Live From Iraq, Continued.

As I write this edition it must be noted that days have passed since this evolution into Marine Corps wisdom unfolded.  It is also of a strong validity to understand that as members of 1st Platoon, or The Dark-Side, and my favorite one overheard as an explanation in the Admin. office... "Just leave em' together because separated they'll only spread like an infection through the company."

Ah discipline, understood by all involved in a platoon closer than any I've ever seen.  We only needed to have the statement made that, "we just truly didn't give a shit about what you though" (I'm talking to you Smigel).  Don't think I'm going to leave your mark off of the "docket of truth," in order to spare a light-bird from a little heckling at the expense of "his" Marines.

Taking this point of digression I'd also like to recite another one of my favorite 1st Sgt. quotes, "Dooon't let me down people!"  (Again, I insert a big "green weenie" up your ass and hope you rode with that lump in your throat all the way back to Cincy).

Back to the desert.  I believe these may make more sense if I could put the Coor's down and actually focus.  Oh well, as far as I can recollect the following was a series of weeks that came and went through the changes quicker than the daily temperature.  The tent city was located off some bum-fuck dirt road out beyond the gaze of the Kuwaiti's and yet still not in sight of Baghdad.  For the sake of brevity let's just all agree that it's one big fucking desert out there.  Full of nomads and the largest collection of stray mutts I've ever seen.  You get a lot of time to think about these dogs especially as every time you head to the shitter you can't help but climb a berm and see if Saddam and his deadly assassins had finally assembled on the other side.  No such luck, instead you always spot a few mangy ass animals and think back to those commercials with Sarah McLachlan's, "Arms of a Fucking Angel," blaring as you look at deprived animals and are solicited for some emotional realism that if you'd sacrifice a bit of your luxury you could save these animals.  Sorry PETA and ASPCA, and especially you Sarah, not going to happen.  When you can spot dozens in a area the size of a football field I'm going to tell you the much cheaper alternative.  


No!  Not shoot all of them or increase the snitching on your neighbor Michael Vick for dog fights... My solution is this, CONCENTRATE on something of more fucking importance.  


Morning glory finished and a nice dry shave using a Humvee's broke ass mirror we set about the task of seeing how bored we could really become.  Until it dawns on our command, sandbags!  General we need an order of 10,000 sandbags, we've got Marines sitting here waiting for nothing and what better way to really break their morale than to fill sandbags.  "Yes sandbags.  That's what'll save us!"  

Now with rational thinking aside and the inability to think of a better alternative I still can't wrap my brain around the concept of filling sandbags that would all be emptied within a few weeks.  Adding to the general stupidity of this scenario as it unfolded I'd like to give an account of eating in an Army chow hall, DFAC... or whatever random tent that had tables and food that was slightly better than MRE's.


"GAS, GAS, GAS...  Oh shit!"  

This is it and everyone knows it.  This isn't some kind of fucking joke this is the preemptive strike we knew would happen.  What did that NBC (Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Specialist) or 22 year old fuck-stick that spent an additional three weeks in occupational schooling than MP's do, say about donning and clearing a mask?  Oh yeah, 9 seconds...  Ripping the Velcro from a side mounted olive green satchel produces that same life-saving piece of gear that is dragged around the base and has bounced against the most damaging conditions one could think to exert upon it.  Almost as if in an old chain gang or the ball and chain joke... it hangs on your side and other than a nice place to store cig's and a bonnie cover for those time periods when the upper-echelon would allow us to grace the gear they sent us here with.  


No impact, no idea.  All I know is there is some unkempt fat Army fuck telling me to get outside and get under cover.  Okay, go OUTSIDE, and get under what cover?  Oh, the sandbag constructed death traps that would have structural integrity issues if you placed a sandbag just wrong.  Allow me to take this moment for a little inward reflection and composure.  Aye-Aye Sgt. 1st Class. Schmuckatelli... Rangers lead the way Hooah!!!  Now "meandering" across this vast 200 yards to the sandbagged covered plywood and wouldn't you know it, we should have ordered 20,000 sandbags not 10,000.  Too late to focus on that Marine!  Get in this pit.  What?  Get in the pit, with all the shit that has been thrown away from the chow hall and God knows how many service members depositing what waste they felt necessary to toss into this pit for burial.


After refusing to bed down in the pit of shit, I made my way back to the other side of camp.  I believe at this time I decided that the less meals I consumed at the "chow-hall" was that much less likely the chance of having to run for cover over some dumb asses decision that the pack he heard thud against the plywood ground of a tent had to be incoming mortars.


The ultimate breakdown in cohesion was Camp Doha.  Few acknowledge its existence, for to do so would admit that we actually craved contact with our loved ones at home.  (Think, "Feelings in a jar.").  Now add that they also had the lock down on crave cans of Doritos's and you've got the crippling power of reducing hardened Marines to mere POG's.  (Personnel Other than Grunts).  Not sure how a POG is any different than the normal service member other than the obvious distinction of ASVAB scores and the ability to choose outside of the cannon-fodder MOS that was much more hyped then actions would finally prove.  I will freely admit that I would make the chit as often as possible to Doha.  I had a real connection with the people back home that the deployment had yet to severe.  "Dirty fucking family lover."  "Hey everyone, this guy loves his family...  Booooo!"  


Now aside from the hardening of sandbag bunkers and the impossible task of stacking enough sandbags into a vehicle to make it bullet and explosion proof.  At this time I'd like to introduce the wisdom of "armoring" a vehicle and then upper-echelon command would figure out after the complaints of several contemptuous complaints by Lcpl.'s that had already voiced the idea that sandbags and camiflouge netting over a vehicle would only serve to draw more issues than ever dismiss.  Back to Doha, it was that place that almost made you forget that you had ended up in some shit-hole country and actually were just at a really bad swap meet.  Although everyone here was wearing cami's and try as you might you couldn't escape the notion of this ultimate feeling that all of these people were in someway going to get you fucking killed, if you at any time let them take control of your fate.


I got side tracked trying to explain multiple situations but join me tomorrow for a run down of the bravest Marine I've ever known.  RIP Col. Crackers, "You'll Be Missed."  As well as, the continuation of the FUBAR situation of arriving and getting prepared to cross the breach point.  Even a rundown of Tiger Team.  Kuuuu-Wait.  These are the events as I remember them, maybe not accurate, but fuck it we were at war.