Lots to catch up on. First week back at work complete.
The following story was brought to my attention by one of my fellow lieutenants: apparently, Trijicon (the company that makes the ACOG sights) has been inscribing Bible verses on their optics, and has been doing so for decades. I was pretty incredulous, but when one of my fellow lieutenants prompted me to look it up on Google, lo and behold, a slew of results popped up.
I've used ACOGs for years now, and not once did I ever suspect the last few digits in the string of characters on the bottom of the optic to be a reference to a Bible verse. I think everyone assumed that it was part of the model number, seeing as how it followed the numbers denoting the magnification factor and field of view of the optic, e.g., 4x32JN8:12 = four-power magnification, with a field of view of 32 degrees. The JN8:12 was just assumed to be some kind of obscure manufacturer's nomenclature. It will be interesting to see what waves this ends up making in the military community, especially for troops that are downrange in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Now that these Bible verse references are public knowledge, there is obviously an IO (information operations) disadvantage to walking around in-sector with an ACOG inscribed with a Bible verse. Nonetheless, Trijicon has provided only 100 kits (yes, you read that right: only 100) to the military to remove the etchings from the tens of thousands of optics that are currently in the inventory.
I suspect that units will probably etch over the verses at the local level. Regardless of the negative atmospherics of having these Bible references on the optics, Trijicon optics are some of the best out there and most widely used, and, barring a command directive, I highly doubt that soldiers or Marines are going to start dismounting ACOGs from their rifles because of bible verse references.
01 February 2010
26 January 2010
I f*cking told them so! (ISF and fake bomb-sniffers)
Wired's Danger Room is running an article about the fake bomb-sniffing devices currently being used by Iraqi Security Forces (ISF). My unit saw these things in-person: they were in use at a number of checkpoints in Kirkuk.
We always knew the devices were fake, but were unable to convince the Iraqis of the fallacy of relying on these things to detect explosives. At some point during the tour, we received a report that Americans had taken X-rays and taken apart one of the devices to reveal that there was no power source inside the device, and that none of the "detecting" components connected to anything.
My patrol stopped at a checkpoint in the northern part of the city initially to chastise the Iraqi Police (IPs) for not wearing their bulletproof vests ("It's too hot and the vests are too heavy" was the Iraqi response to our line of questioning).
Among the IPs manning the checkpoint was a commissioner (IP equivalent to a senior NCO in the U.S. military) who was so obese that his vest could not be closed. I asked him what his procedures were for checking vehicles for explosives. He waved an IP over with a small black pelican case. The IP opened the case and the commissioner rather triumphantly pulled out the fake bomb-sniffing device.
We proceeded to explain to him that the machines were fake and had zero ability to detect anything, much less explosives. The IP commissioner was adamant that the machines worked.
"How many vehicles have you stopped and detected explosives inside using this machine?" I asked, pointing at the flimsy piece of black plastic.
"None," he answered. Still, he insisted that the device worked.
"How does it work?" I asked. "Explain to me exactly how this thing detects bombs."
The commissioner pulls out these little things that looked like calling cards. "Each card detects a different chemical: RMX, TNT, etc.," he said. "Insert the desired card into the machine, and if there are explosives, the antenna will move."
By this point, we were all fairly incredulous that this Iraqi Police officer had fully placed the safety of himself as well as those of his men in the hands of a piece of plastic with a car antenna sticking out of it.
Further pleas with the IPs to stop using the machines and go back to old school police work -- random vehicle stops, getting the driver out of the vehicle, methodical vehicle, search, etc. -- were unsuccessful.
"I am telling you -- I'm not guessing, I am telling you -- that this shit doesn't work. If you guys want to get yourself killed, go ahead. I'm not going to be anywhere near you guys when you use this garbage." Disgusted, we mounted back up and got the hell out of there.
25 January 2010
Small Wars Journal: Today's Junior Army Officers
An interesting article posted on SWJ regarding the Army's current ability (or lack thereof) to retain quality junior officers. The author, CPT Tim Hsia (I recognize the name, so he is a fairly prolific contributor in the defense academic circles) takes a look at why so many company-grade officers are getting the hell out of the Army.
I know this inevitably leads people to ask me about my own intentions, signaled by the leading question of, "So when's your commitment up?" or "Ever think about using your law degree?"
And my answer is always the same: I don't know yet. For the short term, the Army is a good place to be. I got another deployment in me, so the Army is the answer for the next few years. Beyond that, I just don't know: there are a lot of variables, a lot of things that can or may or may not happen to me between now and x number of years from now.
I do know that CPT Hsia points out some concerns among junior officers that I share, concerns that are both professional and personal in nature.
I also know that there is a fear out there (at least a fear that I feel: not sure how many of my peers feel the same way, or are even cognizant of it) that the Army is going to suffer down the road. We're talking five, ten years down. When shitty lieutenants and captains who have been able to fly under the radar because of OPTEMPO and retention and attrition, become shitty majors and lieutenant colonels.
I don't want to sound alarmist: I am not saying that battalion staff officers and battalion commanders of the near future are going to all suck. Not at all: there will be plenty of good officers that stay in that will undoubtedly bring some balance to the mess. But, there will most certainly be a rough patch that the Army officer corps will have to endure. I imagine it will be akin to the turbulence the Army sailed through in the post-Vietnam era. Probably not to the depths or extremes as the late 1970s and early '80s -- but perhaps in a similar vein, albeit less severe/substantial.
Only time will tell, I suppose. Maybe I'll still be in a uniform to tell y'all about it...
I know this inevitably leads people to ask me about my own intentions, signaled by the leading question of, "So when's your commitment up?" or "Ever think about using your law degree?"
And my answer is always the same: I don't know yet. For the short term, the Army is a good place to be. I got another deployment in me, so the Army is the answer for the next few years. Beyond that, I just don't know: there are a lot of variables, a lot of things that can or may or may not happen to me between now and x number of years from now.
I do know that CPT Hsia points out some concerns among junior officers that I share, concerns that are both professional and personal in nature.
I also know that there is a fear out there (at least a fear that I feel: not sure how many of my peers feel the same way, or are even cognizant of it) that the Army is going to suffer down the road. We're talking five, ten years down. When shitty lieutenants and captains who have been able to fly under the radar because of OPTEMPO and retention and attrition, become shitty majors and lieutenant colonels.
I don't want to sound alarmist: I am not saying that battalion staff officers and battalion commanders of the near future are going to all suck. Not at all: there will be plenty of good officers that stay in that will undoubtedly bring some balance to the mess. But, there will most certainly be a rough patch that the Army officer corps will have to endure. I imagine it will be akin to the turbulence the Army sailed through in the post-Vietnam era. Probably not to the depths or extremes as the late 1970s and early '80s -- but perhaps in a similar vein, albeit less severe/substantial.
Only time will tell, I suppose. Maybe I'll still be in a uniform to tell y'all about it...
An exercise in academics
Okay, I've decided to resurrect this thing. Hopefully, I'll have better luck keeping up with it than before. Now that the tour in Iraq is over, my focus is going to shift more towards defense topics. It's really an academic exercise, intended to keep my mind sharp and motivate me to educate myself before the next inevitable deployment (can anyone say "Afghanistan"?)
I also plan on slowly updating entries from the Kirkuk deployment: that will take some time, though. I've also imported some older entries from a different, now-defunct blog that I used to keep: some of them still relevant today. They are posted under their original dates of publication, so you'll have to do some scrolling and clicking to reach them (mostly 2008 entries).
I also plan on slowly updating entries from the Kirkuk deployment: that will take some time, though. I've also imported some older entries from a different, now-defunct blog that I used to keep: some of them still relevant today. They are posted under their original dates of publication, so you'll have to do some scrolling and clicking to reach them (mostly 2008 entries).
06 January 2009
D+1: En Route
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THIRTY-SOME THOUSAND FEET IN THE AIR -- It was a seven-and-a-half hour flight from West Fort Hood to Shannon, Ireland. The flight was fairly miserable. I tried to sleep as much as I could. Vaguely remember some movie called Ghost Town playing. Greg Kinnear gets run over by a bus, and is walking around NYC as a ghost, trying to sabotage his newly widowed-wife’s attempt to move on with a new man. Or something like that.
We ended up with a four-hour layover in Ireland. There were soldiers all over the terminal, with as many civilians roaming about. We grabbed food, stared longingly at the bottles of liquor in the duty-free shop, ogled pretty girls in civilian clothes, surfed the net, called our wives, or slept.
Re-boarded the plane at approximately 1300 Ireland time. Flew the next seven hours to Kuwait. Local time in Kuwait City was 2300 hours, 5 JAN 09. I remember thinking to myself, Well, the airport in Kuwait looks like every other airport in the world. There was nothing out-of-the-ordinary. A disarming start to a year of combat.
Days without beer: 2
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Shannon, Ireland.
04 January 2009
D-Day: Good-byes
FORT HOOD, TX -- Woke up early in the morning. Threw the cot into the car, dropped the keys off at the apartment complex office, and drove away from the apartment for the last time. After making a quick stop to toss my cot into the storage unit, I slid behind the wheel, and made the drive to Killeen. With my CDs packed into storage, and my iPod tucked into my assault pack, the radio was my only option. I tuned it to one of the local morning shows that I usually listened to while driving to work. It was a repeat broadcast -- the crew still on vacation from New Year’s.
The butterflies were back, but they felt different this time. I felt calmer than yesterday. I headed to an Army buddy’s house, Stacy. Picked up some McDonald’s on the way (Egg McMuffin, hash brown and OJ -- a pathetic final breakfast). I left my car at Stacy’s. She would bring my car to my vehicle storage place the next day, since the place was closed on Sundays.
I also gave her a black plastic footlocker filled with last-minute items that I needed mailed to myself over there. After leaving her some final instructions for the car and the footlocker, we jumped into her pickup truck, and she drove me to post.
We were early. Weapons draw was 1115 hours, and it was only 1045. I hopped out of the truck. It was bitterly cold. The clouds seemed to be racing each other across the dull grey sky. There were a few cars in the parking lot, but not many. A couple of soldiers walking around with their wives and children, holding hands and holding back tears.
I hugged Stacy and J (another mutual friend of ours) good-bye, and watched them drive off in Stacy’s huge green pickup truck. I swung my assault pack over my shoulder, and headed into the battery, expecting to find only a few people. I figured everyone would be waiting until the last minute to arrive -- savoring final moments with the people they love.
The door swung open, and I was shocked to see nearly half of the battery already assembled inside. The second floor of our building has all of the offices and conference rooms, while the first floor is mostly empty space. A couple of caged off spots serve as our supply areas. An arms room, protected by a huge, vault-like metal door that’s at least five inches thick. And wall lockers arrayed along one side.
Soldiers were laying about, listening to iPods, reading books, talking to wives, holding babies. I walked over to a sergeant from our intelligence team. “What the hell is going on?” I asked. “You guys are early!”
He looked up at me, pulling one white iPod earphone out. “Detox, sir.”
It instantly clicked in my head as I looked around. Our standing orders were no alcohol for the eight hours prior to formation. Undoubtedly, these guys threw a hell of a party last night at the barracks, probably drinking themselves to the brink of death right up to that eight-hour mark. They then probably helped each other pull uniforms on, and crashed on the floor of the battery. It’s a simple plan: guarantees that no one faces UCMJ for missing movement. Responsibly irresponsible.
The line for weapons draw was long, so I decided to wait until the end, rather than stand in line for an hour. It was a good opportunity to finish making good-bye phone calls. I didn’t realize how difficult the task would be until I found myself hiding around a corner of the building, crying while talking on the phone, and struggling to maintain my composure while the freezing wind bit into my hands and face.
I don’t know what brought it on. The voice on the other end. The conversation itself. The thoughts of saying good-bye to others. The sight of other soldiers saying good-bye to their families and loved ones. The absence of having someone to say good-bye to in person -- to physically hug and kiss and hold onto until the last possible moment.
Maybe it was a combination of everything, but all I know is that despite all of the training, and the attempts to put up the hard, concrete façade in front of the soldiers, I could not hold back my tears today. It’s never easy. It’s like saying good-bye to your mother the morning after Christmas, and watching her hold herself in the cold. She tries not to cry in front of you, because she wants to be strong -- so that you can be strong. But she’s your mother -- and you can see right through her. And it kills you to have to drive away, having told her that you’ll be all right, even if it might be a lie.
Pre-manifest was at 1330. Sat in an auditorium for a short while, then loaded up on buses to the airfield on post. A couple of the wives and girlfriends had stuck around, waiting for us to get out of the theater, and waved and blew kisses as we boarded the buses.
At the airfield, we waited some more in a holding area. As we walked in, our ID cards were scanned into a computer -- probably the last time they would be scanned on American soil. Standing guard at the door to the waiting lounge was an old lady -- had to be in her seventies -- passing out little prayer pamphlets and, of all things, hugs. The sight of this old, wrinkled, smiling lady, giving a hug to every single G.I. that filed through would have melted even the coldest, toughest of hearts.
Walking across the tarmac to the plane felt like a movie. It was still cold, and the sun was setting, turning the clouds into a bunch of pink, purple and red streaks. A huge, dark grey Air Force cargo plane sat in the background, nose open; pallets of some kind of equipment were being loaded into it.
Our commercial plane was in front of the cargo plane, and there was a grey line of ACU-clad soldiers snaking towards the stairway leading up to the hatch on the left side of the plane. There was no time to stop and look around -- no time to take it in, or savor the last breaths of Texan air. I can vaguely remember shaking hands with the brigade sergeant major, brigade commander, the division sergeant major, and division commanding general. Good luck, son. Make us proud.
I wasn't impressed. I'd rather that they didn't show up at all -- their appearance now seemed all too choreographed and empty. I'm pretty sure the brigade commander would never recognize me at a function, or remember my name -- not unless I earned him a positive bullet on his evaluation report in the form of some kind of spectacularly courageous feat, or a place in newspaper headlines as a tragic statistic.
Suddenly I was in my seat, buckled in, feeling the vibrations of the plane around me as it taxied its way to the runway. A sudden increase in the shriek of the engines, a quick rumble, and we were gone.
Days without beer: 1
.JPG)
The butterflies were back, but they felt different this time. I felt calmer than yesterday. I headed to an Army buddy’s house, Stacy. Picked up some McDonald’s on the way (Egg McMuffin, hash brown and OJ -- a pathetic final breakfast). I left my car at Stacy’s. She would bring my car to my vehicle storage place the next day, since the place was closed on Sundays.
I also gave her a black plastic footlocker filled with last-minute items that I needed mailed to myself over there. After leaving her some final instructions for the car and the footlocker, we jumped into her pickup truck, and she drove me to post.
We were early. Weapons draw was 1115 hours, and it was only 1045. I hopped out of the truck. It was bitterly cold. The clouds seemed to be racing each other across the dull grey sky. There were a few cars in the parking lot, but not many. A couple of soldiers walking around with their wives and children, holding hands and holding back tears.
I hugged Stacy and J (another mutual friend of ours) good-bye, and watched them drive off in Stacy’s huge green pickup truck. I swung my assault pack over my shoulder, and headed into the battery, expecting to find only a few people. I figured everyone would be waiting until the last minute to arrive -- savoring final moments with the people they love.
The door swung open, and I was shocked to see nearly half of the battery already assembled inside. The second floor of our building has all of the offices and conference rooms, while the first floor is mostly empty space. A couple of caged off spots serve as our supply areas. An arms room, protected by a huge, vault-like metal door that’s at least five inches thick. And wall lockers arrayed along one side.
Soldiers were laying about, listening to iPods, reading books, talking to wives, holding babies. I walked over to a sergeant from our intelligence team. “What the hell is going on?” I asked. “You guys are early!”
He looked up at me, pulling one white iPod earphone out. “Detox, sir.”
It instantly clicked in my head as I looked around. Our standing orders were no alcohol for the eight hours prior to formation. Undoubtedly, these guys threw a hell of a party last night at the barracks, probably drinking themselves to the brink of death right up to that eight-hour mark. They then probably helped each other pull uniforms on, and crashed on the floor of the battery. It’s a simple plan: guarantees that no one faces UCMJ for missing movement. Responsibly irresponsible.
The line for weapons draw was long, so I decided to wait until the end, rather than stand in line for an hour. It was a good opportunity to finish making good-bye phone calls. I didn’t realize how difficult the task would be until I found myself hiding around a corner of the building, crying while talking on the phone, and struggling to maintain my composure while the freezing wind bit into my hands and face.
I don’t know what brought it on. The voice on the other end. The conversation itself. The thoughts of saying good-bye to others. The sight of other soldiers saying good-bye to their families and loved ones. The absence of having someone to say good-bye to in person -- to physically hug and kiss and hold onto until the last possible moment.
Maybe it was a combination of everything, but all I know is that despite all of the training, and the attempts to put up the hard, concrete façade in front of the soldiers, I could not hold back my tears today. It’s never easy. It’s like saying good-bye to your mother the morning after Christmas, and watching her hold herself in the cold. She tries not to cry in front of you, because she wants to be strong -- so that you can be strong. But she’s your mother -- and you can see right through her. And it kills you to have to drive away, having told her that you’ll be all right, even if it might be a lie.
Pre-manifest was at 1330. Sat in an auditorium for a short while, then loaded up on buses to the airfield on post. A couple of the wives and girlfriends had stuck around, waiting for us to get out of the theater, and waved and blew kisses as we boarded the buses.
At the airfield, we waited some more in a holding area. As we walked in, our ID cards were scanned into a computer -- probably the last time they would be scanned on American soil. Standing guard at the door to the waiting lounge was an old lady -- had to be in her seventies -- passing out little prayer pamphlets and, of all things, hugs. The sight of this old, wrinkled, smiling lady, giving a hug to every single G.I. that filed through would have melted even the coldest, toughest of hearts.
Walking across the tarmac to the plane felt like a movie. It was still cold, and the sun was setting, turning the clouds into a bunch of pink, purple and red streaks. A huge, dark grey Air Force cargo plane sat in the background, nose open; pallets of some kind of equipment were being loaded into it.
Our commercial plane was in front of the cargo plane, and there was a grey line of ACU-clad soldiers snaking towards the stairway leading up to the hatch on the left side of the plane. There was no time to stop and look around -- no time to take it in, or savor the last breaths of Texan air. I can vaguely remember shaking hands with the brigade sergeant major, brigade commander, the division sergeant major, and division commanding general. Good luck, son. Make us proud.
I wasn't impressed. I'd rather that they didn't show up at all -- their appearance now seemed all too choreographed and empty. I'm pretty sure the brigade commander would never recognize me at a function, or remember my name -- not unless I earned him a positive bullet on his evaluation report in the form of some kind of spectacularly courageous feat, or a place in newspaper headlines as a tragic statistic.
Suddenly I was in my seat, buckled in, feeling the vibrations of the plane around me as it taxied its way to the runway. A sudden increase in the shriek of the engines, a quick rumble, and we were gone.
Days without beer: 1
.JPG)
The hug lady
D minus 1
FORT HOOD, TX—The 30-minute drive from my apartment in Belton, Texas to Fort Hood was different this time. I don’t know what it was...maybe the huge cup of coffee I purchased at the Texas Java Coffee House around the corner from my now-empty apartment. All I know is that as I was driving in to work, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. The sudden sense that this was really going to happen washed over me. I could feel my pulse in my temples and in my fingertips. It seemed to take forever to reach post.
Butterflies were flapping their wings in my stomach as I pulled into the parking lot in front of our building -- swarms of soldiers milling about. Golf Company (one of the units in my battalion) was leaving today. My unit -- Thunder Battery -- was leaving tomorrow.
I looked around as I parked the car in front of the building that served as headquarters for our battery: soldiers were wandering around, saying goodbye to their families, clinging to a last warm embrace. The black metal of rifles slung over the back glinted in the sunlight. It was a sobering sight, and did nothing to allay the increasing sense of anxiety within me.
A long line of soldiers carrying duffel bags and rucksacks was snaking around a cordoned-off area of the parking lot. At the head of the line was a desk manned by a few NCOs, and a scale. Soldiers would check off their names, and drop their bags on the scales. Seventy pounds per bag was the limit. A handful of soldiers were off to the side, carefully rearranging their bags -- re-distributing items between their duffel and ruck to meet the weight restrictions.
I was a first-time go at the station -- I packed according to the packing list, and although I had my doubts, both bags made weight. After throwing my bags in into the container truck marked with our battalion, the Red Dragons, I made my way over to a fellow LT, Jeff. He dropped the tailgate of his Chevy pickup, and we sat there in the sun, watching and waiting for our soldiers to finish making their way through the baggage station.
Jeff's whole family -- parents, sister -- and his fiance were there. I stood to shake hands and introduce myself when they approached. The other LTs, Chris and Albert also made their way to the truck, accompanied by their fiance and girlfriend, respectively. Our commander and his wife joined the party as well. It was like a tailgating party, minus the beer, burgers and football game.
By this time, the butterflies had disappeared. It wasn't until after formation, and after I had made arrangements with a local storage company (for my car) that the strange anxiety came back... Even with all of the training that I had undertaken with my unit in the preceding seven months, I could not shake the fact that I was once again headed into unknown territory. Never before had the responsibility of the soldiers' lives under me become more salient than now.
I spent the night grabbing a couple of last beers at a restaurant just down the road from my apartment, and moving the last boxes into my storage unit. Caught a couple hours of sleep on a cot (the bed had been packed into the storage unit weeks ago), next to my last remaining possessions: the uniform I'd be wearing, a pair of boots, my assault pack, and my car keys.
Butterflies were flapping their wings in my stomach as I pulled into the parking lot in front of our building -- swarms of soldiers milling about. Golf Company (one of the units in my battalion) was leaving today. My unit -- Thunder Battery -- was leaving tomorrow.
I looked around as I parked the car in front of the building that served as headquarters for our battery: soldiers were wandering around, saying goodbye to their families, clinging to a last warm embrace. The black metal of rifles slung over the back glinted in the sunlight. It was a sobering sight, and did nothing to allay the increasing sense of anxiety within me.
A long line of soldiers carrying duffel bags and rucksacks was snaking around a cordoned-off area of the parking lot. At the head of the line was a desk manned by a few NCOs, and a scale. Soldiers would check off their names, and drop their bags on the scales. Seventy pounds per bag was the limit. A handful of soldiers were off to the side, carefully rearranging their bags -- re-distributing items between their duffel and ruck to meet the weight restrictions.
I was a first-time go at the station -- I packed according to the packing list, and although I had my doubts, both bags made weight. After throwing my bags in into the container truck marked with our battalion, the Red Dragons, I made my way over to a fellow LT, Jeff. He dropped the tailgate of his Chevy pickup, and we sat there in the sun, watching and waiting for our soldiers to finish making their way through the baggage station.
Jeff's whole family -- parents, sister -- and his fiance were there. I stood to shake hands and introduce myself when they approached. The other LTs, Chris and Albert also made their way to the truck, accompanied by their fiance and girlfriend, respectively. Our commander and his wife joined the party as well. It was like a tailgating party, minus the beer, burgers and football game.
By this time, the butterflies had disappeared. It wasn't until after formation, and after I had made arrangements with a local storage company (for my car) that the strange anxiety came back... Even with all of the training that I had undertaken with my unit in the preceding seven months, I could not shake the fact that I was once again headed into unknown territory. Never before had the responsibility of the soldiers' lives under me become more salient than now.
I spent the night grabbing a couple of last beers at a restaurant just down the road from my apartment, and moving the last boxes into my storage unit. Caught a couple hours of sleep on a cot (the bed had been packed into the storage unit weeks ago), next to my last remaining possessions: the uniform I'd be wearing, a pair of boots, my assault pack, and my car keys.
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