and stick to our training, it won’t happen and I cling to that mantra.  My guys are professionals; they’ll do it right, and the only folks who won’t come home with us are the ones who left early because their shin splints or back started really acting up…  At least they’ll be alive and mostly in one piece.

1130

Chow…

Because of my skewed hours, lunch is actually breakfast, and my tummy is rumbling.  In my research of this place, I spoke to many veterans who said that it was not the enemy that I had to watch out for, but the DFAC (we used to call them “chow halls” in the old days…)  Not because the food is bad, on the contrary, the food is very good!  There is a wide selection of offerings, from main entrees of steak, pot roast, baked salmon, stuffed peppers, to the short order line, with chicken strips, sloppy joes, fries, onion rings, and even Mongolian Barbecue!  There’s the potato bar, the taco bar, the sandwich bar, the pasta bar, the pastry bar, and the ice cream bar…  It is a gastronomical minefield, waiting for the unwary to tread through its enticing terrain, packing on the poundage in a fete of gluttony and indulgence!

…  Okay, maybe a bit over the top, but I can assure the Mothers  of America that Johnny and Jane are being fed very well…

Chow takes about 30 minutes, and I get back in plenty of time to relieve SGT “Westminster”, SFC “Crane”, the Sex-O, and CPL “Zoltan” (our IT guy)…  I keep the place squared away until they return, and then it is time for my favorite part of the day:  Mail Time!!!

I jump into my trusty LMTV (the replacement for the old M35 “Deuce and a half”) and motor down Pennsylvania Avenue to the battalion mail room, where CPL “Red” is waiting.

CPL “Red” is a phenom in her own right.  Short, red-haired, well read and well spoken, with a roguish, rapier wit and a taste for fine cigars, she is the “big” sister to derned near everybody in the battalion who is open to such tings.  She can hold her own in a conversation laced with innuendos and double entendres, and make you wonder, at the end of it, who had the better time.  She is married, and furiously in love with her husband, and she is a good friend.  My day is brightened by picking up the mail and tossing esoteric snippets of conversation to and fro with one of the few females with which I will ever have any contact while at Balad.

I walk into the holding area, where the Bone Crushers’ mail is stacked.  There are boxes upon boxes, and I know that the Post Office stocks three types of flat rate boxes…  I know because I have carried them…  Sometimes I swear that the lads are ordering weight sets by mail…  I place the stacks on a hand cart and wheel them out to the truck, and load up the bed.  I check to see if something has arrived for me, and make sure that everybody is getting at least something in the mail, either the aforementioned boxes, or a letter.  Today, I see a box addressed to me, the address written in a familiar hand.  I give a celebratory “Hooray!” and set it up in the cab.  There’s a letter from Mom too!  Happy Days!

The truck loaded, I bid farewell to “Red” and motor off, back to the company, where I back up to the mail room, Shang-hi a platoon leader and platoon sergeant (who are normally waiting for me; the better to find out if they have mail before anybody else), and we load all of the assorted packages and letters into the mail room, where I then mark on a placard the guys who have letters (in red dry erase marker, for a “red letter day”) or a package (in blue, for “blue box).

(Want to take a guess at home long it took the lads to get that one figured out?)

I lock the mail room, and head back to the CP.

The rest of the day is spent getting ready for the night, and I shall draw the shade of security over this aspect, but to say that we coordinate our efforts, hold meetings, issue ammo, eat dinner, and perform assorted other tasks as the platoons come trickling in to start their “day”, so by 2000, I’m pretty much beat, and ready to call it a day.

2000

At 2000, I check out with the swing shift, answering any last minute questions, and making sure I have tied up any loose ends.  I  strap my rifle across my back, hop on the bike, and pedal myself back to the CHU.

From here I have many options…

I can hop on the bus to the PX for a re-supply run, and avail myself of the Burger King, Cinnebon, Subways, or Pizza Hut at the food court (Taco Bell is but a little further down the road…)  I can browse the smaller local merchant shops, or I can go buy a car by mail order – even a Harley!  I can try to  catch a first run movie at the theater, or go to the gym, the swimming pool, or, normally, I can just stay home, tapping out words on my laptop, writing letters, reading, playing a video game, watching a DVD, all the while trying to ignore SGT “Irish” as he saws logs on the other side fo the room.

My day ends at midnight, when my eyelids droop, and my mind begins to shut down.  I listen to a favorite song, or a recording of Phoenix’s voice, settle my mind until I finally drop off to sleep, recharging the batteries for tomorrow, when it starts all over again…

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…