To be honest, I’m still not sure what my brother did on his last deployment. I know it involved an office and a desk and paperwork and such, but beyond that, it’s a mystery. And I felt, because my brother was Infantry too, that I had a certain level of bragging rights being that I got to kick in all those doors and do the kind of army stuff you see in commercials; where he had to worry about things like the new cover sheet for those TPS reports. The same cannot be said for this deployment. What I do know about his mission this time around—even though it’s still a less than rugged assignment—is that he’s permanent party in Iraq, he’s out of the wire often, and he’s doing some kind of high speed, low drag training to build up the Iraqi police or army or secret ninja squad. Where now, I am permanent party in Kuwait, making a few hand-full of trips in-and-out of Iraq per month, doing things that amount to America’s big disappearing act finale. The bragging rights have passed.
Speaking of disappearing and re-assignments and the passing of things, this was my last mission in the rear gun truck. I am being moved into a new CET with a new boss and new Joes. The move is not political or punitive; we simply had the means to create a new group in effort to reach the desired effect of decreasing everyone’s workload. I am indifferent to the move. I liked the rear truck but I imagine wherever I end up in the order of march will suit me just fine.
My job in the rear truck had its moments. Most of the real work focused on my little GPS-free text message-mission tracker toy, built right into the truck; sending in reports and herding together the back half of a three-mile line of trucks. The fun back there was the common interaction with the civilian traffic and my attempt to adhere to this new ‘share the road’ policy. Before, for US forces in Iraq, traffic laws did not exist; we did not obey signs, proper lanes, right-of-way, nothing. It was all in effort to maintain a higher level of security and tactical control. Now, we must go with the flow of things, so to speak. The majority of my time in the rear was spent deciding whether or not I’ll allow traffic to pass—in the event of two-lane roads, security halts, maintenance issues, suspected IEDs and so on. The catch being, we can no longer use bullets or pyrotechnics or the weight of our own trucks to stop them. On top of this, the wonder that is Iraq’s media, told all their citizens to drive right on past us.
So whenever I did want to hold up traffic, we’d have to try spotlights in windshields—moderately effective—and swerving back and forth between each lane—slightly more effective but horrible on gas consumption—and a number of other things just short of getting out and banging on hoods. Needless to say, the motorists of Iraq are none-to-pleased with me. I can never figure out why it bothers them so much to wait in line. I think of the hundreds of miles on a two-lane US 1, heading down to Key West, FL. There’s an accident just about every few minutes. My friends and I would just hop out of the car with cooler and chairs and have a little impromptu tailgate. No need for worries or horns or stress.
I couldn’t have asked for a better ending to this mission and farewell to my friends in 1st CET. We had our convoy pulled into the border lanes before 0400, a first for us. After we downgraded the heavy weapons and had our end of mission brief, my driver set up his iPod and speakers for some traveling tunes for the short-leg back to Buerhing. Three songs deep into the play-list and Flogging Molly jigs started tapping everyone’s feet and bobbing everyone’s heads. I instantly thought of Lilly Coogan's, a bar in the city on the corner of 6th and 14th. It’s as dive as a bar can be in that part of the world, but the bartender kept the drinks coming and all the while there was live entertainment. It was a talent night/open mic night of sorts. The final act, the one that made me think of Lilly Coogan's out here in the desert, was some sort of cover-band whose members—I think all of them but you can never be certain—were all transvestites. They had the place going wild—all six or seven patrons—with everyone running around yelling and toasting and when their set turned to Irish punk we thought it fitting to make pretend our best Lord of Dance impressions—our asses planted in stools with dangling feet suspended in air like uncoordinated puppets. I think how pleasant it is that a song in your ear can remind you of so much drunken foolishness you’d be hard-pressed to recollect any other time.
- The Exodus
Lilly Coogan's, NYC...open mic night.
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