Social Stew

We sat in the connex, day in, day out. There wasn't much to do. Some slept. Some watched movies. Dave and I listened to music, read online books, and walked alot. Our favorite place was out by the edge of the camp. Looking out, it seemed like we were on Mars. The desert was reddish brown, with clumpings of rocks emerging out of nowhere.

We would hike past the tents, past the Oasis, out to an abandoned guard tower below the ridgeline. You could see the planes taking off from the airfield, and could see the Chinooks flying overhead, pallets swinging below them in the airstream. The first walks were in our early days. It was odd being here, we both knew it. There were no WMDs. Again, tell me why we are here? I questioned it, Dave questioned it. Few others did. We were surrounded by GW cheerleaders, eager to cash their checks, eager to profit from our tragic mistake. Our leaders were mostly exmilitary, and our reasons for being here were not to be questioned.

I asked him about the birds one day. Innocuous at best, but that is how it all started. There were only two types of birds that I saw regularly, the camp being rather short of vegetation and water. The next day, I got an email with pictures of the two birds. I wish I had kept it.

I had originally sat next to Ray, who had a tendency for fantods like no one I had seen. Ultimately, in a complete meltdown, exclaiming "shit rolls downhill," he dramatically gathered his things, pulled a nail out of the wooden shelf with his bare hands, and moved down to the end of the trailer. So Dave moved in next to me. It was nice to have some intelligent conversation. Finally.

Day in, day out. Twelve hours a day. Every day. We worked, we slept, we ate. Together. We learned just about everything there was to know about eachother. Sometimes that is not a good thing. But I formed an immediate bond with Dave, who was able to analyze things, was able to form an actual thought on his very own. Not like the others, who watched their DVDs until their eyeballs fell out of their skulls and drool ran down their chins. When one was sick, we all got sick. When one was happy, we were all happy. When one was bitchy, so were we all. Day after day, we morphed into one.

So we walked each afternoon, trying to pass some time in the endless days that stretched out before us, trying to get out of the stew of the connex and breathe some air. At first, we would speak of general things. Ultimately, we spoke of the deepness within, our demons, our spouses, our lives, our failures, our successes. It became our escape from the mundane, our way of blowing off the idiocy of the masses.

Beneath the guard tower, amidst the sun and wind, we formed a bond that I believed could never be broken. We sought solace among the desolation, comfort within the constraints of our other relationships. I would look into his eyes, and see pain...pain that he didn't acknowledge, pain that he had made a life avoiding. We could talk about it. We could talk about anything.

Save Me

He sent this to me one morning, said the movie reminded him of us. Save me, indeed.

Save Me
Aimee Mann

You look like a perfect fit
For a girl in need of a tourniquet
But can you save me
Come on and save me
If you could save me
From the ranks of the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone
Cause I can tell
You know what it's like
The long farewell of the hunger strike
But can you save me
Come on and save me
If you could save me
From the ranks of the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone
You struck me dumb like radium
Like Peter Pan or Superman
You will come to save me
C'mon and save me
If you could save me
From the ranks of the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone'
Cept the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone
But the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone
C'mon and save me
Why don't you save me
If you could save me
From the ranks of the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone
Except the freaks
Who suspect they could never love anyone
Except the freaks who could never love anyone

Three Types of Ice Cream

From Thomas X. Hammes Frontline interview:

So your sense was -- and as an intelligent observer of this --
that we're spending a lot of money on building inappropriate
base facilities?
I think so. I frankly was stunned at the level of care at the
Green Zone: the big-screen TVs, the exceptional food -- and
it truly was exceptional food. Like I said, three main courses,
three or four vegetables. Dessert was three kinds of ice cream with multiple-flavored toppings, and there was also several kinds of pastry.

I watched this program online, and wasn't sure what to think. There seemed to be some confusion with the viewers-basically, you can divide the contractors into two groups: those who provide security, and those who provide service. The private security contractors, rightly or wrongly, have gained a reputation of being cowboys. Some are definitely more professional than others, and their actions can be at odds with the military. On the other hand, the service providers do not leave the bases, and relieve the military of performing the mundane tasks such as transportation, food service, and water/power/sewer service. The service providers, not being outside the wire, do not pose a threat to military operations. The only time that the military is directly responsible for the service providers is when we have to be flown on a military flight to get to a work location.

These flights, known as Milair, are met with some resistance from the Military. In a sense, they are pretty resentful that they are responsible for our protection, yet we get paid much more than they do. There seems to be a constant, undeniable undercurrent of hostility between much of the military and those who are hired to serve them. One actually said to me, as I waited for a Milair flight, that he didn't appreciate having to fly "you guys" around, risking his life, for "one of you." On the other hand, I was in line at the PX one night, and the soldier in back of me tapped me on my shoulder, and thanked me sincerely "for all you do for us." It was the first time I
had been thanked for this job. At all. Ever. I went to my hooch and cried. It really touched me. Thanks to whomever you were, soldier. We appreciate it.

I guess what everyone forgets is, like it or not, this is policy, and we are here. Our lives are at risk, just as much as theirs are. We take incoming, day in and day out, and never have the comfort of knowing how serious the threat is, or when it is over; and never have the solace of a weapon by our side. PTSD? Shit. You should see me at night. There is nothing so frightening as hearing the incoming, hearing the sirens, and not knowing what is going on, whether we are under continuous attack, or whether someone we work with has been killed. And unlike the military, there are no programs to help us deal with things. If we get depressed, we are sent home. No questions asked.

But in a sense, Frontline echoed many of the same questions I have had all along: seems like a lot of money spent on things that probably are not necessary. However, the ice cream issue has
emerged as the exhibit de jour of contractor waste. It is not what I would have picked. But let me say something about the ice cream: I have worked on bases that have none. Do not think that all locations have the same level of service. The particular bases that were discussed in the show are two of the largest, and contain the majority of the military and civilian brass. Hence, the better food. And, yes, when you have nowhere to go, and nothing to do, food does become more important, especially for the 18YO soldiers around here. Also, this represents the perpetual discord between the old style "suck it up" military and the new approaches (why NOT make their lives a little better?). Waste? Nah. Now, let's talk about the $300K cars that project managers drive around the bases in.....

New Digs

It was with sadness that I placed the last of my belongings in the footlocker. For six months, I have been in the hooch alone, with my own bathroom. That may not sound like a big deal, but it is.

We are here in Baghdad, surrounded by the blowing brown dust. We can't see much of the city from here, but we can hear it. We hear the explosions of the car bombs, can see and smell the smoke when a building blows up. They never tell us what has blown, or if we are in any particular danger. Three weeks ago, RPGs came into our camp and killed several people. But alone in my mondo-hooch, I didn't really think too much about it. They like it that way. They
don't answer questions, anyway.

There is a startlingly abrupt pecking order, determined mainly by living conditions. Tent life is at the bottom, particularly the large tents (40 man tents that look like a dusty, post WWII Ringling Bros. tent). Some tents only hold 8, some about 16. I, unfortunately, was thrown into a 40 man tent my first day in country. Woo hoo!! Off and running. But more about that later.

I was lucky to be plucked from the desert and placed in another camp after three months in country. Baghdad, the big city. With running water, electricity, Internet, DFACs that were clean and bright. But what else would you expect within the proximity of so many Army Generals? And because of my job, I was assigned to mondo-hooch. It was large, had a Queen bed (big, big deal), and a private bath (really, really big deal). But, as I said, more on that
later.

It is sad leaving. This little trailer, this miserable little trailer, was where I struggled to find my place, where I realized I was falling in love, where I cherished my time with him, where I anguished when things went wrong. This little trailer, for better or worse, was where I lived my life. My pathetic, desperate life.

I looked around one last time. I'd known for several days that this move would come. But, like always happens, the move to a new location always leaves you at the door, looking back into a bare room, remembering all the things that happened, all the life that you lived, all the sadness, ecstasy, and everything in between. It is jarring to leave, as it always seems to be.

I walked out, closing the door. It was fitting, I guess, now that he has left. This trailer was now filled with ghosts...my job was gone, my co-workers had moved on, my love had abandoned me and returned home. I thought it would be more emotional, I'd been crying for months since we started to fall apart. I figured when the door finally closed that I would, as usual, fall completely apart. But I closed the door, walked forward, and as the cliche goes, never looked back.

The new hooch? Awful. It must have been one of the first, after the Americans had landed. It is large, but they don't want to give away that much space. So they have set it up for two, and I live each moment now in complete abject dread of a roommate arriving. They say it is better than living in a tent. I'm not so sure any more.

I dragged my tattered belongings into the hooch. One foot locker, one suitcase, a red bucket (for handwashing unmentionables). Odd how one's life can be so easily gathered up in a few items. I threw them down on the bed, as though having them there would prevent someone from moving in. The Camp Manager had insisted that I move in, that I transfer over to this hooch. Dropping by the next day, he announces that this camp and the other living area are soon
to be combined...so tell me again why I so urgently needed to move over to this crappy hooch? "Accountability, we want you to live where you work..." Yes, and I'd like you to stop blowing smoke up my large, American ass.

It only took an hour to unpack. I had already mailed home so much stuff-the stuff that makes a trailer in hell liveable-blankets, pillows, knick-knacks. But the wind is out of my sails now, I no longer am interested in making things liveable. I am just trying to get through now, just trying to sustain my tenuous grasp on who I am and what I am doing here. Some days it is all I can do.

Of course there is no closet in this sub-par ghetto. So I slowly removed my clothes from their hangers, the ones that I pursued for two weeks before the PX finally got them in. Moot. Just like much is now. They did manage to give me a locker: one of those large, two door office storage things. But this one is made somewhere in China, or Jordan, or Timbuktu, and the clips don't fit in the holes, the shelves are warped, and I spend the next half hour trying to get my few belongings to not slide out of this third world container. Am used to this now.

When it is all unpacked, I make my bed. The bottom sheet is navy blue. At one time, it probably had a matching sheet, maybe even a whole set. But after two years of war, the tattered remains are all I am issued. One blue bottom sheet, one strange pinkish print top sheet, two pillow cases with rainbows, and a nylon comforter with bright pink boxes on it. The combination is slightly nauseating, and even more disturbing placed on this small twin bed with faux wrought iron headboard. I wistfully long for my Queen bed, in my mondo-hooch, it's plywood headboard with a lovely routed design (never mind that the corners show the tell tale marks of a router gone wild) and it's matching puke brown-yellow matching set of bedding. I feel noticeably less important, with my bed size halved and my sheets mis-matched. But that is the whole point. The pecking order.

I miss him. I miss him so much I can barely breathe. We had so little time in that hooch, stealing moments before we flew in and out of the country. But my head spins now with the fading memories of those days, how we adjusted, how we grew, how we broke apart. The agony is fading a bit now, a month has passed. And my last connection to him, the memories that existed with me in the mondo-hooch, is now gone.

I still love him.