I am trying to join an online forum or chat for veterans with PTSD but I can't even make sense of the web pages. It just looks like jibberish to me- so I came back to this blog. It's clear and concise. I know how to use it and it allows me to get my thoughts out quickly- before I lose them again.
I am a combat Veteran and I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am 80% disabled according to the Veterans' Administration, which means that I should still be able to hold down a job- and I am...mostly. What I know for sure, is that I'm getting worse. I only feel safe at home or with close friends. I can't be around people, crowds, loud noises or close quarters. I get anxious and then my mind turns into a foggy nothingness. It's strange. I can see, I can hear and I can somewhat make sense of things- but I can't think. I can't concentrate, focus or make decisions. It's like when something terrible has just happened and you can't get yourself to "snap out of it". Then, I'm completely dibilitated. I can't drive or function and usually have to go to bed. This is my life. I take 9 or more pills a day, so that I can be normal and make it to work, interact with people and then, hopefully, make it back home without having to pull over and nap. Yep, ....this is my life.
I don't know how much longer I will be able to keep this going. I'm exhausted. My mind is jello and I'm just going with the flow- following others around and trying to lay low so that I don't get in trouble at work. It takes every ounce of energy to wake up and do it all over again. There is a lot more to this than I am willing to write- only because my Grandmother reads this and I don't want her to worry. ...So this is me for now...we will see how tomorrow goes
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
My Time in Iraq: Part 8
Iraqi Men are Gross:
For anyone that doesn't know what I look like- picture a teenage boy with close cut brown hair and grey eyes. Now give him boobs and you've got me. This is an important fact to know because that is how I appeared to the Iraqi detainees also...and they loved young boys. Don't get me wrong- I'm not trying to say that every man that lives in Iraq is a disgusting closeted pedophile. I'm just telling you what I think based on observation.
Perverts
Medics worked rotating 12 hour shifts. It's usually boring work- morning meds, lunch meds, evening meds, insulin here, wound care there- basic stuff. We usually gave out all meds and conducted "sick-call" (Universal Health care for detainees) through the fence. Sometimes a patient required heart auscultation or a BP check. When this was needed, the patient (malingerer) would put their arm through the fencing and you would take their BP standing up (not the most accurate). Oh yea- I almost forgot to tell you- I was the only female medic. Soooo, every time I had to take some one's blood pressure, he would put his arm out and I'd wrap the cuff around it, listen to the pulses and write down the reading. But this is their interpretation:
OOhhh young boyish looking American girl is touching my arm. It's been so long since I've been touched this way. OOOOO I hope she keeps going. Maybe if I give her my other arm she'll stroke it too.
Every time I began taking a BP, 4 or more arms from different men would pop out towards me through the fence. Suddenly everyone was having chest pains.
Unsanitary
Preventive Medicine Specialists are the Health Inspectors of the Army. It was my responsibility to keep all foods safe to eat and make sure that water remained potable. The same held true for the detainees. I did weekly inspections of their "pens" to check for anything that could cause illnesses.This should have been an easy task. I mean- their food was prepared fresh and served 3 times a day, we gave them port-a-jons to do their business and each pen had its' own water spigot and showers. Well, obviously someone didn't do their cultural studies homework because Iraqis don't want any of that.
Their food- prepared by Muslim Pakistanis, consisted of white rice and meat twice a day, a soup of dal or other lentil, pita bread, fresh oranges (from Egypt- and they HATED Egypt so we had to peel off all the labels) and a creamy cheese and jam (I'm pretty sure it was Laughing Cow brand cheese) and Lastly- just to make sure they knew we weren't the bad guys, we gave them Chai tea, 5 gallons per pen per day. Okay, it wouldn't be fair to those guys if I didn't mention a few problems with the food/beverage. I did conduct one investigation of a "bug in my soup" complaint. The conclusion was that the Pakistani cooks were putting dead fruit flies in the Detainees' soup. Gross I know- but we stopped it. The other matter of great importance was the Chai. Can you imagine what Americans would do if suddenly the government banned caffeine? This is kinda what we did to the Detainees when they were naughty. We'd take away their Chai for the day- and man were they pissed off.
*as a side note- this same chai tea coupled with the intelligence of a structural engineer allowed a functional tunnel to be built all the way to desert freedom. The walls were like concrete...but they were a little late in using it because we found it first- too bad.
Anyway, the food. What I'm trying to say is that it was clean and good. It was served in clean containers. So what did they do? They like to eat it all mixed up and in communal bowls without any cutlery. Then, they'd take their milk and open it up, sit it outside, and let it slowly curd into a cheesy yogurt. It's okay though because they cleaned their own dishes with desert sand and Lister bag water.
Lister bag water-Ingenious! Iraqis do not like to get up and walk to a water faucet and drink fresh clean water. So, to solve this problem, they would take garbage bags and stuff them inside potato sacks. They fill the garbage bag with water and seal the top (with??). For the spigot, they'd take an empty toothpaste tube, cut it in half and stick it through the plastic in the bottom. Somehow, it was water tight. Routine water testing gave positive results for E.coli in almost every sample.
The Port-a-jons- I will keep this brief just in case anyone is eating or about to meet and greet an Iraqi for the first time. To them, toilet paper is disgusting. Why would anyone want to wipe their bum with a paper product when you can use your left hand and bottled water? And, just to top it off- sitting down on the toilet is completely foreign too. They liked to stand on top of the rim and just let it plop. So what if it missed- they weren't the ones cleaning it.
Homosexuality
It's very simple. Sex with a man is for recreation and sex with a woman is for procreation. BUT, being gay is a HUGE no no. So, make sure that after you have homosexual sex, you do NOT cuddle...because you might get raped. (happened often)
For anyone that doesn't know what I look like- picture a teenage boy with close cut brown hair and grey eyes. Now give him boobs and you've got me. This is an important fact to know because that is how I appeared to the Iraqi detainees also...and they loved young boys. Don't get me wrong- I'm not trying to say that every man that lives in Iraq is a disgusting closeted pedophile. I'm just telling you what I think based on observation.
Perverts
Medics worked rotating 12 hour shifts. It's usually boring work- morning meds, lunch meds, evening meds, insulin here, wound care there- basic stuff. We usually gave out all meds and conducted "sick-call" (Universal Health care for detainees) through the fence. Sometimes a patient required heart auscultation or a BP check. When this was needed, the patient (malingerer) would put their arm through the fencing and you would take their BP standing up (not the most accurate). Oh yea- I almost forgot to tell you- I was the only female medic. Soooo, every time I had to take some one's blood pressure, he would put his arm out and I'd wrap the cuff around it, listen to the pulses and write down the reading. But this is their interpretation:
OOhhh young boyish looking American girl is touching my arm
Every time I began taking a BP, 4 or more arms from different men would pop out towards me through the fence. Suddenly everyone was having chest pains.
Unsanitary
Preventive Medicine Specialists are the Health Inspectors of the Army. It was my responsibility to keep all foods safe to eat and make sure that water remained potable. The same held true for the detainees. I did weekly inspections of their "pens" to check for anything that could cause illnesses.This should have been an easy task. I mean- their food was prepared fresh and served 3 times a day, we gave them port-a-jons to do their business and each pen had its' own water spigot and showers. Well, obviously someone didn't do their cultural studies homework because Iraqis don't want any of that.
Their food- prepared by Muslim Pakistanis, consisted of white rice and meat twice a day, a soup of dal or other lentil, pita bread, fresh oranges (from Egypt- and they HATED Egypt so we had to peel off all the labels) and a creamy cheese and jam (I'm pretty sure it was Laughing Cow brand cheese) and Lastly- just to make sure they knew we weren't the bad guys, we gave them Chai tea, 5 gallons per pen per day. Okay, it wouldn't be fair to those guys if I didn't mention a few problems with the food/beverage. I did conduct one investigation of a "bug in my soup" complaint. The conclusion was that the Pakistani cooks were putting dead fruit flies in the Detainees' soup. Gross I know- but we stopped it. The other matter of great importance was the Chai. Can you imagine what Americans would do if suddenly the government banned caffeine? This is kinda what we did to the Detainees when they were naughty. We'd take away their Chai for the day- and man were they pissed off.
*as a side note- this same chai tea coupled with the intelligence of a structural engineer allowed a functional tunnel to be built all the way to desert freedom. The walls were like concrete...but they were a little late in using it because we found it first- too bad.
Anyway, the food. What I'm trying to say is that it was clean and good. It was served in clean containers. So what did they do? They like to eat it all mixed up and in communal bowls without any cutlery. Then, they'd take their milk and open it up, sit it outside, and let it slowly curd into a cheesy yogurt. It's okay though because they cleaned their own dishes with desert sand and Lister bag water.
Lister bag water-Ingenious! Iraqis do not like to get up and walk to a water faucet and drink fresh clean water. So, to solve this problem, they would take garbage bags and stuff them inside potato sacks. They fill the garbage bag with water and seal the top (with??). For the spigot, they'd take an empty toothpaste tube, cut it in half and stick it through the plastic in the bottom. Somehow, it was water tight. Routine water testing gave positive results for E.coli in almost every sample.
The Port-a-jons- I will keep this brief just in case anyone is eating or about to meet and greet an Iraqi for the first time. To them, toilet paper is disgusting. Why would anyone want to wipe their bum with a paper product when you can use your left hand and bottled water? And, just to top it off- sitting down on the toilet is completely foreign too. They liked to stand on top of the rim and just let it plop. So what if it missed- they weren't the ones cleaning it.
Homosexuality
It's very simple. Sex with a man is for recreation and sex with a woman is for procreation. BUT, being gay is a HUGE no no. So, make sure that after you have homosexual sex, you do NOT cuddle...because you might get raped. (happened often)
My Time in Iraq: Part 7
I Should Have Died:
Before our occupation, Camp Bucca was an Iraqi radio station and naval base. As with any radio station, you must have an extremely tall radio tower. The same was true at Bucca. Dead center in the middle of our camp was the tallest piece of criss crossed iron that I had ever seen. Although aesthetically displeasing, it served as a wonderful bullseye for any insurgent wanting to take their best shot at producing US casualties. Of course, after I left, higher command decided that it should come down. Also- have you ever been in a desert before? They are definitely hot and sandy, but more than that- at night, we had endless miles of darkness...except for the blinding lights of a non stop 24 hour U.S. Military Camp- plugged up to hundreds of diesel sucking generators. So yea, we were easy to find.
If you picture a large square patch of dirt, covered with gravel and projecting a phallic metal pole in its center, then you have Bucca. At one side of the square was the motor pool and storage. Near that was the MWR (Morale, Wellness, Rec) tent- that's where the computers and phones were...when they were working. If you work your way backwards from that side, you will run into a trailer park full of gun swinging Commando types- the male MPs. Keep walking a bit farther and you hit the PODs. They were set up in rows-kinda like an old folks community. To the far left of the PODs you have the DFAC and food storage buildings. Another large square sat beside our dwelling. It came complete with tents,towers,Constantine wire, guards and 6,000 alleged insurgents. It was just like home.
One night, no different from any other, I was about to rack for the night. I took off my ballistic helmet, my Flak vest, camel back and boots, and layed in bed. You know that moment when you are crossing the threshold into sleep- your body relaxes and your mind drifts. Everything is dark and peaceful then ZZZZIPPPPPPPPP BOOOMMMM!!! I jumped up from bed, put on my tennis shoes because they were easier, grabbed my rifle, flak and helmet then ran out the door. Everyone was running aimlessly. Some were wearing towels, naked underneath and suds still in their hair. Everywhere you looked you saw beams of flashlights and mismatched uniforms scurrying about in search of their leaders. I ran to the bunker nearest my POD and put the rest of my gear on. Then, the WHOOOOOP WHOOOOOOP sound of the Incoming alarm went off. A bit late, I remember thinking.
SGT Davis came looking for me. It was standard operating procedure for complete accountability after any event. All around me there were SGTs running about with rosters and walkie talkies. It was a total mess. Since my "team" was accounted for, SGT Davis and I decided to go get a closer look where the mortar round struck. It had torn through the male showers and blown a huge hole in a refrigeration unit. The shrapnel pieces had sliced their way through an iron dumpster. The casing of the rocket was littered about everywhere and there was an impact crater large enough to give a small dog a proper burial. We stood there amazed and silent. It turns out that there were a couple of guys in the shower but they happened to be in different stalls and the ceramic walls shielded them from most of the explosion. In fact, the only thing that died that night were several cases of Coca-Cola and some raw chicken breasts.
Our Quick Reaction Team came back thru the front gates with their report. The QRT's job was to immediately search and destroy any combatants in the event of an assault. Their news was disturbing. It turns out that there were 4 rockets aimed at us that night. The one that hit us was on the far left. The other 3 rockets were set at the same trajectory. My POD was perfectly aligned with the showers and storage, about 100 yards away. If the other 3 hadn't been duds, the 3rd rocket would have been mine.
Before our occupation, Camp Bucca was an Iraqi radio station and naval base. As with any radio station, you must have an extremely tall radio tower. The same was true at Bucca. Dead center in the middle of our camp was the tallest piece of criss crossed iron that I had ever seen. Although aesthetically displeasing, it served as a wonderful bullseye for any insurgent wanting to take their best shot at producing US casualties. Of course, after I left, higher command decided that it should come down. Also- have you ever been in a desert before? They are definitely hot and sandy, but more than that- at night, we had endless miles of darkness...except for the blinding lights of a non stop 24 hour U.S. Military Camp- plugged up to hundreds of diesel sucking generators. So yea, we were easy to find.
If you picture a large square patch of dirt, covered with gravel and projecting a phallic metal pole in its center, then you have Bucca. At one side of the square was the motor pool and storage. Near that was the MWR (Morale, Wellness, Rec) tent- that's where the computers and phones were...when they were working. If you work your way backwards from that side, you will run into a trailer park full of gun swinging Commando types- the male MPs. Keep walking a bit farther and you hit the PODs. They were set up in rows-kinda like an old folks community. To the far left of the PODs you have the DFAC and food storage buildings. Another large square sat beside our dwelling. It came complete with tents,towers,Constantine wire, guards and 6,000 alleged insurgents. It was just like home.
One night, no different from any other, I was about to rack for the night. I took off my ballistic helmet, my Flak vest, camel back and boots, and layed in bed. You know that moment when you are crossing the threshold into sleep- your body relaxes and your mind drifts. Everything is dark and peaceful then ZZZZIPPPPPPPPP BOOOMMMM!!! I jumped up from bed, put on my tennis shoes because they were easier, grabbed my rifle, flak and helmet then ran out the door. Everyone was running aimlessly. Some were wearing towels, naked underneath and suds still in their hair. Everywhere you looked you saw beams of flashlights and mismatched uniforms scurrying about in search of their leaders. I ran to the bunker nearest my POD and put the rest of my gear on. Then, the WHOOOOOP WHOOOOOOP sound of the Incoming alarm went off. A bit late, I remember thinking.
SGT Davis came looking for me. It was standard operating procedure for complete accountability after any event. All around me there were SGTs running about with rosters and walkie talkies. It was a total mess. Since my "team" was accounted for, SGT Davis and I decided to go get a closer look where the mortar round struck. It had torn through the male showers and blown a huge hole in a refrigeration unit. The shrapnel pieces had sliced their way through an iron dumpster. The casing of the rocket was littered about everywhere and there was an impact crater large enough to give a small dog a proper burial. We stood there amazed and silent. It turns out that there were a couple of guys in the shower but they happened to be in different stalls and the ceramic walls shielded them from most of the explosion. In fact, the only thing that died that night were several cases of Coca-Cola and some raw chicken breasts.
Our Quick Reaction Team came back thru the front gates with their report. The QRT's job was to immediately search and destroy any combatants in the event of an assault. Their news was disturbing. It turns out that there were 4 rockets aimed at us that night. The one that hit us was on the far left. The other 3 rockets were set at the same trajectory. My POD was perfectly aligned with the showers and storage, about 100 yards away. If the other 3 hadn't been duds, the 3rd rocket would have been mine.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
My Time in Iraq: Part 6
Vector Control:
One of my many jobs was vector control. Yes, pest extermination. My team (me and SGT Davis) were called over the walkie talkies (that we purchased) to come quickly to the med tents. After our scat inspection, we surmised that the tent had rodents. We set up our various traps and waited.
A short time later, we got the call. Our live trap caught a rat. Our orders mandated that all vectors be humanely destroyed. Usually, this meant one 5.56mm round to the head. We headed over in our Gator ATV, ready to do our duty.
The rat wasn't just a rat. Inside the cold metal wires a big eyed, round eared Kangaroo Rat looked up at us lovingly. "Awwww", I said with disregard for what my duty required. "He's so cute!". SGT. Davis looked at the other NCO and stated firmly, "We will take care of it. Don't worry". We left the hospital with our little gift and set off to complete our mission. At the edge of the camp, away from onlookers,SGT Davis looked at me and asked, "Are you ready?" I nodded and then gently opened the cage door.
We both waved and cooed goodbyes as our furry little guy scurried across the desert sands.
One of my many jobs was vector control. Yes, pest extermination. My team (me and SGT Davis) were called over the walkie talkies (that we purchased) to come quickly to the med tents. After our scat inspection, we surmised that the tent had rodents. We set up our various traps and waited.
A short time later, we got the call. Our live trap caught a rat. Our orders mandated that all vectors be humanely destroyed. Usually, this meant one 5.56mm round to the head. We headed over in our Gator ATV, ready to do our duty.
The rat wasn't just a rat. Inside the cold metal wires a big eyed, round eared Kangaroo Rat looked up at us lovingly. "Awwww", I said with disregard for what my duty required. "He's so cute!". SGT. Davis looked at the other NCO and stated firmly, "We will take care of it. Don't worry". We left the hospital with our little gift and set off to complete our mission. At the edge of the camp, away from onlookers,SGT Davis looked at me and asked, "Are you ready?" I nodded and then gently opened the cage door.
We both waved and cooed goodbyes as our furry little guy scurried across the desert sands.
My Time In Iraq: Part 5
Sonic and Bob:
Being a fill-in Preventive Medicine Specialist had some perks. Iraq was very lonely. I secretly envied the one MP that was assigned a K-9. He got to spend every second with a furry companion that he could touch and love. I wanted something to touch and love. Well, word had spread that the postal unit inside our compound had acquired a couple of hedgehogs. Of course, this was against the rules and immediate action was taken. SGT Davis and I headed the investigation. We went to the postal bldg. and asked to speak to the OIC (Officer in Charge). We got a SGT instead (again, lack of personnel) and we explained the violation and the need for immediate confiscation.
Sonic and Bob quickly adapted to their new home inside my room. They loved all types of vegetables and played with empty toilet paper rolls for hours. They were so entertaining and despite their spiny exteriors, they were really soft underneath. I have video footage of them somewhere. Oh, and btw- Bob was really Bobbie- because after I left, they had a baby. How cute!
Being a fill-in Preventive Medicine Specialist had some perks. Iraq was very lonely. I secretly envied the one MP that was assigned a K-9. He got to spend every second with a furry companion that he could touch and love. I wanted something to touch and love. Well, word had spread that the postal unit inside our compound had acquired a couple of hedgehogs. Of course, this was against the rules and immediate action was taken. SGT Davis and I headed the investigation. We went to the postal bldg. and asked to speak to the OIC (Officer in Charge). We got a SGT instead (again, lack of personnel) and we explained the violation and the need for immediate confiscation.
Sonic and Bob quickly adapted to their new home inside my room. They loved all types of vegetables and played with empty toilet paper rolls for hours. They were so entertaining and despite their spiny exteriors, they were really soft underneath. I have video footage of them somewhere. Oh, and btw- Bob was really Bobbie- because after I left, they had a baby. How cute!
My Time in Iraq: Part 4
Security Problems:
When I was in Iraq things were very different. Most FOBs (forward operating base) now have Starbucks and Burger Kings, swimming pools and running tracks...we had dirt, gravel and sand.
During the first few months of my tour, we were in short supply of HMMVs. Most of the heavy fighting was going on in Baghdad and Mosul- so that's where the equipment went. That's okay though because our Kuwaiti rented Ford Explorers had a stereo and air conditioning. Who cares if the doors are plastic? I ran several convoy missions in those SUVs. We mostly went to Al Basra. There was an airport there and we would pick up the passengers and chauffeur them to Bucca or Navistar (a staging area on the Kuwaiti border). One mission shed some light on our little problem when we picked up a couple of high brass officers. They each refused to ride in the comfort of our faux leather and freon, choosing instead an uncomfortable hour in burning kevlar and sweat.
Then it was all over the news. A young soldier was bold during Q&A:
“Why do we soldiers have to dig through local landfills for pieces of scrap metal and compromised ballistic glass to up-armor our vehicles?” asked Army Spc. Thomas Wilson of the 278th Regimental Combat Team. (arktimes.com)
After that, our rentals were sent back to Kuwait...but then we got PODS
Yep, storage pods. It turns out that a whole lot of storage PODS were allotted for a unit in Baghdad but they wanted to sleep in a hollow bomb shelter/airplane hanger instead. Their loss right? I mean, these babies had an air conditioner each. Do you know how cold a 10x6 storage POD can get when it has an 8,000btu Made in China air conditioner in its' window? Those guys must have been crazy to pass that up...We accepted.
We were assigned 2 per pod. Each one had two twin beds and a locker. My roommate was once again PVT Allen. Get this- she sent for her Easy Bake Oven from home and would make brownies in our room. She was a bit wacko. Thank God we had that super thin camo poncho dividing our sides. Without that, I don't know what I would do.
On a side note- Deanna Allen was very friendly with some of the guy soldiers and Iraqi interpreters. She was very hospitable- inviting them in our "hooch" at night and doing very noisy things that kept me awake. For me, I can understand the need for companionship, affection, sex- whatever, but having an Iraqi man in your room late at night while you are sleeping does not bring comfort to any US soldier. I believed it was a security breach. Needless to say, someone gave a sworn statement to some Officer and orders gave PVT Allen a General Discharge for Failure to Adapt to Military Life. She was sent back home and eventually made it to Inside Edition for a $6,000 sell out interview.
Here's something that I don't think made it to the news:
One morning, soldiers woke up and walked towards the DFAC (dining facility). They stopped in their gravel tracks when they saw a one armed, one eyed Iraqi boy rummaging through our garbage for food. Now how did he get in there?
When I was in Iraq things were very different. Most FOBs (forward operating base) now have Starbucks and Burger Kings, swimming pools and running tracks...we had dirt, gravel and sand.
During the first few months of my tour, we were in short supply of HMMVs. Most of the heavy fighting was going on in Baghdad and Mosul- so that's where the equipment went. That's okay though because our Kuwaiti rented Ford Explorers had a stereo and air conditioning. Who cares if the doors are plastic? I ran several convoy missions in those SUVs. We mostly went to Al Basra. There was an airport there and we would pick up the passengers and chauffeur them to Bucca or Navistar (a staging area on the Kuwaiti border). One mission shed some light on our little problem when we picked up a couple of high brass officers. They each refused to ride in the comfort of our faux leather and freon, choosing instead an uncomfortable hour in burning kevlar and sweat.
Then it was all over the news. A young soldier was bold during Q&A:
“Why do we soldiers have to dig through local landfills for pieces of scrap metal and compromised ballistic glass to up-armor our vehicles?” asked Army Spc. Thomas Wilson of the 278th Regimental Combat Team. (arktimes.com)
After that, our rentals were sent back to Kuwait...but then we got PODS
Yep, storage pods. It turns out that a whole lot of storage PODS were allotted for a unit in Baghdad but they wanted to sleep in a hollow bomb shelter/airplane hanger instead. Their loss right? I mean, these babies had an air conditioner each. Do you know how cold a 10x6 storage POD can get when it has an 8,000btu Made in China air conditioner in its' window? Those guys must have been crazy to pass that up...We accepted.
We were assigned 2 per pod. Each one had two twin beds and a locker. My roommate was once again PVT Allen. Get this- she sent for her Easy Bake Oven from home and would make brownies in our room. She was a bit wacko. Thank God we had that super thin camo poncho dividing our sides. Without that, I don't know what I would do.
On a side note- Deanna Allen was very friendly with some of the guy soldiers and Iraqi interpreters. She was very hospitable- inviting them in our "hooch" at night and doing very noisy things that kept me awake. For me, I can understand the need for companionship, affection, sex- whatever, but having an Iraqi man in your room late at night while you are sleeping does not bring comfort to any US soldier. I believed it was a security breach. Needless to say, someone gave a sworn statement to some Officer and orders gave PVT Allen a General Discharge for Failure to Adapt to Military Life. She was sent back home and eventually made it to Inside Edition for a $6,000 sell out interview.
Here's something that I don't think made it to the news:
One morning, soldiers woke up and walked towards the DFAC (dining facility). They stopped in their gravel tracks when they saw a one armed, one eyed Iraqi boy rummaging through our garbage for food. Now how did he get in there?
My Time in Iraq: Part 3
Goat Story:
First of all, let me say that I love all animals- especially goats.
One of my responsibilities was working the firing range as the Range Medic. Ideally, I would have chilled in the back of an FLA (ambulance) with a partner and waited for something to go wrong- but, we were short staffed so I pulled security instead.
Close your eyes and picture a large brown ceramic bowl. Now picture the ceramic is really sand. Add 120 degree scorching sun, 20 guys with a large assortment of weapons aiming at an old Iraqi tank in the bottom of the bowl- and me...baking in the turret of an up-armored HMMV holding a SAW (squad automatic weapon), waiting for insurgents to sneak up on us. It was not fun. So, you can imagine my relief when the NCOIC yelled my name, " Hey McGill. You wanna shoot this thing?" "Hell Yes!", I proclaimed as I stumbled out of the tin can and ran almost Baywatch style through the sand towards the Mark-19 mounted on top of the Sergeant's HMMV.
A Mark-19, I learned was a semi-automatic 40mm round grenade launcher. It is mounted on a tripod because the barrel itself weighs 80 lbs. The stock of the weapon is almost the length of my arms and at the middle is a butterfly trigger that you push down with your thumbs to fire. I told him that I had never even seen one of these before. He laughed and all of the guys gathered round to watch the girl shoot the big gun.
"What do I do?", I asked. He told me to aim just like any other gun/rifle- center mast on the tank, hold steady, hold my breath and push on the trigger. I did exactly that and a grenade shot out of the gun and landed near the bottom of the basin, missing the tank by mere feet. It exploded on impact, sending shrapnel and sand 20 feet in all directions. The smile on my face told SGT Simmons that I wanted another shot. "Wanna do it again?", he asked- already knowing the answer. I steadied the weapon again and held my breath as I took my aim. I pressed down firmly on the butterfly with both thumbs...a little too hard. As I put weight on the stock, the barrel raised upwards- and, it was a semi-AUTOMATIC weapon. 3 grenades shot out the end, each one about 10 feet higher than the previous. The last two rounds were shot so high that they cleared the top of the canyon wall. We waited what seemed like minutes for the familiar sound of an explosion. It was definitely too long. We knew the grenades had flown really far. As it was my first time at the range, I asked the SGT what was over there. He replied that he really didn't know. Usually, it was just an empty field of scrub brush and sand but nomadic herdsmen were known to walk all over the southern desert. He quickly gave the order to round up and head back for base.
As the crow flies, we were a mere 2 miles from our front gates- but everything in the Army takes longer than it should. So, we had to drive for 30 minutes on our chosen route of the day to make it back to Bucca. When we came up to our checkpoint, I saw the damage I had done. A lone Iraqi shepherd with a rickety homemade wagon was waving his arms angrily at the prepubescent guard. Behind him lay the remains of a goat, freshly killed and another, badly wounded and soon to give its last breath. Although the shouting was in Arabic and the guard knew only English, the conversation was clear. I felt only remorse as my brothers congratulated me with slaps on the back then we inconspicuously entered the safety of our gates.
First of all, let me say that I love all animals- especially goats.
One of my responsibilities was working the firing range as the Range Medic. Ideally, I would have chilled in the back of an FLA (ambulance) with a partner and waited for something to go wrong- but, we were short staffed so I pulled security instead.
Close your eyes and picture a large brown ceramic bowl. Now picture the ceramic is really sand. Add 120 degree scorching sun, 20 guys with a large assortment of weapons aiming at an old Iraqi tank in the bottom of the bowl- and me...baking in the turret of an up-armored HMMV holding a SAW (squad automatic weapon), waiting for insurgents to sneak up on us. It was not fun. So, you can imagine my relief when the NCOIC yelled my name, " Hey McGill. You wanna shoot this thing?" "Hell Yes!", I proclaimed as I stumbled out of the tin can and ran almost Baywatch style through the sand towards the Mark-19 mounted on top of the Sergeant's HMMV.
A Mark-19, I learned was a semi-automatic 40mm round grenade launcher. It is mounted on a tripod because the barrel itself weighs 80 lbs. The stock of the weapon is almost the length of my arms and at the middle is a butterfly trigger that you push down with your thumbs to fire. I told him that I had never even seen one of these before. He laughed and all of the guys gathered round to watch the girl shoot the big gun.
"What do I do?", I asked. He told me to aim just like any other gun/rifle- center mast on the tank, hold steady, hold my breath and push on the trigger. I did exactly that and a grenade shot out of the gun and landed near the bottom of the basin, missing the tank by mere feet. It exploded on impact, sending shrapnel and sand 20 feet in all directions. The smile on my face told SGT Simmons that I wanted another shot. "Wanna do it again?", he asked- already knowing the answer. I steadied the weapon again and held my breath as I took my aim. I pressed down firmly on the butterfly with both thumbs...a little too hard. As I put weight on the stock, the barrel raised upwards- and, it was a semi-AUTOMATIC weapon. 3 grenades shot out the end, each one about 10 feet higher than the previous. The last two rounds were shot so high that they cleared the top of the canyon wall. We waited what seemed like minutes for the familiar sound of an explosion. It was definitely too long. We knew the grenades had flown really far. As it was my first time at the range, I asked the SGT what was over there. He replied that he really didn't know. Usually, it was just an empty field of scrub brush and sand but nomadic herdsmen were known to walk all over the southern desert. He quickly gave the order to round up and head back for base.
As the crow flies, we were a mere 2 miles from our front gates- but everything in the Army takes longer than it should. So, we had to drive for 30 minutes on our chosen route of the day to make it back to Bucca. When we came up to our checkpoint, I saw the damage I had done. A lone Iraqi shepherd with a rickety homemade wagon was waving his arms angrily at the prepubescent guard. Behind him lay the remains of a goat, freshly killed and another, badly wounded and soon to give its last breath. Although the shouting was in Arabic and the guard knew only English, the conversation was clear. I felt only remorse as my brothers congratulated me with slaps on the back then we inconspicuously entered the safety of our gates.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
My Time in Iraq: Part 2
I was stationed at Camp Bucca. It was named after a fallen 911 firefighter. This little camp was in spitting distance from Um Qsar and an hour drive from Al Basra. The purpose of Camp Bucca was to hold Iraqi detainees and Foreign Nationals. My Unit was almost 300 strong, mostly Military Police. We detained 6,000 Iraqi Men.
When I first arrived, everyone lived in long trailers- the exact same single wides that tornados like to destroy.As the newbie, I had the privilege of bunking next to Allen, AKA Private Deanna Allen- who would later make the news back home for her late night breast baring-mud wrestling excursions. There was definitely a click within the females, and they did not like Allen. I unpacked to ease my mind's tension and an older man came to the door. He asked for me and suddenly I heard my name, "MCGILL!", being repeatedly called by several girls. I ran to the door and extended my formal Army courtesy. SGT. Davis was his name. We sat down and he went over my duties and responsibilities. Camp Bucca was not fully staffed or equipped. One important MOS that didn't make the roster was that of the Preventive Medicine Specialist. They were the Health Inspectors of the Camp. I was asked to fill in as a Prev. Med. Spec and work as a Medic. I was Gung Ho! and up for the challenge.
Between every event, there are very long moments of boredom. Iraq was like that. Mundane rituals, crunching gravel underfoot, chow time, chow time chow time, clean your weapon, chow time...the events are what we remember.
Cat Stories: We had a lot of feral cats. This fact coupled with lack of intimacy and affection created pets- or Mascots. The cats were everywhere. Some were sick and none of them had been vaccinated. SGT. Davis and I decided to spay/neuter these animals so the population would be under control. We met up with a Veterinarian from Northern Iraq. He came down and performed several procedures with us as assistants. We didn't have a surgical table or normal anesthesia- so we used Ketamine and an ironing board. The ironing board came from the male barracks (we never told them either).
One day, sunny and bright- I again heard my name being called loudly. An out of breath boy ran up to me and said that I was needed right away, ordered by Col. Hauser. I grabbed my aid bag and followed the long legged messenger. On the scene, I realized the magnitude of the situation and wondered why on earth the Colonel thought I was the soldier for the job. A Staff-Sergeant had started the engine of a HMMV with a cat in the engine. The fan blade had hacked at its' back and tail. It was in poor shape. I decided, okay- save the cat. I applied a pressure dressing on the venous bleed and splinted its' leg. Bandages were taped to the other various cuts and tears. Later that day I was summoned to the Colonels' office. He asked for a SITREP. I informed him that the cat was not eating nor drinking and it would surely die. He asked what could be done. I replied that the cat needed an IV and I didn't know how to perform that procedure on the feline species. Under an hour later, a plan was devised. A movement order was written and the cat hacking SSG and I were placing our tiny friend in a box and taking our seats in a security escorted HMMV. We had a secret mission that if revealed, had serious consequences for our Commander. Together we rode up to the check point leading back into Kuwait. The guard unknowingly waived us thru. After awhile, we parked inside a small camp where we would try to persuade an Army Veterinarian to assist us and our feral friend. "Absolutely Not!!" said the Vet. He didn't want to lose any brass over some ragged Iraqi cat. We began walking the long walk back to the vehicle when a soft voice became audible. A young Vet Tech told me that although she wouldn't help the cat, she would explain to me what needed to be done.
The checkpoint back into Iraq would be much more difficult. This time, I didn't have a breathless cat on the verge of death. I had a scratching, meowing cat in a box with an IV in its' arm and a plastic IV tube coming out to a hanging bag of saline. ..Again, he waived us thru.
Kitty ICU was in my small hooch that I called home. My roommate, Allen, had already been kicked out of the Army by then, so I had converted her area, locker and bed into a couch and entertainment center- complete with mini DVD, books, and Cap'n Crunch. (for some reason I was addicted to that stuff while there) My patient was still in her box and her IV bag was hanging from a hook. I sat back and read for a while..maybe too long of a while- you see, I didn't know how much saline a cat should get. My little girl was completely round. She looked like a melon, ready to pop. Astounded, I DC'd her IV and waited a long and anxious wait- for her to urinate. At last, the sand beneath her darkened with fresh urine and I knew that all our trouble had not been in vain. After a couple of weeks, she was released back to the desert. And, just to make it a well rounded story- after his tour, Col Hauser sent for the cat and it is now living in North Carolina. True Story.
When I first arrived, everyone lived in long trailers- the exact same single wides that tornados like to destroy.As the newbie, I had the privilege of bunking next to Allen, AKA Private Deanna Allen- who would later make the news back home for her late night breast baring-mud wrestling excursions. There was definitely a click within the females, and they did not like Allen. I unpacked to ease my mind's tension and an older man came to the door. He asked for me and suddenly I heard my name, "MCGILL!", being repeatedly called by several girls. I ran to the door and extended my formal Army courtesy. SGT. Davis was his name. We sat down and he went over my duties and responsibilities. Camp Bucca was not fully staffed or equipped. One important MOS that didn't make the roster was that of the Preventive Medicine Specialist. They were the Health Inspectors of the Camp. I was asked to fill in as a Prev. Med. Spec and work as a Medic. I was Gung Ho! and up for the challenge.
Between every event, there are very long moments of boredom. Iraq was like that. Mundane rituals, crunching gravel underfoot, chow time, chow time chow time, clean your weapon, chow time...the events are what we remember.
Cat Stories: We had a lot of feral cats. This fact coupled with lack of intimacy and affection created pets- or Mascots. The cats were everywhere. Some were sick and none of them had been vaccinated. SGT. Davis and I decided to spay/neuter these animals so the population would be under control. We met up with a Veterinarian from Northern Iraq. He came down and performed several procedures with us as assistants. We didn't have a surgical table or normal anesthesia- so we used Ketamine and an ironing board. The ironing board came from the male barracks (we never told them either).
One day, sunny and bright- I again heard my name being called loudly. An out of breath boy ran up to me and said that I was needed right away, ordered by Col. Hauser. I grabbed my aid bag and followed the long legged messenger. On the scene, I realized the magnitude of the situation and wondered why on earth the Colonel thought I was the soldier for the job. A Staff-Sergeant had started the engine of a HMMV with a cat in the engine. The fan blade had hacked at its' back and tail. It was in poor shape. I decided, okay- save the cat. I applied a pressure dressing on the venous bleed and splinted its' leg. Bandages were taped to the other various cuts and tears. Later that day I was summoned to the Colonels' office. He asked for a SITREP. I informed him that the cat was not eating nor drinking and it would surely die. He asked what could be done. I replied that the cat needed an IV and I didn't know how to perform that procedure on the feline species. Under an hour later, a plan was devised. A movement order was written and the cat hacking SSG and I were placing our tiny friend in a box and taking our seats in a security escorted HMMV. We had a secret mission that if revealed, had serious consequences for our Commander. Together we rode up to the check point leading back into Kuwait. The guard unknowingly waived us thru. After awhile, we parked inside a small camp where we would try to persuade an Army Veterinarian to assist us and our feral friend. "Absolutely Not!!" said the Vet. He didn't want to lose any brass over some ragged Iraqi cat. We began walking the long walk back to the vehicle when a soft voice became audible. A young Vet Tech told me that although she wouldn't help the cat, she would explain to me what needed to be done.
The checkpoint back into Iraq would be much more difficult. This time, I didn't have a breathless cat on the verge of death. I had a scratching, meowing cat in a box with an IV in its' arm and a plastic IV tube coming out to a hanging bag of saline. ..Again, he waived us thru.
Kitty ICU was in my small hooch that I called home. My roommate, Allen, had already been kicked out of the Army by then, so I had converted her area, locker and bed into a couch and entertainment center- complete with mini DVD, books, and Cap'n Crunch. (for some reason I was addicted to that stuff while there) My patient was still in her box and her IV bag was hanging from a hook. I sat back and read for a while..maybe too long of a while- you see, I didn't know how much saline a cat should get. My little girl was completely round. She looked like a melon, ready to pop. Astounded, I DC'd her IV and waited a long and anxious wait- for her to urinate. At last, the sand beneath her darkened with fresh urine and I knew that all our trouble had not been in vain. After a couple of weeks, she was released back to the desert. And, just to make it a well rounded story- after his tour, Col Hauser sent for the cat and it is now living in North Carolina. True Story.
My Time in Iraq: Part 1
Our troops are heading home and changing tactics- to save instead of kill. It's making me think of my time spent in that country...what I did and what I didn't do
I will tell you exactly what I told my Psychiatrist and if I have time, I may tell you some more:
I wasn't supposed to be going. In August 2004, I finished Combat Medic School. I had received my blood pin (yes, some schools still do that) and I was completely brain washed. All I could think of was how to save a life and the Army Values. I came home from San Antonio...a civilian. Civilian is almost a dirty word in the military. I started my new job as a Health Care Tech in a Gyn Clinic- and no, we did not perform abortions there. My new unit that I had joined was in Asheville, NC. They had deployed before I even came home from Texas- so I wasn't all that concerned about Iraq. Usually, you deploy and then wait a couple of years before your unit is selected again.
It was a regular day at work when my boss answered the phone. She looked puzzled when she handed me the receiver and said, "It's a Master Sergeant Green for you". I stood at attention quickly and spoke self-assuredly, "Yes Master Sergeant". He babbled something about meeting my unit and joining "In Country" and "30 days..blah blah Ft. Bliss blah blah...Orders" When I hung up the phone 30 seconds later, my slick sleeved military mind had absolutely no idea what I had just heard. My boss looked at me with a screaming question in her eyes. I quickly said, "I need to take a walk outside".
Almost 30 days, a Living Will, Power of Attorney, and a Last Will later, I rode to the airport in Raleigh to deploy in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. I met the other 4 chosen ones inside the airport. Like me, they were barely enlisted Privates. We had one "No Show". The FBI found him a few weeks later and he reluctantly boarded his own plane of destiny.
The Army didn't have time to train us like they had trained my unit. The Military Police that I was attached to had experienced close to 6 months of preparation for their mission. They had even spent time in the Mohave Desert to acclimate to temperature changes. No, we were given 5 1/2 days, one of which was Thanksgiving. Well, after sad cell phone goodbyes, pokes/prods and vaccinations, we boarded a plane with our empty M-16s. I took Benadryl so I could sleep. It was a long flight with a layover in Germany. Weary eyed, we all stumbled off the plane so it could be examined and refueled. Several hours later we re-boarded and set off for our final destination, Camp Doha, Kuwait.
I awoke in pitch black. Outside the windows all that was visible were flickering orange flames from oil rigs in the desert. The plane landed and we were told to move quickly towards a waiting bus. Several volunteers were chosen for baggage detail and the rest of us anxiously boarded a Kuwaiti Public bus with drawn shades, fringe and bad hip-hop music sung in Arabic. We had no Flak vests, no bullets, no gear, no destination and absolutely no idea what we were doing. As the other soldiers began to fidget and peek out the windows, they were reprimanded by an NCO. We were told to leave the curtains alone so no one would know that solders were aboard. We listened.
An hour or so later, we were inside the U.S. Camp Doha. We swiped our ID cards so that our tax free pay would begin and then sat for an inbriefing. Intently we sat- listening to the Rules of Engagement, Learning simple Arabic commands and taking notes about recent enemy activity. Finally, we were shown our bunks. My 5'2 frame lugged duffle bags, a rifle and ruck sack into the female barracks. Surprisingly, I saw a familiar face. My Battle Buddy from Basic Training, Rachel was on her way out. She had chosen a different MOS after Basic and deployed immediately after it was over. Already, she was leaving for her mid cycle vacation. She smiled and we hugged...but there was something in her eyes that said things had changed. She was wiser now...had seen things. Training was over. I said goodbye to her as though I would see her for the next formation and then layed down in my bunk and slept.
The next day, I awoke without an alarm. I quickly remembered what had transpired over the past 24 hours and felt an unexpected exhilaration for the day's events. My orders did not come that day. No one came. After another night in Doha, our chariot arrived. My new friends and I were each issued our gear and ammo. We were told that everything was about to change. Kuwait was a resort, we were told. Hell was on the other side of the border and when we cross- we lock and load, set it on Hot, eyes vigilant. We passed the checkpoint into Iraq and adrenaline coursed through every vein of my body. My life would be different and nothing would ever be the same.
I will tell you exactly what I told my Psychiatrist and if I have time, I may tell you some more:
I wasn't supposed to be going. In August 2004, I finished Combat Medic School. I had received my blood pin (yes, some schools still do that) and I was completely brain washed. All I could think of was how to save a life and the Army Values. I came home from San Antonio...a civilian. Civilian is almost a dirty word in the military. I started my new job as a Health Care Tech in a Gyn Clinic- and no, we did not perform abortions there. My new unit that I had joined was in Asheville, NC. They had deployed before I even came home from Texas- so I wasn't all that concerned about Iraq. Usually, you deploy and then wait a couple of years before your unit is selected again.
It was a regular day at work when my boss answered the phone. She looked puzzled when she handed me the receiver and said, "It's a Master Sergeant Green for you". I stood at attention quickly and spoke self-assuredly, "Yes Master Sergeant". He babbled something about meeting my unit and joining "In Country" and "30 days..blah blah Ft. Bliss blah blah...Orders" When I hung up the phone 30 seconds later, my slick sleeved military mind had absolutely no idea what I had just heard. My boss looked at me with a screaming question in her eyes. I quickly said, "I need to take a walk outside".
Almost 30 days, a Living Will, Power of Attorney, and a Last Will later, I rode to the airport in Raleigh to deploy in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. I met the other 4 chosen ones inside the airport. Like me, they were barely enlisted Privates. We had one "No Show". The FBI found him a few weeks later and he reluctantly boarded his own plane of destiny.
The Army didn't have time to train us like they had trained my unit. The Military Police that I was attached to had experienced close to 6 months of preparation for their mission. They had even spent time in the Mohave Desert to acclimate to temperature changes. No, we were given 5 1/2 days, one of which was Thanksgiving. Well, after sad cell phone goodbyes, pokes/prods and vaccinations, we boarded a plane with our empty M-16s. I took Benadryl so I could sleep. It was a long flight with a layover in Germany. Weary eyed, we all stumbled off the plane so it could be examined and refueled. Several hours later we re-boarded and set off for our final destination, Camp Doha, Kuwait.
I awoke in pitch black. Outside the windows all that was visible were flickering orange flames from oil rigs in the desert. The plane landed and we were told to move quickly towards a waiting bus. Several volunteers were chosen for baggage detail and the rest of us anxiously boarded a Kuwaiti Public bus with drawn shades, fringe and bad hip-hop music sung in Arabic. We had no Flak vests, no bullets, no gear, no destination and absolutely no idea what we were doing. As the other soldiers began to fidget and peek out the windows, they were reprimanded by an NCO. We were told to leave the curtains alone so no one would know that solders were aboard. We listened.
An hour or so later, we were inside the U.S. Camp Doha. We swiped our ID cards so that our tax free pay would begin and then sat for an inbriefing. Intently we sat- listening to the Rules of Engagement, Learning simple Arabic commands and taking notes about recent enemy activity. Finally, we were shown our bunks. My 5'2 frame lugged duffle bags, a rifle and ruck sack into the female barracks. Surprisingly, I saw a familiar face. My Battle Buddy from Basic Training, Rachel was on her way out. She had chosen a different MOS after Basic and deployed immediately after it was over. Already, she was leaving for her mid cycle vacation. She smiled and we hugged...but there was something in her eyes that said things had changed. She was wiser now...had seen things. Training was over. I said goodbye to her as though I would see her for the next formation and then layed down in my bunk and slept.
The next day, I awoke without an alarm. I quickly remembered what had transpired over the past 24 hours and felt an unexpected exhilaration for the day's events. My orders did not come that day. No one came. After another night in Doha, our chariot arrived. My new friends and I were each issued our gear and ammo. We were told that everything was about to change. Kuwait was a resort, we were told. Hell was on the other side of the border and when we cross- we lock and load, set it on Hot, eyes vigilant. We passed the checkpoint into Iraq and adrenaline coursed through every vein of my body. My life would be different and nothing would ever be the same.
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