The Observation Post
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
The Self-Licking Ice Cream Cone
Apologies to Mr. Robert Kaplan, as I am borrowing the above term from an article he wrote a few years ago following a visit to Afghanistan. When Mr. Kaplan referred to the “self-licking ice cream cone”, he was specifically referring to Bagram Air Field, which by that time had become swollen with various Army and Air Force support personnel who seemed to have no real impact on the war effort. They basically existed to justify their own existence. Of course, this is no isolated incident, it’s in fact a disturbing trend in recent US military history, and all four branches are guilty.
For instance, there is apparently a Corporals Course being held at Al Asad air base. It seems that the units on Al Asad can not only spare enough Marines to teach this course, but also the students to attend it. Meanwhile, advisor teams such as this one are short handed and must stretch themselves thin trying to accomplish their mission, all while constantly exposed to enemy attack. Not to mention frontline infantry units that are stretched to their limits. How does the corporal from 3rd Battalion 5th Marines feel when he hears that his counterparts have the time to learn drill and sword manual at Al Asad? Meanwhile he is manning an observation post along an Iraqi highway, trying to prevent the emplacement of IEDs in his area of responsibility, all while being subjected to attacks by car bombs, RPGs, and snipers.
About a week ago, I received an e-mail telling me where I could find the Al Asad Base Order regarding traffic regulations. It addresses such key issues as wearing headphones while running and coming to a complete stop at stop signs. There are US servicemembers deployed to Iraq who exist for no other reason than to enforce traffic regulations. I’ll say that again; they get paid hazardous duty pay and collect the combat zone tax exclusion so they can write traffic tickets. They even write parking citations! Our combat forces are stretched thin, but we apparently have no shortage of glorified meter maids? It blows my mind! To top it off, violators must report to the base magistrate. So, again, we are paying a field grade officer how much to sit over here and adjudicate traffic violations!?
All of the talk on the news about troop withdrawal mentions, very specifically, withdrawing “combat” troops. I hope that they are ignorantly lumping everyone together as “combat” troops, instead of planning to withdraw actual combat arms units while allowing the Al Asad Meter Maid Platoon to remain. People ask me if I plan to make the military a career, and then act surprised when I say no. Why, they ask? Because, as much as I love my job on the frontlines and the Marines I serve with there, I can’t stand to wear the same uniform as the people who write up traffic regulations for a base in Iraq. I’ve only been able to stomach it this far because I have remained in combat units and away from those people. But then I see things like e-mails about traffic regulations and Corporals Courses in a supposed combat zone, and I realize that I can’t avoid the self-licking ice cream cone forever. ¶ Wednesday, June 28, 2006 1 comments
Apologies to Mr. Robert Kaplan, as I am borrowing the above term from an article he wrote a few years ago following a visit to Afghanistan. When Mr. Kaplan referred to the “self-licking ice cream cone”, he was specifically referring to Bagram Air Field, which by that time had become swollen with various Army and Air Force support personnel who seemed to have no real impact on the war effort. They basically existed to justify their own existence. Of course, this is no isolated incident, it’s in fact a disturbing trend in recent US military history, and all four branches are guilty.
For instance, there is apparently a Corporals Course being held at Al Asad air base. It seems that the units on Al Asad can not only spare enough Marines to teach this course, but also the students to attend it. Meanwhile, advisor teams such as this one are short handed and must stretch themselves thin trying to accomplish their mission, all while constantly exposed to enemy attack. Not to mention frontline infantry units that are stretched to their limits. How does the corporal from 3rd Battalion 5th Marines feel when he hears that his counterparts have the time to learn drill and sword manual at Al Asad? Meanwhile he is manning an observation post along an Iraqi highway, trying to prevent the emplacement of IEDs in his area of responsibility, all while being subjected to attacks by car bombs, RPGs, and snipers.
About a week ago, I received an e-mail telling me where I could find the Al Asad Base Order regarding traffic regulations. It addresses such key issues as wearing headphones while running and coming to a complete stop at stop signs. There are US servicemembers deployed to Iraq who exist for no other reason than to enforce traffic regulations. I’ll say that again; they get paid hazardous duty pay and collect the combat zone tax exclusion so they can write traffic tickets. They even write parking citations! Our combat forces are stretched thin, but we apparently have no shortage of glorified meter maids? It blows my mind! To top it off, violators must report to the base magistrate. So, again, we are paying a field grade officer how much to sit over here and adjudicate traffic violations!?
All of the talk on the news about troop withdrawal mentions, very specifically, withdrawing “combat” troops. I hope that they are ignorantly lumping everyone together as “combat” troops, instead of planning to withdraw actual combat arms units while allowing the Al Asad Meter Maid Platoon to remain. People ask me if I plan to make the military a career, and then act surprised when I say no. Why, they ask? Because, as much as I love my job on the frontlines and the Marines I serve with there, I can’t stand to wear the same uniform as the people who write up traffic regulations for a base in Iraq. I’ve only been able to stomach it this far because I have remained in combat units and away from those people. But then I see things like e-mails about traffic regulations and Corporals Courses in a supposed combat zone, and I realize that I can’t avoid the self-licking ice cream cone forever. ¶ Wednesday, June 28, 2006 1 comments
Monday, June 26, 2006
Hydrate or Die
We’ve stepped up the patrolling recently. A few days ago we left for one of the longer foot patrols we’ve done in a while. We stepped off at 6:00 PM, as the sun was starting to set. The temp was probably pushing 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and the humidity was pretty close to the same levels you might experience in eastern North Carolina. In other words, it sucked. After leaping a few canals, we decided to change up the route a bit to hug the river so we could avoid the canals. An hour into the patrol, I had drained about 2.5 – 3 liters of water from my Camelbak, and sweated so much that it looked like I’d been swimming.
In the picture you can see Lt Parks and SSgt Newman taking a break as we wait for our ride back to the COP. Shortly before this picture was taken, as we made our way to the pickup point, a couple of muj (bad guys) pulled up in two cars and shot a small mortar in our direction. It was an ineffective attack, since they missed the entire patrol by over 100 meters, but unfortunately they got away clean. It was good that no friendlies were hurt in the attack, but frustrating that we weren’t able to make them pay for the attempt. Oh well, hopefully next time… ¶ Monday, June 26, 2006 0 comments
We’ve stepped up the patrolling recently. A few days ago we left for one of the longer foot patrols we’ve done in a while. We stepped off at 6:00 PM, as the sun was starting to set. The temp was probably pushing 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and the humidity was pretty close to the same levels you might experience in eastern North Carolina. In other words, it sucked. After leaping a few canals, we decided to change up the route a bit to hug the river so we could avoid the canals. An hour into the patrol, I had drained about 2.5 – 3 liters of water from my Camelbak, and sweated so much that it looked like I’d been swimming.
In the picture you can see Lt Parks and SSgt Newman taking a break as we wait for our ride back to the COP. Shortly before this picture was taken, as we made our way to the pickup point, a couple of muj (bad guys) pulled up in two cars and shot a small mortar in our direction. It was an ineffective attack, since they missed the entire patrol by over 100 meters, but unfortunately they got away clean. It was good that no friendlies were hurt in the attack, but frustrating that we weren’t able to make them pay for the attempt. Oh well, hopefully next time… ¶ Monday, June 26, 2006 0 comments
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Article about 3rd Brigade
I Have Seen The Enemy
by Franklin Raff
An Iraqi officer of significant rank approached my translator as I quietly took notes near the banks of the Euphrates River, at a combat observation post named COP Dunlop. He knew I was an embedded American. He had a sense, perhaps, that I was a sympathetic soul, and he wanted to pass along an urgent message.
We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I learned he was an educated and successful man, an accomplished soldier, and quite knowledgeable about the affairs of the world. He had served under Saddam. He openly spoke about the likelihood of corruption in the new Iraqi Ministry of Defense. We spoke about black-market arms trading, ancient smuggling routes, and the problem of porous borders.
We even discussed personal matters, and the question of his taking a second wife. (I told him the one about a thousand pair of panty-hose hanging from King Solomon's shower-curtain.) We had a reasonably long and genuine conversation about matters of importance to all men. And at a certain moment, he grew a little uneasy and blurted out what he had wanted to say from the beginning:
Non-English speaking Iraqis are distressed and disheartened by American media bias. Many feel personally offended by what they read in translation and hear of in the foreign press. I am not talking about press information and public affairs officers. I am not talking about coalition soldiers (though every one I spoke with on the subject was equally frustrated.) I am talking about Arabic-speaking Iraqis. They see a difference between what we're seeing and what we're saying. What does that tell you about the extent of our problem?
I was truly "downrange" in Iraq, embedded in Baghdad, Sadr City, Fallujah, and a series of remote combat outposts and forward operations bases in the Sunni Triangle. I spent much of my time in areas that were in immediate transition or wholly controlled by Iraqi forces. I wanted to get dirty, and I wanted to see the worst of it.
I was entirely too close to a vehicle-borne IED – intended, possibly, to destroy my party – which tragically killed a U.S. Marine and a young Iraqi boy. I trampled through a mass of depleted uranium, breathed the squalor of a Saddam-era slum, slept uneasily through the bursts of an urban gunfight, and dined on the partially-cooked head of a sheep. But these are not my most disturbing recollections.
Civil unrest is distasteful and at times gruesome, but in much of the Middle East it is an abiding condition. The scenes that flicker in my mind seem graver than the filth, disorder, and sorrow that have been a part of Iraq's dramatic transition. And now that I have returned to Washington, as memories play alongside my daily media intake, they combine to create an increasingly gloomy montage.
It was hilarious at the time. So funny, in fact, I nearly wept. I will never forget the sight of my colleague, a well-known, market-leading radio reporter feverishly clutching his satellite phone as a Chinook transport helicopter flew by, half a mile or so away. He was standing right beside me as he dialed through the time zones to go "live from Iraq":
At the time, you see, we were just outside an Embassy chow hall, quietly discussing the weather. We had just eaten a magnificent lunch. In this combat reporter's trembling right hand was the target of his desperate screams, the satellite phone – his listeners' link to the horror and chaos of war, the sweat and tears, the booming, blood-shod tragedy of it all. And in his left hand – I swear it – a chocolate milkshake.
There is plenty of bombast in the green zone. "On the scene" excitement breeds hyperbole, and many reporters are pretentious and boastful to begin with. There's no need to name names: Most folks can smell manure wrapped in newsprint, no matter who does the wrapping. But I quietly curse when I think of all the self-styled Ernie Pyles in their Baghdad hotel rooms, staring out over the city skyline, giving you news "from the front."
Let me tell you what has become somewhat of a running joke among coalition soldiers. It is evening, and a boom is heard in the distance. Some foreign fighter has blown himself up, and maybe he's taken one of ours with him. Maybe it's an IED. Or it might be an attack on one of our new electrical transformers, engineered to dishearten and confuse Iraqi citizens by depriving them of a nights' electricity. Nobody knows yet, but that doesn't really matter.
Our journalist, "on the line" in his cushy suite, scrambles to the balcony. He sees a puff of dust on the horizon, shivers in the cool night air and the intensity of the moment, and turns down CNN on the television. He e-mails his editor about these explosive developments and then, with a cool beer in hand, begins writing about a great and desperate war. Brothers in the crosshairs. A rag-tag insurrection, gaining momentum in dramatic increments. A few historical references. A scribbled, out-of-context comment overheard in the mess hall. A line or two from some radical imam, if a desirable translation can be found. Bingo: It's a front-page story.
Embedded news-gatherers – even those with military experience, as was the case with me and my immediate company – are essentially expensive luggage. We take up valuable space. We are unarmed, untrained, generally unfit, and we tend to get in the way. We are valuable targets for the border-hopping, media-crazed murderers who seek instability and chaos. But this isn't what irritates our defenders. What bothers them is that when we put pen to paper, we tend to stab them squarely in the back by misrepresenting and over-dramatizing our experiences. It is no wonder a "PRESS" tag will get you a few hairy eyeballs in the field: There's a general consensus that we are liars.
The lies aren't relegated to firsthand reports. I listen to NPR every morning. I read the New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, and scan any number of online media. As a lifelong and moderately accomplished student of war history and of the works (and memoranda) of men like Sergei Eisenstein and Josef Goebbels, I have been keenly aware of an increasing use of elemental propaganda techniques and tactics in "mainstream" reporting on the war.
Good news from Iraq, for instance, is systematically, if delicately, prefaced with the indication of a biased source. I am almost certain there is a standing order at outfits like NPR's "Morning Edition" to compromise positive stories with selections from an arsenal of useful poll numbers. For good measure, the stories are often relegated to commentary segments of the program, in order to lend a casual and dismissive air to core information.
Let's use, for example, the fact that Sunni, Shia and Kurdish leaders are organizing innumerable micro-summits to resolve their tribal differences in the name of national unity. Participation is nearly 100 percent, negotiations are largely fruitful, and leaders from local imams on up want to reiterate to the press, just like our Iraqi officer did, that despite isolated attacks and foreign insurgent activity, there is no "civil war" going on. So the Pentagon releases selections from this tapestry of reassuring stories in the standard manner along with requisite sound-bytes, interview opportunities, and raw statistics. The news is verifiable, rich in human interest, and undeniably positive. Here's how it plays on "Morning Edition":
In the minds of those who do not recognize the telltale signs of subversive delivery, the desired effect is achieved.
This effect – to convince the world that Iraq is a hopeless and violent wasteland, heartbreaking evidence, even, of a trigger-happy cowboy's hubris – is compounded and reaffirmed day after day, as biased and exaggerated reports reverberate through and within thousands of local and syndicated media outlets. As George Orwell explained in his dystopian novel "1984," "If all records told the same tale – then the lie passed into history and became truth."
I wanted to confess to my new friend, the Iraqi officer at COP Dunlop, that we have an autocracy in America that has never been deposed – an imperious corps of convenience-isolationists with short memories and powerful imaginations. I wanted to explain that though there are hardly any soldiers among them, they rule the thoughts and actions of legions of citizens.
I wanted to tell him about our media elite, about how "if it bleeds, it leads," about our 24-hour news cycle, and about the "Journal of Record" and its endless struggle to embarrass and discredit our president. I wanted to tell him that the same folks who tell us they're giving the world "all the news that's fit to print" are the same ones who deep-sixed Babi Yar and ignored the Holocaust, the same ones who bury stories about Saddam's mass graves and "spike" Iraqi efforts to show us the awe-inspiring progress they have made.
I wanted to acknowledge that too many Americans lack the fortitude and patience to stand behind our new Iraqi allies as they forge a new nation. I wanted to explain that certain powerful Americans feel we didn't find quite enough chemical, nuclear and biological weapons to make our multinational effort worthwhile – no matter what we have, in fact, found; no matter what the Iraqis witnessed, no matter our soldiers' experiences and testimony, no matter Iraq's success thus far.
I wanted to tell him that not all media people are liars. But I knew that my thoughts were too complicated to make it through translation. I knew that when I returned to America, the words "civil war" would be plastered all over the mainstream media, just as they were when I left. So I held my tongue.
I returned to what I expected. All the hotshot analysts and commentators are speculating, with that requisite gravitas, about the "roots" of civil war.
I was there. I was in some miserable places, but I saw a miracle every day. I saw a lot of smiles, a lot of hope, and a lot of pride in that traumatized country. I saw a remarkably fraternal affection between Iraqi and coalition soldiers. I saw bustling markets, busy streets, and peaceful demonstrations. I believe I may have witnessed a pivotal time in the infancy of a vibrant, freedom-loving ally in the Middle East.
I did not see a civil war. I did not see the beginnings of a civil war. But I did learn a thing or two about the "roots" of this civil war: Iraq's civil war has been engineered, in no small part, from the comfort of a Baghdad hotel room. It is catalyzed by minor exaggerations, partial facts, and propagandistic suppressions. It will escalate, over time and across media, as minor mistruths beget outright lies, until the truth itself begins to change.
As our new Iraqi allies become discouraged by what they see in the world news, and as they start losing hope, they may abandon their dreams once and for all. Our media's dark prophecies will then have fulfilled themselves. Then, and tragically, Iraqi and coalition pleas for "truth" may finally be silenced. ¶ Tuesday, June 20, 2006 0 comments
I Have Seen The Enemy
by Franklin Raff
An Iraqi officer of significant rank approached my translator as I quietly took notes near the banks of the Euphrates River, at a combat observation post named COP Dunlop. He knew I was an embedded American. He had a sense, perhaps, that I was a sympathetic soul, and he wanted to pass along an urgent message.
We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I learned he was an educated and successful man, an accomplished soldier, and quite knowledgeable about the affairs of the world. He had served under Saddam. He openly spoke about the likelihood of corruption in the new Iraqi Ministry of Defense. We spoke about black-market arms trading, ancient smuggling routes, and the problem of porous borders.
We even discussed personal matters, and the question of his taking a second wife. (I told him the one about a thousand pair of panty-hose hanging from King Solomon's shower-curtain.) We had a reasonably long and genuine conversation about matters of importance to all men. And at a certain moment, he grew a little uneasy and blurted out what he had wanted to say from the beginning:
Why do you people not tell our story? Why do you not say what is going on? Why do you come to our country and see what is happening, you see the schools and the hospitals and you see the markets and you eat with Sunni and Shia soldiers – everybody eats together, everybody works together –you see that Saddam is gone forever and we are free to speak and complain.
You see we are working and eating together and fighting together – Sunni and Shia – you see what we are building here, you see the votes we make as one people. Then you say to the world about a great war and horrible things and how we are all killing each other? We are not animals! We are Iraqis. Look around you! Look!
Non-English speaking Iraqis are distressed and disheartened by American media bias. Many feel personally offended by what they read in translation and hear of in the foreign press. I am not talking about press information and public affairs officers. I am not talking about coalition soldiers (though every one I spoke with on the subject was equally frustrated.) I am talking about Arabic-speaking Iraqis. They see a difference between what we're seeing and what we're saying. What does that tell you about the extent of our problem?
I was truly "downrange" in Iraq, embedded in Baghdad, Sadr City, Fallujah, and a series of remote combat outposts and forward operations bases in the Sunni Triangle. I spent much of my time in areas that were in immediate transition or wholly controlled by Iraqi forces. I wanted to get dirty, and I wanted to see the worst of it.
I was entirely too close to a vehicle-borne IED – intended, possibly, to destroy my party – which tragically killed a U.S. Marine and a young Iraqi boy. I trampled through a mass of depleted uranium, breathed the squalor of a Saddam-era slum, slept uneasily through the bursts of an urban gunfight, and dined on the partially-cooked head of a sheep. But these are not my most disturbing recollections.
Civil unrest is distasteful and at times gruesome, but in much of the Middle East it is an abiding condition. The scenes that flicker in my mind seem graver than the filth, disorder, and sorrow that have been a part of Iraq's dramatic transition. And now that I have returned to Washington, as memories play alongside my daily media intake, they combine to create an increasingly gloomy montage.
It was hilarious at the time. So funny, in fact, I nearly wept. I will never forget the sight of my colleague, a well-known, market-leading radio reporter feverishly clutching his satellite phone as a Chinook transport helicopter flew by, half a mile or so away. He was standing right beside me as he dialed through the time zones to go "live from Iraq":
We're right in the middle of the action! I'm sorry ... I can't hear you! There's a Blackhawk landing right behind me! I can't quite describe what's going on! This is unbelievable!
At the time, you see, we were just outside an Embassy chow hall, quietly discussing the weather. We had just eaten a magnificent lunch. In this combat reporter's trembling right hand was the target of his desperate screams, the satellite phone – his listeners' link to the horror and chaos of war, the sweat and tears, the booming, blood-shod tragedy of it all. And in his left hand – I swear it – a chocolate milkshake.
There is plenty of bombast in the green zone. "On the scene" excitement breeds hyperbole, and many reporters are pretentious and boastful to begin with. There's no need to name names: Most folks can smell manure wrapped in newsprint, no matter who does the wrapping. But I quietly curse when I think of all the self-styled Ernie Pyles in their Baghdad hotel rooms, staring out over the city skyline, giving you news "from the front."
Let me tell you what has become somewhat of a running joke among coalition soldiers. It is evening, and a boom is heard in the distance. Some foreign fighter has blown himself up, and maybe he's taken one of ours with him. Maybe it's an IED. Or it might be an attack on one of our new electrical transformers, engineered to dishearten and confuse Iraqi citizens by depriving them of a nights' electricity. Nobody knows yet, but that doesn't really matter.
Our journalist, "on the line" in his cushy suite, scrambles to the balcony. He sees a puff of dust on the horizon, shivers in the cool night air and the intensity of the moment, and turns down CNN on the television. He e-mails his editor about these explosive developments and then, with a cool beer in hand, begins writing about a great and desperate war. Brothers in the crosshairs. A rag-tag insurrection, gaining momentum in dramatic increments. A few historical references. A scribbled, out-of-context comment overheard in the mess hall. A line or two from some radical imam, if a desirable translation can be found. Bingo: It's a front-page story.
Embedded news-gatherers – even those with military experience, as was the case with me and my immediate company – are essentially expensive luggage. We take up valuable space. We are unarmed, untrained, generally unfit, and we tend to get in the way. We are valuable targets for the border-hopping, media-crazed murderers who seek instability and chaos. But this isn't what irritates our defenders. What bothers them is that when we put pen to paper, we tend to stab them squarely in the back by misrepresenting and over-dramatizing our experiences. It is no wonder a "PRESS" tag will get you a few hairy eyeballs in the field: There's a general consensus that we are liars.
The lies aren't relegated to firsthand reports. I listen to NPR every morning. I read the New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, and scan any number of online media. As a lifelong and moderately accomplished student of war history and of the works (and memoranda) of men like Sergei Eisenstein and Josef Goebbels, I have been keenly aware of an increasing use of elemental propaganda techniques and tactics in "mainstream" reporting on the war.
Good news from Iraq, for instance, is systematically, if delicately, prefaced with the indication of a biased source. I am almost certain there is a standing order at outfits like NPR's "Morning Edition" to compromise positive stories with selections from an arsenal of useful poll numbers. For good measure, the stories are often relegated to commentary segments of the program, in order to lend a casual and dismissive air to core information.
Let's use, for example, the fact that Sunni, Shia and Kurdish leaders are organizing innumerable micro-summits to resolve their tribal differences in the name of national unity. Participation is nearly 100 percent, negotiations are largely fruitful, and leaders from local imams on up want to reiterate to the press, just like our Iraqi officer did, that despite isolated attacks and foreign insurgent activity, there is no "civil war" going on. So the Pentagon releases selections from this tapestry of reassuring stories in the standard manner along with requisite sound-bytes, interview opportunities, and raw statistics. The news is verifiable, rich in human interest, and undeniably positive. Here's how it plays on "Morning Edition":
The president has admitted he was wrong about WMD, and now, according to the White House, Shia and Sunni leaders are evidently trying to work together to try and quell the burgeoning civil war. Approval ratings for the Bush administration and the war are at an all-time low, so the question is: What's behind these last-ditch efforts, and can they possibly succeed? Joining me to discuss this is NPR senior news analyst Cokie Roberts ...
In the minds of those who do not recognize the telltale signs of subversive delivery, the desired effect is achieved.
This effect – to convince the world that Iraq is a hopeless and violent wasteland, heartbreaking evidence, even, of a trigger-happy cowboy's hubris – is compounded and reaffirmed day after day, as biased and exaggerated reports reverberate through and within thousands of local and syndicated media outlets. As George Orwell explained in his dystopian novel "1984," "If all records told the same tale – then the lie passed into history and became truth."
I wanted to confess to my new friend, the Iraqi officer at COP Dunlop, that we have an autocracy in America that has never been deposed – an imperious corps of convenience-isolationists with short memories and powerful imaginations. I wanted to explain that though there are hardly any soldiers among them, they rule the thoughts and actions of legions of citizens.
I wanted to tell him about our media elite, about how "if it bleeds, it leads," about our 24-hour news cycle, and about the "Journal of Record" and its endless struggle to embarrass and discredit our president. I wanted to tell him that the same folks who tell us they're giving the world "all the news that's fit to print" are the same ones who deep-sixed Babi Yar and ignored the Holocaust, the same ones who bury stories about Saddam's mass graves and "spike" Iraqi efforts to show us the awe-inspiring progress they have made.
I wanted to acknowledge that too many Americans lack the fortitude and patience to stand behind our new Iraqi allies as they forge a new nation. I wanted to explain that certain powerful Americans feel we didn't find quite enough chemical, nuclear and biological weapons to make our multinational effort worthwhile – no matter what we have, in fact, found; no matter what the Iraqis witnessed, no matter our soldiers' experiences and testimony, no matter Iraq's success thus far.
I wanted to tell him that not all media people are liars. But I knew that my thoughts were too complicated to make it through translation. I knew that when I returned to America, the words "civil war" would be plastered all over the mainstream media, just as they were when I left. So I held my tongue.
I returned to what I expected. All the hotshot analysts and commentators are speculating, with that requisite gravitas, about the "roots" of civil war.
I was there. I was in some miserable places, but I saw a miracle every day. I saw a lot of smiles, a lot of hope, and a lot of pride in that traumatized country. I saw a remarkably fraternal affection between Iraqi and coalition soldiers. I saw bustling markets, busy streets, and peaceful demonstrations. I believe I may have witnessed a pivotal time in the infancy of a vibrant, freedom-loving ally in the Middle East.
I did not see a civil war. I did not see the beginnings of a civil war. But I did learn a thing or two about the "roots" of this civil war: Iraq's civil war has been engineered, in no small part, from the comfort of a Baghdad hotel room. It is catalyzed by minor exaggerations, partial facts, and propagandistic suppressions. It will escalate, over time and across media, as minor mistruths beget outright lies, until the truth itself begins to change.
As our new Iraqi allies become discouraged by what they see in the world news, and as they start losing hope, they may abandon their dreams once and for all. Our media's dark prophecies will then have fulfilled themselves. Then, and tragically, Iraqi and coalition pleas for "truth" may finally be silenced. ¶ Tuesday, June 20, 2006 0 comments
Friday, June 16, 2006
Update
Well, we’ve settled into a bit of a routine around here. [Changed after this was proven untrue]
There’s been a noticeable effect in the nearby villages. On the drive back from today’s patrol, several of the Marines from the MTT commented that they had never seen so many people outside. Kids were playing soccer in the fields and families were gathering outside of their houses. It’s very rewarding to see that the people around here feel secure enough to come out and do these sorts of things. People are also friendlier when patrols come by. Hopefully this will be a lasting condition.
We made a run to the airbase on Al Taqaddum the other day, and it was the first time in almost a month I had seen luxuries like a portapotty. It’s almost mind-blowing to see the difference between the life they live there and our life at the COP. A full-bird colonel actually decided to interrupt his run and flag us down for driving over the posted speed limit. I’m not sure why the staff sergeant that was driving didn’t just tell him the speedometer was broken, but I was too stunned to speak up. All I could think of was “Are you kidding me?” Maybe if the colonel would like to switch places with the staff sergeant for a few days and experience some of the things that the Marines from the MTT have been through, he would have a different perspective on the importance of speed limits. And if pigs had wings…
¶ Friday, June 16, 2006 0 comments
Well, we’ve settled into a bit of a routine around here. [Changed after this was proven untrue]
There’s been a noticeable effect in the nearby villages. On the drive back from today’s patrol, several of the Marines from the MTT commented that they had never seen so many people outside. Kids were playing soccer in the fields and families were gathering outside of their houses. It’s very rewarding to see that the people around here feel secure enough to come out and do these sorts of things. People are also friendlier when patrols come by. Hopefully this will be a lasting condition.
We made a run to the airbase on Al Taqaddum the other day, and it was the first time in almost a month I had seen luxuries like a portapotty. It’s almost mind-blowing to see the difference between the life they live there and our life at the COP. A full-bird colonel actually decided to interrupt his run and flag us down for driving over the posted speed limit. I’m not sure why the staff sergeant that was driving didn’t just tell him the speedometer was broken, but I was too stunned to speak up. All I could think of was “Are you kidding me?” Maybe if the colonel would like to switch places with the staff sergeant for a few days and experience some of the things that the Marines from the MTT have been through, he would have a different perspective on the importance of speed limits. And if pigs had wings…
¶ Friday, June 16, 2006 0 comments
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Towers
The last few days were busy as we kicked off an operation to build several observation towers along a small paved road that is the major thoroughfare in 1st Battalion’s area of operations. The engineers, of the 9th Engineer Support Battalion from Okinawa, worked diligently and completed the project in under half the amount of time they had advertised. The enemy stayed fairly quiet, but he did lob a couple of mortars and take a few potshots at the engineers, which didn’t slow them down a bit. I have to admit they impressed me, and moved “Group” engineers up a notch in my estimation.
A bit of explanation – I spent three years, from 1998 to 2001, as an enlisted combat engineer in a reserve unit in Virginia. We were part of the 4th Combat Engineer Battalion, which in turn fell under the 4th Marine Division. Combat engineers have one of the most diverse missions in the Marine Corps. They exist in three distinct units.
First is the Combat Engineer Battalion (CEB) that falls under a Marine Division. These guys are frequently called “Division” engineers, and are the ones that respond when the infantry calls, “Engineers up!” They do most of the breaching and fortification in support of frontline combat units. In 4th CEB, we spent considerable time working on patrolling and other infantry skills, because in time of war we would be called on to not just keep up with the grunts, but often go ahead of them when they needed our skills to breach obstacles. Division engineers are usually well respected by the grunts, they are probably the only other group of Marines that a grunt will grudgingly admit might be as tough as he is. The engineer platoon that was attached to my infantry battalion last year was as tough and hardworking a group of Marines as anyone else in the battalion.
Next is the Engineer Support Battalion (ESB), which is part of the Marine Logistics Group (MLG). Hence my use of the term “Group” engineers. They focus more on construction tasks, and usually conduct the bulk of the vertical and horizontal construction in support of Marine ground units. They are not considered a frontline combat unit, which has always put them below the Division engineers in my opinion.
Finally, there is the Marine Wing Support Squadron (MWSS). They perform general engineering tasks, such as construction, in support of the Marine Air Wings. To be honest, I know very little about the MWSS engineers, having never really been around them. For that matter, I know very little about the Marine Air Wings, since I have been down in the weeds my entire time in the Marine Corps. The Wing is considered by most grunts to be the “land of milk and honey”, where the chow is always hot and the life is easy. Of course, it’s not really true, many of the Marines in the Air Wing work insane hours trying to keep the aircraft flying, but that’s how we view them.
As a grunt, I am typically biased against “pogues” (sometimes spelled as an acronym, POG). A pogue is any Marine that does not hold an infantry-related military occupational specialty (MOS). That’s not to say I believe a pogue is any less of a Marine than I am, but they just aren’t grunts. It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t lived the life of a grunt. Of course, the neat lines of MOS tend to fade a bit out in the Fleet, as you can usually find Marines in non-infantry specialties that perform many of the same tasks and more. Division engineers and my fellow ANGLICO Marines are both excellent examples of non-infantry Marines that I don’t consider pogues. Group engineers do not fall in that category.
However, as I mentioned before, the engineers of 9th ESB put on an impressive display of determination as they finished constructing the towers, and from now on I will be a little less contemptuous of the Group engineers.
They’re still pogues… ¶ Thursday, June 01, 2006 0 comments
The last few days were busy as we kicked off an operation to build several observation towers along a small paved road that is the major thoroughfare in 1st Battalion’s area of operations. The engineers, of the 9th Engineer Support Battalion from Okinawa, worked diligently and completed the project in under half the amount of time they had advertised. The enemy stayed fairly quiet, but he did lob a couple of mortars and take a few potshots at the engineers, which didn’t slow them down a bit. I have to admit they impressed me, and moved “Group” engineers up a notch in my estimation.
A bit of explanation – I spent three years, from 1998 to 2001, as an enlisted combat engineer in a reserve unit in Virginia. We were part of the 4th Combat Engineer Battalion, which in turn fell under the 4th Marine Division. Combat engineers have one of the most diverse missions in the Marine Corps. They exist in three distinct units.
First is the Combat Engineer Battalion (CEB) that falls under a Marine Division. These guys are frequently called “Division” engineers, and are the ones that respond when the infantry calls, “Engineers up!” They do most of the breaching and fortification in support of frontline combat units. In 4th CEB, we spent considerable time working on patrolling and other infantry skills, because in time of war we would be called on to not just keep up with the grunts, but often go ahead of them when they needed our skills to breach obstacles. Division engineers are usually well respected by the grunts, they are probably the only other group of Marines that a grunt will grudgingly admit might be as tough as he is. The engineer platoon that was attached to my infantry battalion last year was as tough and hardworking a group of Marines as anyone else in the battalion.
Next is the Engineer Support Battalion (ESB), which is part of the Marine Logistics Group (MLG). Hence my use of the term “Group” engineers. They focus more on construction tasks, and usually conduct the bulk of the vertical and horizontal construction in support of Marine ground units. They are not considered a frontline combat unit, which has always put them below the Division engineers in my opinion.
Finally, there is the Marine Wing Support Squadron (MWSS). They perform general engineering tasks, such as construction, in support of the Marine Air Wings. To be honest, I know very little about the MWSS engineers, having never really been around them. For that matter, I know very little about the Marine Air Wings, since I have been down in the weeds my entire time in the Marine Corps. The Wing is considered by most grunts to be the “land of milk and honey”, where the chow is always hot and the life is easy. Of course, it’s not really true, many of the Marines in the Air Wing work insane hours trying to keep the aircraft flying, but that’s how we view them.
As a grunt, I am typically biased against “pogues” (sometimes spelled as an acronym, POG). A pogue is any Marine that does not hold an infantry-related military occupational specialty (MOS). That’s not to say I believe a pogue is any less of a Marine than I am, but they just aren’t grunts. It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t lived the life of a grunt. Of course, the neat lines of MOS tend to fade a bit out in the Fleet, as you can usually find Marines in non-infantry specialties that perform many of the same tasks and more. Division engineers and my fellow ANGLICO Marines are both excellent examples of non-infantry Marines that I don’t consider pogues. Group engineers do not fall in that category.
However, as I mentioned before, the engineers of 9th ESB put on an impressive display of determination as they finished constructing the towers, and from now on I will be a little less contemptuous of the Group engineers.
They’re still pogues… ¶ Thursday, June 01, 2006 0 comments
