...A FOBbit I've Become...

25 APRIL 2010

A FOBbit is a creature—most often non-Infantry—who lurks the FOB or camp or base grounds, feeding off high-speed internet, satellite television, fresh hair cuts, hot showers and clean uniforms. They are awake and ready by Reveille, and yawning with sleep come Taps. All the while, between each tune, conducting themselves care –free of combat, and actively engaged in the lesser advertised duties of soldiering—inspections, classes, removing stall doors to deter graffiti artists and so on. They are a necessary evil in Uncle Sam’s Army. By this I have implied, if not directly stated, two certainties: one, they are evil, and two, the Army needs them. FOBbits do things like attend to our paperwork, finances, supplies and so on (there once was a commercial suggesting there are over two hundred jobs in the United States Army, the Infantryman’s joke is that there’s only one job in the Army, and over two hundred ways to support it). So yes, they are desperately needed. Their evil I speak of I will not indulge too deeply but to say, the removal of our bathroom stall doors—for more dark imagery seek out a copy of Catch-22, it speaks volumes of their irony and wickedness with dry wit—and so on.

Currently, and for the remainder of the month perhaps, I am sad to announce that I have taken on FOBbit status. This isn’t a far cry from what I had been, going off on two, maybe three missions a month, and settling down in my fancy resort for the time between each. My team and I spent hours on hands and knees, crawling through our truck with wrench near by, unscrewing countless bolts that once firmly held in place all the interior of our gun truck. We then loaded our vehicles onto flatbeds and waved good-bye. When they return, they will have a new hardened armor, able to protect against things like dinosaur zombies, I imagine.

I haven’t a clue what I’m to do as a FOBbit; I clean and read and go to the gym, but I had done all of this before. The extra time spent lingering at hurry up and wait leaves me with little option but to drink more espresso and chew on my pipe more than is preferable. Daydreaming proved soothing for a night or two but the thoughts turn bitter when they are not ended in a timely manner, like any story that carries too far beyond its climax. And I’ve begun to plan for a future that is not nearly close enough to the present; I’ve bracketed my after deployment options into A, B, C, D groups and so on. The most desirable being something to the sort of winning the lottery, then scaling down-a-ways to option D or so, which would probably have me return to college with more electives and withdraws and fails on my transcripts than anything else. Oh well, I guess.

This is clearly no way for a band of Infantrymen to live, muttering about in clean uniforms with minds wandering off to more suitable living. This FOB life is for the POGs, and they can keep it too. Back at Fort Hood, I remember having a sit down with my Lieutenant, we were held up on a pile of sandbags, probably talking about something reminiscent of our old heroics from the glory days of the wild west. This is when a group of soldiers, all sharply dressed and cleanly shaven, walked through our path. Our conversation halted and the Lieutenant let out a mighty terrible sneeze. I offered a quick blessing and asked if he was OK. To which he replied, “I’m allergic.” “To what,” I asked. And he answered, “POGs.” I had never seen him more deadly serious. And I had never found him so hilarious.

- The Exodus

...Face Part V...

PFC. Robert Watkins /  PFC. William Blanchard / PFC. Jason Loranger / SPC. Paul "Trey" Reynolds / SGT. Ryan Shinault

- The Exodus

...A transition to Sobriety...

21 APRIL 2010

Coffee has become bland. The days are spent swallowing this many units of water for every Gatorade. My mouth has turned numb to the want of thirst in this desert, and the offerings provided with the good and noble intentions to quench my un-amused palate. It’s the taste of the sand down the back of my throat. Dry. I think of burning campfires and bringing pots to boil and walking on the sun and so on.

I’ve stumbled in from a run with a sore back. Is it sore from the run or yesterday’s ammo detail or last week’s mission? I’m not sure, but I am very aware of it now, as I nurse on a flavorless coffee. And there’s a slight crick in my neck and a pinch in my shoulder too. I imagine both from wear of my tactical vest and I ignore them as I wash down the day’s last cigarette with nothingness. The last of my aches is in my knee; a constant tenderness I’ve endured for years now. Like my knee, I imagine each pain is one I’ve had following me all along, only now choosing to attack my nerves and thoughts.

I’ve stumbled in from that run and I thought of beer. An Amber Lager, smooth and rich, and having lounged in a metal drum long enough to lose most of its fizz. Then I felt the wave of heat and sweat that follows the rush of exertions, and I thought of cheap watery Lites I’d drink at tailgates, as my brothers and I chased down girls and made pretend our team was worth a damn. This brought me to think about places I’d rather be, which lead to Double Chocolate Stouts in New York and then to Key West, with a Margarita on the rocks, no salt.

And this added thoughts of cocktails: Vodka and Tonic at the Muse; Jameson and Bailey’s at Kelley’s Pub; Whiskey and Water at Riverside; So-Co and Coke at the Sand Bar; and Martinis at the Lounge. Now I’m back to thinking of beers, something from Belgium, an ale, at The Garden in St. Pete.

It’s been months since my last drink in Austin, and it seems the mystery of what my life had been has made the complete transition to sobriety. I am very aware of everything now, especially the pains in my tired body—the reminisce of what had once been a healthy young man. It is an annoyance to think I’ll have to bear this until fall, when my leave comes. But it is an annoyance I must and will permit. I have teased with the idea of throwing together a homemade, ramshackle of a distillery in the spare wall locker. But I hardly suspect I would succeed in my efforts to brew, and further, I doubt, would I manage to hide something so foolish. Oh well, I guess.

- The Exodus

...Love and Hate...

...never have I hated a place so much and yet felt like I’m where I should be. It’s a conflict I’ve been wrestling with for over a month now. My bank account continues to decrease, I’ve yet to see anyone care enough about Iraq to consider publishing my work/Giunta’s writing, and as I hear about my friends getting hit and rolling over vehicles, I think at what cost is my life and/or appendages for this story. Thank God the worst injuries so far have been a broken leg, five staples to the head, and concussions. That being said, there is still enough crap flying around on the sides of the roads to make you un-easy every time you jump in a vehicle.

So back to my hating yet feeling right in this place. Why? I still don’t know. It could be the promise I made to this unit over three years ago, stating that no matter what, I’ll do everything I possibly can to cover their tour. Or it could be the fact that many of these men and women are now good friends of mine and I want to share the suck with them filled with moments of hilarity that resembles a bunch of ten year olds at a sleep-over slap happy from excessive sugar and lack of sleep. Oh wait, we usually are filled with excessive sugar from energy drinks and lacking in sleep….Or maybe I enjoy the adrenaline that comes with the few “oh shit” moments. Possibly all of the above, maybe none of the above.

All I do know is this place is not Afghanistan; nobody really cares other than immediate family and friends. This merely is the documentation of the suckage, boredom, and moments of joy that come with a deployment. I may have missed the war, but there is still a story that people need to see and read. All I can do now is keep taking photos and leave it up to the population’s current ignorance or lack of caring for the war in Iraq.

- The Exodus

...Romantic to Cynic...

18 APRIL 2010

War stories are a sad ritual you can never avoid once you find yourself in the company of too many soldiers. And these stories are not in short supply here, but what they lack is content. Mostly the newer Joes—the ones whose definition of combat could only reflect their last two month’s experiences—are asking the questions: grunts want to know about receiving a Combat Infantry Badge; the POGs want a Combat Action Badge. I tell them silently, “No, they only give those to soldiers who actually see combat.” But I don’t tell them aloud for fear it might insight more dialogue of their exploits, to prove their hardened warrior skills.

There was a time, when I would sit patiently around the circle, awaiting my turn to tell of daring heroics in the face of certain death. Now those tales are reserved for bar room chatter with some nut-job who wants to buy the veteran a drink—which, in a case such as mine, is far too often than my liver can manage. But there was a time. This was years ago, in a bombed out, roofless/doorless/windowless, crumbling shell of a home for a company of men, just a half dozen months after the invasion. I was with Shanks and Walker and Sowers and Wells, and a number of other Joes all gone now or spread elsewhere throughout the Battalion.

Do you remember when we walked up on that car, all turned to swiss cheese, and saw that guy’s head in his son’s lap? Or that suicide bomber whizzing by on his motorcycle and vanishing into a pink haze just before he reached our truck? Or when we cleared the whole damn hospital and found nothing, only to have someone drop grenades down on us as we walked out the front door? This was the type of conversation passing around the circle when a cook—who had escorted by to drop off some foodstuff—spoke in, “I was stationed at Fort so-and-so in Peaceful Town, USA, when this happened…”. He had brought a knife to a gunfight, which is to say, he tried selling over-easy eggs to a hard-boiled customer.

Having an outsider like Nigel here this time around helps me to realize the only hard-boiled anything, found this late in the game, is found in the DFAC. This, however, has not deterred the aspiring war story fanatic. And the mellow happenings of each mission brings back some auditory on you should have seen me out of the wire; that’s just how I do, cause I’m hard. And I try to take some level of calm in thinking, whatever damage 2003 brought to my scale of romantic to cynic, it is unlikely to teeter any further in the direction of the latter.

- The Exodus