DXB-BGW Non-Stop, Meal Service, No Air Miles, No In-Flight Movie, Kiss Your Ass Goodbye

It is 1:30 AM. I roll over. She's up. There are no lights on, but I can see her shadow in front of the window. She is bent over, folding plastic sacks, rearranging things in her suitcase. Zipping and re-zipping her suitcase closed.

Zziiiiiip. Ziiiiiiiiipp. Zzzzziiiiiiiip.

She pulls out a sweatshirt, holds it up in front of the window, then refolds it and places it back into the suitcase. She stands, looks around the room, sees me awake.

"Yes, I'm up." I mumble.
"Sorry. Was I loud?"
"No, but your zipper was."

I roll over and turn on the light. I've been through this before. It is pointless to sleep. We have an hour and a half before we have to leave, but she isn't going back to bed. We are apparently up for the day.

"I'll be out of here in a minute," she says, sheepishly, her Bosnian accent hard to understand.
"No problem," I say, but really there is. I am tired. I tried to go to bed early, had a couple glasses of wine and curried triangles in the company bar, tried to get some rest. Travel day is always bad. Last time, I had retired early only to be awakened by some crabby bitch from Tallil that came in, tried to light up, then whined at me when I said she couldn't smoke in the room. She proceeded to complain about how long she had been "trapped" at BTC, a litany interrupted every ten seconds by severe emphysemic hacking punctuated by involuntary phlegm ejection. At one point, she started crying. I was unmoved. Please. Just let me sleep. Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch.



Finally, the Bosnian drags her suitcase by my bed. "See you downstairs," she smiles.
"Yeah." I look at the clock, trying to figure if it is worth it to reinsert the ear plugs and try to sleep an hour. I turn out the light. The light from the tree lights outside of the bar cast a dim glow across the room. I get up, looking out the window onto the table that David and I sat at in June, back when things were falling apart, back when I so loved him. Looking down now, everything seemed like mist: the memory not quite fresh, but the ghost of that night still with me, still aching. I closed the drapes and crawled back into bed. I give up trying to sleep.


"My name is Milton. I am going to help you through this protheth. Pleathe lithen. I tho appreciate your cooperation, and all that you do out there." The man standing next to me with the huge belt buckle rolls his eyes. "Pleathe. Can I have your attention?"

Milton was new in country, eager, long-winded but more caring than most. He wore tight shirts, showing off the muscles on his small frame. He lisped, a sure sign to the Texans that he was funny. Give them an inch, they will tear you apart. Or maybe just drag you from a pickup truck until your head pops off. I am suddenly worried about Milton.

First thing they teach you: know your audience. Poor Milton was in the dark. He had met us on the bus on the way in. He had attempted to direct a tired, unruly busload of firemen, first time out of country, who were uninterested in anything Milton had to say, particularly after they heard him speak. When he was distracted by his cellphone vibrating in his front pocket that he could not rejoin his train of thought, they nearly rioted.

"Milton, pleeeathe can I take a pee?"
"Milton, can you come to my room later?"
"Milton, you have such nithe bitheps."
"Milton, what's your number?"
"Milton, I am thooo lonely..."

Milton finally ended our briefing, fleeing the bus. Good decision, Milton. Know your audience.



The new security man droned on. "You must have on closed toe shoes. You must not have on sleeveless shirts. When you enter the airport, remove your hats, form two lines, two straight lines, wait for your boarding pass....." they drone on and on. The brief is always lengthy, saying what we have all heard before. Don't try to bring in alcohol, we will send you home. Don't try to bring out Dinars, we will send you home. Don't drink in the bars, we will send you home. Don't try to bring in more than 5G of gold, we will send you home. Don't lose your CAC card, we will send you home. Don't fart without permission, we will send you home... Fuck, send me home already.

Milton steps forward again,"I am going to call your name. I would apprethiate it if you would step up in line when I call you." He proceeds to call, starting with the A's. The line slowly moves. Most of us have done this before, but for some reason it always takes forever. After a painful 45 minute wait, there are two left in the room. We are standby, but we will make the flight since a few did not show.

Milton continues to call names of the people that did not show. "Allen? Newell?" Each name is followed by a long pause, as Milton inexplicably searches the empty room for the no-shows.

I look at the only other man, also on stand-by, shaking my head. "Uh, Milton," I say, "wouldn't it be easier at this point to just ask us who we are instead of going down the whole list again?"
"No, thorry. I have to ensure that the no-shows are not here."
"But we are the stand-by's. We are the only ones left," I say, incredulous. The other stand-by guy shoots me a wry smile. "Who are you asking, if they are not here?"
Milton smiles, and continues calling names, "Johnson? Kovak? Miller?"
I decide it is pointless.

There are 120 of us this morning. At least this is the late flight, we have a 3:30AM show time instead of 1. Or is it showtime, as in Broadway? (Flashing briefly to the whole Minnelli-Gest debacle, and figuring that it is best not to think of Broadway so early in the day as Gest's frozen, botoxed face is now stuck in my head). I never know. This whole faux-military lingo crap gets to me, excessive acronyms and secret code. I make a note to check to see if the DSM actually has a new disease, Excessive Use of Acronyms (sometimes referred to as Acronym Abuse, or AA), also known as EUA, pronounced Yooo-ah, not to be confused with the 'Oooo-rah' of USMC use, or 'Oooo-ah' of Army use. God, don't confuse USMC with Army... we will send you home.

Showtime? Like this is a fucking parade? Or show time, like 'show up at this time'? I am momentarily disturbed, I decide that it is indeed showtime, since our workplace is actually referred to as the theatre. As in 'theatre of operations' (TO, not to be confused with TO = Task Order) or something stupid like that. Like we are putting on some sort of show for the world? Like this is a game? I ponder war as entertainment, visualizing someone in DC standing over a table moving little toy soldiers around. Billions upon billions of dollars, and someone thinks this is entertainment. Definitely a guy thing, this war stuff.

Though we are only five minutes from the airport, the process of getting us there and on the plane will take most of the next four hours.

One-by-one, we load onto the bus. Milton enters, tally sheet in hand. "Can everyone thit thtill tho I can't count you all? I mutht have an accurate count, and I will try to get you on your way. Thank you for everything you do! We tho apprethiate it!"

Milton proceeded to bounce down the aisle, counting each person. Though we were seated in rows of two, Milton counted each person, not two by two. He counted once, glancing at his tally sheet. Then twice. Then three times, and exited the bus. Fifteen minutes later, the security guy comes on, counting again. He leaves, then returns ten minutes later, counting again.
"Sorry, folks. We are two short."
"Two short?" I say. How is it possible to lose two people in a span of fifty feet? We were in the room, then we took our suitcases, and walked by the pool to the bus. How the fuck can two people disappear?
Milton comes back on. "Thorry. Have to count again."

The process continues. I am tired, and a little annoyed, but am used to the disorganization. After a while, you just give up. Nothing ever goes as planned. Simple things are constantly fucked up. Small tasks turn into crap. Constantly. This is the way it works. It is better to submit. The WABI was actually administered for this reason: to weed out people who were aggressive, excitable. I always wondered about that. Would it not be easier to work on fixing the processes rather than to spend millions weeding out people who might react strongly to frustration? Hmmm. I shake my head. It is really better to not think. You will never get answers here.

Finally, after over an hour on the bus, we pull out. There is a commotion, as we have spent so much time on the bus that the condensation from the A/C is leaking out of the overhead of the left side of the bus. There is cussing and considerable consternation, but we are on our way. When we reach the airport, we have another brief, just in case we had forgotten our instructions of an hour ago.

"Take your suitcases, line up outside in two straight lines," the security guy orders. There is always a little tension when we arrive at the airport. Probably less in Dubai than Baghdad, but it is palpable none-the-less. We are a crowd, and noticeable. We are warned not to look like Americans, but we do. We are targets, and we know it. And there is nowhere to run.

We remain in line, then are shuttled into the airport entry. We are at the charter terminal, a smaller and much simpler terminal across the runways from the beautiful Dubai International terminal. We form two lines inside, and wait.

"If anyone needs a lock for the suitcase, or anything from the store, I suggest you go now," the security guy says. "And if there is anything in your suitcase that should not be there, remove it at once. This is your last warning."

"Oh, no," the guy standing next to me says.
"What?"
"I forgot."
"What?" I repeat.
"God, this hurts..."
"You don't!"
"I do."
"Oh."
"Oh, this will hurt. I can't..."
"Is it worth it to you?"
"Maybe everyone would like a shot now?" he reaches down to his suitcase, unzipping it, cradling the purple felt bag. There is real sadness in his eyes.
"Not me," I smile. Vodka, maybe. Bailey's, definitely. But not Crown Royale at 5AM.
"I'll have to throw it out," he stands, approaching the wastecan slowly, waiting for someone to intervene. We are all smiling. We know the pain. We can feel your pain, brother. He finally throws it.
"Ouch," I say. He is beyond responding.



General Order Number One. Blame it on the military. We fall under GO #1. Says that there is no booze, no sex (unbelievably, not even if two soldiers are married), no drugs, no nothing on our camps. Nope. We are all war, all the time. Well, almost all our camps. The Green Zone is famous for booze...they originally fell under GO #1 until the Embassy revolted. I don't know which Embassy, some say British, but they were simply not going to live in Iraq without a drink after a hard day shuffling papers and negotiating international peace. Or whatever they do. It would be uncivilized. So, diplomacy being diplomacy, miracles being miracles, GO #1 does not apply in the Green Zone, or IZ as it is called now. Not coincidentally, most of the upper management offices chose to locate in the IZ. I visited there once.

I had spent months being told stories of how great it was to work in the IZ. But when I got there, I actually didn't think too much of it. The only benefit I could see: a nice cocktail or two after work. In one of those memories that will stick with me the rest of my life, a group of us had gathered outside of the Big Boss' hooch. There were camp chairs lined up outside the HESCOs, and some benches. The designated bartender asked me what I wanted, and came out with a really stiff Screwdriver, complete with ice and peanuts. I sat in my camp chair next to my colleagues from Baghdad, laughing at the silly things that were coming out of our mouths after months of being dry. It was the first time we had relaxed like this. It was the first time I had seen Carlos and Phil tipsy. It was the only time I had seen the Big Boss tipsy, but being used to life in the IZ, he was far less tipsy than we were. I looked up at the sky: it was dark, stars were twinkling. It was winter, but not really cold. We were all laughing, in a way that only people who work together and share the same experiences can laugh, and I felt really good for the first time in a long time. Two Blackhawks flew directly over us, drowning everything out, so close that we felt the backwash. They shook our chairs, shook the ice cubes in our drinks, shook our teeth, shook our very souls. I looked up, unable to see them against the black sky, squinting to find them. They were completely blacked out. Finally, I saw a shadow move. I smiled. Coooool.

That moment is frozen for me. That is something that I will never experience again: sitting in a camp chair, in the middle of a war zone, with the bosses around me, Blackhawks overhead, and an icy screwdriver in my hand. You don't see that everyday, as David would say, his Midwestern showing (as I would say). It still brings a smile to my face.



After forty minutes, our boarding passes are ready. Names are called again, the endless list, passes are handed out, and we proceed through security, ticketing, immigration, and to the small gate, where we wait for another hour, then are taken to a smaller adjacent gate area. After another hour, we are finally loaded onto busses, and driven down the ramp to the plane.

We pass an entire history of aviation in the process. Tupelovs, Yaks, Ilyushins, Antonovs...exotic planes, too old to fly elsewhere, are now living out their last days in charter service in third world countries. Many look like they are duct taped together, and many are. It is both sad and exhilarating to see them all lined up under the huge orange glow of the Dubai sun.

We reach our plane, an ancient 737-200. It is about 25 years old, but I'll save the plane stories for another post. I hear someone ask where our seat assignments are, and realize that I am flying with a planeful of new-hires. There are no seat assignments on Scare Air. Sorry. And no air miles. And no movie. And no guarantees that this piece of shit plane will even get us there. And no guarantees that we won't get an RPG up our asses on the approach to Baghdad. And no guarantees that our bus back to the base won't be ambushed, and I'll see your silly-assed face pleading for life on Al Jazeera as they behead you. I laugh to myself. You get that way.

I pick a seat, always near the exit. It takes 30 minutes to load everyone. It is a full flight today, so I know that I can't save the middle seat. Nearly all the people boarding the plane have a sticker on their chest. MOS. ALA. ALI. BIAP. Destination stickers for the new hires, should they wander off. I watch them load, one by one, eyes wide. I can remember coming in for the first time...it seems like so long ago, ALA stuck on my left breast. I suddenly feel wistful.

Two men share my row. Mike, from Wenatchee, is going to Liberty. John is going to Mosul. They are nervous, their eyes darting about, their voices subdued.

It is a different world out there. If all you do is watch the US news, you would think that death and destruction is everywhere in Iraq. But the fact of the matter is that it is not. The potential of death is always there, but most of us are here working, just like you would be back home. The conditions are more difficult, and the hours longer, but most of us just think of this place as home now, as a workplace. We get bombed, we get incoming, we hear explosions, but after a while it is just the background noise of the environment. But when you first come into the country, your head is filled with abject terror. You've seen the news every night. You've seen the bombs. You've seen the death. You have been subjected to several weeks of brainwashing and terrorizing during in-processing. You really believe that you will die over here. And you arrive terrified.

John and Mike are scared shitless. But they are guys, and can't say that they are scared shitless. But I know that look. I know what is in their heads.

The airplane that we are on is one of the better ones that we fly on. Even though it has a tendency to smoke, and the left engine runs really hot and flames out, some of the windowpanes are cracking, the forward lav hasn't worked in a year, and the interior panels sometimes fall out onto your lap, this really is one of the better airplanes. I know that now. But when I came in, I looked at the dripping water from the ceiling with the same look of horror that John and Mike now have on their faces.

"You OK?" I innocently ask.
"Should that be dripping?" Mike asks.
"Oh, that's not bad. You should see it on a really hot day." I smile.
"Have you been here a while?"
"Yup. Been here a long time."
"Is it as bad as they say?"
"Define bad."
"Oh, God," John laughs, bending forward to look at me.
"No, really. Bad in what way? Death? Food? Camps?" I say.
"Any of it."
"In some ways, it is worse than they will ever tell you," I start. "Not in terms of death, really, and even the conditions you will eventually get used to." I pause. I feel the entire time wash over me. Weeks, months, endless hours. "They don't prepare you for the isolation. They don't prepare you for the mental stress of it. Did they tell you that 70% don't make it through the year?"
"That many?"
"Yes. So prepare to not make it. Statistically, you won't."
He leans back, glum. "Why do they leave?"
"I don't know. Alot can happen in a year. You can get sick. There are no docs here. Your family can get sick. Your house can burn down. You can decide that this is too much BS. I don't know. A year is alot longer than you think it is. You are on Iraq time now." I continue, "I thought I would leave a million times. I really didn't think I could stay. I don't know why I made it. I really don't. People alot more determined than I have left."

They are silent now. I sit back in my seat.

I can barely remember flying in now. It seems like so long ago. It seems like a lifetime ago. I feel older, sadder, tougher now. I have seen people crack up. I have seen people get fired left and right. I have personally been threatened, as most of us have, on a daily basis. That is the environment. Nothing makes sense here. There are no rules, no continuity.

I remember the fear. And being stunned when I first saw Iraq. And being floored when I first saw my cot in the tent at Al Asad. I remember the long days, the lack of privacy, the utterly horrible living conditions. I remember the sacrifices made for staying here, and the sacrifices of those back home. I remember the incoming, the terror of knowing someone out there wanted to kill us. I remember the joy of discovering new things, seeing new lands. I remember the awful food, the shortages, the feeling of glee when fresh eggs again arrived. Most of all, I remember David: the sweetness of unexpected love, how much I loved him, how much I still do; how hard it is to kill our dreams, and how easy it is to crush our spirits.

I never really noticed the changes that were happening. They were too small. But looking back, I am different now. Very different. And I can't say all the changes were good. I looked around the plane. We all had our reasons for coming. We all had dreams of something when we landed. But dreams shatter. Lives fall apart. Marriages end. Who you are when you arrive is not who you are when you fly back home that last time. This changes you. This changes you forever. You never know that when you fly in the first time. They don't tell you that.

I look out the window at the endless brown below. I have tears in my eyes. I am sad, tired, worn out, lost.

This changes you forever.