...this familiar smell...

Below this is a post with photos.........
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04 MAR 2010

The longest flight I have ever taken was a forty-hour ride from Florida to Cape Town, by way of Minnesota and Amsterdam.  The only trips that come close to eating as much time have been my flights to the middle-east, the most recent being no exception; Texas to Kuwait, by way of Maine and Germany.  These military transits—on commercial airlines—are sharply scheduled by meal, movie, sleep, meal, movie, sleep and so on.  Upon arrival, I had eaten six times, watched as many movies, and slept some unknown amount with the usual interruptions expected by travel (announcements, urination, knees bouncing on the back of my seat and so on).  We landed in Kuwait some time near midnight, local time of course.

Our convoy of buses pulled into Camp Buehring some few hours later.  We passed through endless rows of concrete barriers, all neatly decorated by the units who have come and gone over the last nine years.  And then we passed by blank barriers, and I thought of macho, mainly soldiers from the 53^rd, sitting out in the desert with paint, having an arts and crafts hour with our blank slate.

They say smell is the sense that recalls the most memories.  I don’t care much for what ‘they’ say, but I was sure, once I stepped off the bus and had desert in my nose, that I was back.  And there was more for my senses to reaffirm geography.  The locals have a very particular way of washing their hands, a way my words will fall short to describe.  He pulled a bottle of water from a case, took it off to the sand and squatted into an invisible chair; he wet both hands and rubbed, then once more; and with clean hands he turned his attention to his face.  Finished, he shook his hands towards the ground and became lost in the maze of colorful barricades.

This place is just as I remember it, and somehow, something completely new, something you could not associate with the combat zone.  Like my last day in New York before the mobilization, and Austin too while pass was ending, I am inside of Starbucks, staring through windows and watching the passer-byes.  This doesn’t feel like war.  The full moon at the height of the coffee house window agrees, as I can see the man in the moon resting on his side, apathetic towards my espresso in the desert.

I’m anxious for the missions into Iraq to begin.  Equally so, to see what other changes the last six years have brought to this place.  And there’s just a tiny glint of hope, peaking through my stained cynical eyes, that maybe, and who cares if even by magic, that this place has changed for the better.

- The Exodus

...reflection part I...

I will be posting a written portion about this in the next few days. Right now I'm opening up with photos.

- The Exodus

...A temporary Lapse...(3 new posts below)

The blog has been on hold due to the fact that I was almost deported and we are still waiting for Giunta to get some paperwork filled out so he can post over here without getting in trouble.

In the next day or two some photos should be going up along with a nice little story about how I almost got a one way ticket back to the good ol' U.S of A.

Below are three entries from Ft. Hood and our leave, go read!

- The Exodus

...On the other Foot...

Putting my thoughts into elegant words like my comrade Sgt. Giunta is not my specialty, that’s why I take photos…but since this is a blog of words and photos, I shall attempt to write as well.

At times I feel the need to take a step back from the camera and view the world through my eyes rather than a lens, which is what happened during my pass in Austin, TX. The extent of my photography during this little adventure ended briefly after picking up a soldier’s, Barnhardt, pocket digital one night and trying to figure out how to work it. I gave up rather quickly and decided I’d rather sip on a Jameson and watch the insanity around me fold out. This entry won’t contain any photos, just my experience of what it is like to be cooped up for almost two months in a seemingly circle of hell, or purgatory *cough, cough*, and then let loose for a few days before going overseas.

If a camera had been turned on me during this pass, which I’m sure there was, I’d be embarrassed to show my face in Austin again…well a certain bar anyways. Making a very short night even shorter, it is physically impossible, for me, to drink the same amount of alcohol after two months of sobriety. There are only so many shots of liquor and beer you can drink in a short period of time before your body decides to shut down. After my little endeavor of making a fool of myself I decided to be sensible for the rest of the pass. The next few days were filled with excellent food, moderate drinking, and being sober enough to watch other people act like asses, only to know I was right there with them a few days ago.

The reason I write about my overly intoxicated night on this blog isn’t to sound like some frat boy blabbering about the last time he got shit faced and how everybody thought he was so cool, but to make a point of being vulnerable and under the scrutiny of others. It’s easy to photograph a soldier when he messes up or gets chewed out by his superior if it makes an interesting frame, but when the tables turn and you see photographs of your own retarded behavior, it makes you think twice about photographing somebody just to make a good photo. I could have filled this blog with photos of individuals making terrible choices while intoxicated, and I could have cleverly labeled it “When Soldiers Go Wild”, but I see no good in doing that. I understand showing how men and women act before going to ‘war’ is an important part of the story, but at what cost. At some point I feel my job as a photographer ends and I’ll just experience life with these men and women and learn from my mistakes. Maybe that makes me a soft photojournalist, but I’ll take the trust of a unit that I’ve been with for over two years rather than some scandalous photos.

- The Exodus

...And then What...

27 FEB 2010

Sand Hill, Ft. Benning, GA, the birthplace of every Infantryman.  There are few institutions in the world, where a man can be taught to live by violence of action; that driving sense of purpose to follow the path of least resistance, to move-move-move, regardless of what waits for you on the other side.  The Infantry lives by violence of action, whether you’re assaulting a beachhead or making your bunk.  Typically, it’s something similar to the latter.  The life of the soldier is not an hour and a half, action packed adventure, starring Joe Hollywood all dressed up for blood, guts and glory.  The Drill Sergeants on Sand Hill inspire hard charging, let’s get it done, hurried movements; practically pushing you out of the barracks or foxhole or whatever, and then what?

The and then what will be the vast majority of every soldier’s career.  I imagine, of my eight years in service, I owe seven of them to and then what.  Sure, I played a moderate role in the invasion, but I can tell you, for every ambush I went on that ended by bombs and bullets, there were twenty more where the only opposition found were chilly nights, the want for sleep and giant spiders.  And the same can be said for every kicked in door or convoy patrol or any other soldier stuff.  The Army calls the and then what moments ‘hurry up and wait’.

This is where I find myself now, at hurry up and wait.  I am on the second chalk to Kuwait; we fly out tomorrow.  I have already packed my bags and cleaned the barracks and called my list of loved ones.  And I did all of this with such a sense of urgency, such violence of action, that the Brown Rounds from Sand Hill would smile with pride at their good little soldier.  Why proud, if all my scurrying around accomplished was a day or two of and then what, of hurry up and wait?  It’s conditioning, for that one time of twenty, where your target walks into the ambush or an armed silhouette appears in the doorway or the convoy takes fire.

With the current US operations in Iraq, and our assigned task, I imagine, I hope, the odds of one in twenty are actually far less.  I’d rather not relive 2003, and I cannot expect we will.  But still, the conditioning is there.  My father gave me sass a few years back, at some family gathering.  “Calm down”, he told me, “You would think that the Army would have taught you patience.”  I replied with, “No, the Army taught me the importance of meeting your time hacks.”

- The Exodus