Outside of the bus, there are the typical fixtures of the middle-east-deployed soldier’s life: porta-potties and tubs full of lukewarm water bottles. I avail myself of both, and wander around just a bit. I note that we are only a couple hundred yards away from the air traffic control tower. Eventually we are shooed back into the bus, which sits there for another 45 minutes before a Sergeant Major boards our bus and asks us to “listen up.” Nearly all “listen-up” moments are bad news; it is just a matter of the degree of badness. This one isn’t too bad: we are delayed due to malfunction of a fuel truck. Should be leaving shortly.

15 minutes later, the bus is moving, and we drive only a minute or two, then stop and are unloaded again. Our bus is the last to get on the plane, so I expect the worst: a middle seat on the immense MD-11 plane. As I walk up the stairwell and onto the plane, I am pleasantly surprised: though I am among the last souls to board, there are entire rows which are still empty. Sweet! A bit of elbow room can greatly improve the enjoyability of a flight, especially a 19-hour ride like this one.

I scoot into a side row, with three seats, taking the aisle and strategically placing my bag on the middle seat, a not-so-subtle message to those people behind me. In reality, though, I knew that my erstwhile traveling companion, Dr. Daphne Sims, has yet to board, and I want her to have that window seat if she so desires. A few minutes later, she boards and immediately grabs the window seat in my aisle, and all is well. I have a good spot on the plane, an empty seat next to me, and a good friend to help pass the time.

And thus it went for the rest of my trip home. As bad as Kuwait was—with the terrible customs procedure, the scorching heat, the tents-on-slabs, and the waiting waiting waiting—the rest of my trip seemed to make up for it. We traveled via World Airlines, who took great care of us: good meals about every four hours, attentive stewards, and lots of pillows, blankets, etc.

First stop was in Leipzig, Germany, around 3 AM. We were allowed off the plane, but did not go far; just into the same area I had visited on the way over here, with some phones, a few little shops full of gummy bears, and a wi-fi service called “mycloud” which I could not, for the life of me, get my computer to recognize. Too bad, as I wanted to upload my latest blog entry, and find out who Barack picked as his running mate. Oh well.

After an hour, we were back on the plane. The next leg would be 10 hours, and I hoped to get some sleep, but despite trying all my best tricks and then taking an Ambien, I had little success—just a few nod-offs here and there. When we landed in New Jersey, it was about 7 AM (remember, we gained 7 hours on the trip, going from Baghdad time to EST), and as I walked out of the plan onto McGuire AFB, the air smelled sweet, clean, and wet. The surroundings were green and lovely, and the cracks in the asphalt had luddles of water in and around them, rather than dirt. I was back in the USA, and it felt good to be here.

The terminal at McGuire had lovely internet access, which enabled me to update all of my podcasts and upload my latest blog entry. Then, we were whisked back onto an even-less-filled plane, for the two-hour flight to Benning.

—————

When we finally pulled into Georgia, it was around 11:15 AM. No one lingered on that plane for long; the second they let us get off, we all scooted out with our bags, pillows, opened packages of gummy bears, dangling M9 pistols, and all of the other paraphernalia, and hit that tarmac as fast as we could. I had planned to kiss the ground, but when the moment came, I had too much stuff in my hands and did not want to spare the 30 seconds to do so. I walked into the big, beautiful terminal at Benning, and past the band playing a jaunty march, across the floor, thinking that Lorri might be there. After a moment, I decided that they must not have allowed family into the terminal, as I had seen no reunions, but just then I had a tap on my shoulder, and there she was. Short, dark hair, a black dress, looking as beautiful as the day we were married. We hugged for a good, long while, without many words, and then the band stopped playing. We were all asked to stand for the national anthem, and then a chaplain gave a nice opening prayer. There were a couple of brief, stirring speeches of thanks from the company commander and others, and then our fate was turned over to the CRC cadre, who explained a bit of what would happen from that point on.

The next few hours might have been more painful were we not all on a bit of a “back in the USA” high. They briefed us, and then we set about turning in all of our stuff: the Beretta M9, chemical protective gear, the “sleep system” (a.k.a. sleeping bag), body armor, and other “recoverable” items. I was sad that they took my polar fleece, and my camelbak, but I got to keep the extra camelbak that had fallen to me in Iraq. Daphne Sims went through this line with me, and we helped each other out, as we handed the stuff in. At the end, Lorri picked up both of us, gave us a ride to the CRC site, where I was able to sign out right away, and be done with Ft. Benning. Goodbye to CPT Sims, and Lorri and I were off to the hotel.

As I travelled on the long road out of the CRC compound, I was struck by how surreal it all seemed: how at varying moments it seemed like I had been gone for an eternity, and at other times it seemed like I had just been here with my bawling kids seeing me off. Having Lorri’s companionship again was so sweet and satisfying—she truly is my best friend, the one who laughs at all of my jokes, loves me even when I am stinky from a very very long foot-bus-and-plane trip, and cuts me slack when I am tired and irritable. I was not at 826 Sparkleberry Road quite yet (we’d make that drive tomorrow), but I was most definitely Home.

————

SNAPSHOT: I am now sitting in a very nice Mercedes Benz bus, in the middle of a convoy of about six of them, somewhere on a highway in Kuwait. We are headed, as we have been told, to a dirt lot someplace, where we will be allowed to get off of the bus, “smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em,” pee, and then back on for a few minutes before we get on the plane which will take us home by way of Leipzig, New Jersey, and finally, around 22 hours from this moment, Fort Benning, GA, which is where I get off. I am listening to Rogue Wave on the ipod, occasionally glancing, just for the thrill of it, at the counter on my laptop which reads “Erik Goes Home: TODAY!” We are all stinky from the day’s activities (read on), but there is an undeniable giddiness in the air, as we all know that, no matter how much the Department of Defense tortures us along the way, at the end of this long, strange day, we will be back in the good old US of A. Zimmy said it best:

Sailing around the world in a rusty gondola
Oh how good
To be back in the land
Of Coca-Cola

So here’s how the day has gone:

Up at 0445, got the packs all ready and out the door so that I could catch a ride to the customs area on one of the “gators” (small gasoline-powered golf carts with pickup-truck-like beds on them, for carrying bags around). Our bags were to be at customs by 0600, formation at 0700. After the bags were dropped off, I headed to the DFAC, where I ate a big breakfast, as I did not know when my next meal would be. This turned out to be a good move.

Formation at 0700, in which we were informed a bit about our journey, and were asked to produce our “L.O.R.” (letter of release, the document which states I am allowed to go home). Small snag there, because as of last night, my LoR had yet to show up. This is a document which is supposed to be in the soldier’s hands when he first heads to Kuwait, but mine had not been completed by the people at Brigade up in Balad by Wednesday night. On both Thursday and Friday, I was promised that I would have all of my paperwork by 1500 hours, to be sent electronically to my liaison officer, but each night I stopped by SSG Aleman’s desk and got the bad news. By Saturday, this had ceased to be an inconvenience and became a serious matter, as I could not get on the plane without those papers.

At the Saturday morning formation, I was excused to try and rustle up the paperwork, and SSG Aleman got paged out of her breakfast to check her e-mail, and:

Fortunately, the packet of goods was right there waiting for her.

Unfortunately, the text on many of the documents was so faint as to be entirely illegible.

Fortunately, the subject of those release papers (me) was a geeky type who though he could electronically “photoshop” the documents to render them somewhat legible.

Unfortunately, I was able to improve them a bit, but not a lot. Most of the lines remained illegible despite my best efforts.

Fortunately, I all that really needed to be visible on the documents was a stamp and a signature at the bottom, and fortunately my efforts did, indeed make that portion visible.

Unfortunately (I will stop this game soon, I promise), my orders printed out so faintly that the “printout” of them looked suspiciously like a piece of virgin white Hammermill paper.

Fortunately, I had brought approximately 7000 copies of my orders with me in the event of just such an emergency.

Bottom line: after some tinkering and a fair bit of angst, I emerged from the liaison tent with all of the papers I needed to get on the plane. However, I feel the need to point out how this little episode epitomizes all that is wrong with the Army. I have served the 62nd Medical Brigade faithfully for six months, and all it would have taken to help me avoid this little unwished-for escapade on the very day I am to leave theater, was for someone—anyone—at brigade to have completed my paperwork, scanned and e-mailed a legible copy to me 3 days earlier. A completely unnecessary waste to not only my time, but that of the liaison officer, her staff, and the people who were supposed to be briefing me about my flight at the time that I was taking care of all of this stuff. This kind of hassle sends a message to the departing soldier that he/she is not valued by the brigade, and that our welfare is not of any import to them. Frustrating, and unacceptable.

By 0800 I was forwarded to the briefing tent, and then the real fun began: customs. I had been warned about this, even promised that it would be a tortuous experience, but it is not hyperbole when I state that the next few hours were to be the least pleasant of my entire deployment.

Before I get into the customs process, let me remind my alert readers that all 200-or-so of us in that formation were, at the end of the day, going to board a plane for a 19-hour ride, at the end of which we would be hugging loved ones. There was a great desire to avoid getting too sweaty prior to the ride, as this would 1) make the plane ride less comfortable, and 2), possibly result in our loved ones recoiling after smelling the sweaty person who had just 36 hours previously been in a formation 7000 miles away.

After briefing, we were led, in groups, to the customs tent. Image a line about ten blocks long of people carrying three-to-five bags each, waiting to be thoroughly inspected. The line moved slowly, but this was actually a blessing, as all of us had our hand full sliding our bags along in the Kuwaiti dust, leaving a thousand little trails behind them. I stood in line with CPT Daphne Sims, a pediatrician whom I knew from Al Asad, and the extra set of hands proved invaluable to each of us as we worked together to get each others’ bags through the line, and eventually into the customs tent. Unfortunately, said tent was not adequately air-conditioned (and by “adequately,” I mean “at all”). There were a number of huge government fans situated around the room, but they were not getting it done by a long shot. Inside the room were about forty tables, with an inspector lined up behind each one. I could not quite see what the process was, and didn’t really have time to look as I was too busy getting sliding my bags around in the line. Eventually, it was my turn.

I lifted my bags up to the stand, where a kind-looking man explained the process to me: for each of my five bags, i was to take every single thing out, put it on the table in front of him, and he would rummage through each article. I would then put the bag and all of its contents into a big plastic bin, set that to the side, and then we would start the process again with the next bag.

This process took about 10 minutes per bag, which doesn’t sound too bad when you read it, but it means that I was standing on the other side of a table, undoing my careful packing, and watching this guy rummage through my skivvies, inspecting every last ipod plug, tube of steroid cream, DVD, bag of Atomic Fireballs, etc in my bags, and then dump the stuff unceremoniously into a plastic bin, where it would all need to be repacked. All in a warehouse-sized tent with temps upwards of 90-degrees.

When the inspector finally got through my stuff (no flagged items), I took my five huge bins o’ Erik’s crap to the tables in the middle of the room for repacking. 1 hour, ten minutes, and about two gallons of sweat later, I had repacked all of my stuff, strategically swapping out the drenched t-short on my body with a clean one from one of my duffles.

Finally, out of the goshforsaken customs tent, and into a “lock-down” area, from whence we were not allowed to leave. I made it into my lockdown tent by about 1100 and a few moment later, we were informed that we would remain there until 1800. Why would we spend seven hours in a tent waiting to be transported to the airport? As opposed to just starting the process seven hours later than we did? Or having the flight—which was only for us, and no one else—leave seven hours earlier? These are questions which you and I are not allowed to ask. Mine is not to question why; mine is just to sit in a tent eating the provided granola bars and Gatorade drinks and talking with other similarly confused people. Gotta love the military.

At 1800, as promised, we boarded the Benz-buses. I seriously lucked-out in that I ended up on the last bus, which had some empty seats. This meant that I do not have to keep my monstrously-oversized carry-on bag in my lap, but am able to sit it to my side, which has enabled me to write this lengthy tome.

As I write this, we are sitting in a dusty lot, somewhere not too far from the airport, and are told that we can use the porta-potties, smoke, get some water, and/or hang out in the bus for the next hour, after which we will be boarding our plane.

Then, the journey begins.

Fortunately, I had gone to bed early—around 8 PM—as I was still exhausted and recovering from the previous sleepless night. So by midnight, I already had four hours sleep under my belt. I got up and went to the bathroom, came back in, listened to music and played a silly little ipod game for a while as a lot of shuffling noises went on all around me, soldiers getting their stuff in order and getting themselves into bed.

When I have to bunk out in these sort-of public situations, I have a simple method of creating a bit of personal space and increasing my privacy: I build a fort, just like when I was a kid. I got my most opaque blanket (the shiny Army blankie issued to me at CRC) and let it hang from the top bunk (holding it down with duffle bags) down and around the sides of the lower bed, leaving a small opening at the foot end. This effectively blocked out the Army Torture Lamps a bit, and helped me feel like I was not sleeping in a fishbowl. (Not as much, anyway.)

To my surprise, the lights went out again around 2 PM as my tentmates apparently got themseves all tucked in, and remained off until 7:15. I slep that whole time, so overall got more than nine hours’ rack time. Not too shabby for such crummy sleeping conditions. So I am refreshed today, have already had breakfast, and am currently at the MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation) tent sitting on a sticky couch, with some nice A/C cranking and the US volleyball team fighting it out with Russia. Life is good, and getting better.

—————

Backing up a bit: by Sunday night, it had been established that the company would try to get me a flight out of Al Asad on Wednesday. By Monday, it appeared that no Wednesday flight was available, but my faithful compadres finagled me a spot on a very crowded C-130 which was to depart Thursday morning at 0130, with a “show time” (meaning that I had to check in at the airport) of 2200 hours. We are not allowed to discuss or even allude to flights out of theater, so I could not broadcast that info on the blog. Nor could I discuss my last few days’ activities, as most of the notable events were “goodbye” experiences, which would telegraph my impending departure. But I can discuss them now.

On Saturday, we had a barbecue, and the medics presented me with a silk-screen print of an Al Asad scene, adorned with the signatures of each of them and numerous hilarous comments, most of them referring in some way to my shiny head. Sunday was my last day at church, and more goodbyes, and I got a blessing for a safe flight out of Al Asad (worked!). I have not yet been released from my calling as first assistant to the group leader; that will likely take place next week.

Monday was divided between clinic and running around doing errands: mailing a package, getting some cash for the trip from Army Finance, picking up a few last-minute gifts for the faithful at home, and so on. On Monday night, our Company Commander, CPT Melissa Thomas, arrived from headquarters, stating that she had a presentation she wanted to give on Tuesday.

Tuesday consisted of more clinic and more errands, and in the afternoon after clinic, CPT Thomas got everyone together, called attention to orders, and asked me to come up to the fron of the room. She awarded me the Army Commendation Medal (ARCOM) for my service as the Al Asad Troop Medical Clinic Medical Officer-In-Charge. I was honored to be so recognized, with the fourth ARCOM of my Army career. Afterwards, I was asked to say a few words, but I said more than a few, as I singled out, separately, every soldier in our company, and offered a “gift” to them (usually something silly and particularly related to that soldier—our clinic’s “pretty boy” SGT Evans, for instance, received an Army-issue handheld mirror). At the end, the tone of my remarks changed as I offer my heartfelt thanks for the many sacrificed, noticed and unnoticed, which these fine soldiers had made for me over the course of my deployment. I presented to each of them a personal letter, noting their accomplishments during the past six months, and thanking them for their service to me, their fellow servicemen, and their country. I wrote down my e-mail address for all of them, and encouraged them to let me know if they are in the Fort Gordon area.

I will likely say more on this subject later, but it is hard for me to imagine serving with a more dedicated, professional, and generally excellent groups of soldiers than those in the Troop Medical Clinic on Al Asad. I had an experience at the Combat Surgical Hospital on Sunday afternoon which I may recount at a later date, but suffice it to say that it reminded me that the truly high quality of care offered by my medics is not, in fact, universal in deployed medical facilities. I was very lucky to have been assigned to serve with these fine soldiers.

Wednesday AM I did not go in to clinic—I had planned to, as my absence makes things difficult for the other provider, CPT Hall, but events necessitated that I finish all of my packing. Also, I wanted to drive around the post just a bit, and get some last-minute pictures for the inevitable slide shows that will take plavce when I get home. I worked Wednesday afternoon, and then after clinic, my good friend CPT Baker and I took a bike ride around the big loop. Usually we run that loop fairly quickly, but this this time we rode nice and easy, as I took it all in. Back in the cans by 7 PM, and I did all of the last-minute stuff, got some chow, and !LT Coleman, CPT Baker and I headed out to the flight line.

The flight itself was quite uneventful. It was packed to the gills, but I was the most comfortable person on the plane, as I had been tipped off by one of the Al Asad higher-ups about a recent change in security procedures (decreased now, with the lack of any recent attacks on US planes). I can’t tell you the specifics for OPSEC reasons, but suffice it to say that I had a bit more room on the plane than anyone else. The flight went through Al Taqqadum (”T.Q.”) and touched down in Kuwait around 4 AM. On to a Benz-bus, and in a few moments we were swiping our ID cards, to mark the end of our hazardous duty pay.

Never have I been so happy and willing to have my salary reduced.

I am writing to you from the “C-Zee” CyberZone internet cafe at Camp Ali Al Salem in Kuwait. I got out of Iraq last night, taking a jam-packed C-130 flight from Al Asad, through Al Taqqadum, and on to Kuwait, arriving at 4 this morning. Got into a lovely GP-medium tent around 5-ish and after a shower and a bit of breakfast, I sacked out for a few hours.

There is much more to this story, including an explanation for my radio silence over the past few days, and a description of my last poignant moments with the medics of the 581st Area Support Medical Company. I’ll try to catch you up on that later today, but wanted to let everyone know that (as Lorri mentioned), I am safe and sound, and finally out of the combat zone. As I write, it is 1:46 PM Kuwait time, and 124 degrees outside—much warmer than Al Asad ever seemed to be. My flight out of Kuwait International Airport is scheduled to leave Saturday night.

Thanks for your thoughts and prayers over the past few days; other than the red-eye aspect of last might’s journey, it went very, very smoothly, and I am grateful for that. More to follow, after a bit of shuteye.

Many of you know that I will be heading home in the not-too-distant future. Due to operational security reasons, I cannot give exact dates and times here—in fact, I myself have not been given them as yet, though I know what the approximate plan is. This imposed radio silence makes it difficult for me to describe much of my recent activities to you, as they have mostly been related to preparations for the upcoming trips. Once I am in a safe location, I will be able to reveal more details on this weblog, including some info about the events of the last few days.

What I can tell you: I will soon be leaving Al Asad and traveling to Camp Ali Al Saleem in Kuwait. I will remain in Kuwait until the next available “freedom flight” which will take me to Europe and eventually home. The doctor who is replacing me has already arrived in Kuwait, and will be in Al Asad sometime soon.

So: sit tight, relax, and the next time you hear from me, I will likely be safely in another location, one step closer to home.

To all those who are praying (and more) for my safety: I thank you sincerely. More to follow soon…

However, this particular rule is a pretty important one. The very fine silt-like dust in Iraq, along with the inability to keep hands clean for insertion and removal—all of this makes contact lens wear dangerous, and every Army optometrist and ophthalmologist has horror stories about eye infections, corneal ulcers, and subsequent permanent loss of vision in soldiers who have worn contacts in the field.

With that preface, I relate to you the following incident, which took place in our optometry clinic on Thursday:

A soldier, let’s call him “Private Eyegoo,” walks into clinic with his Non-Commissioned Officer in tow. Chief complaint: “It feels like there is something in my right eye, and there is yellow stuff on my eyelids in the morning.” On further questioning, the patient also complained of swollen lids, and itchiness of the right eye.

Our optometrist, sensing something very familiar about this particular complaint, asked the soldier if he had worn contact lenses at any time while being deployed. The soldier stated resolutely that he had not EVER worn contact lenses in Iraq, and went on to elaborate in detail how his NCO had seen him attempting to insert lenses in Kuwait and informed him that this was not allowed, so he had put them away, and never touched them again. “I haven’t worn any contacts for months.”

(It is right about at this point in my little narrative that the alert blog reader will begin to suspect that perhaps Private Eyegoo is not telling the whole truth. What makes this one more interesting is that “not-so-honest” is about to meet up with “not-so-smart”—a combination which is nearly 100% lethal to a military career.)

A few moments later, as the patient was examined, our fine optometrist noted an ocular surface infection in the right eye. But he also noticed something else: at that very moment, Private EG had contact lenses in both eyes. Being the nice guy that he is, our doctor gave the soldier another chance to right himself: “Let me remind you that you are speaking with an officer. Please tell me about your contact lens use over the past month.”

“I have not worn any contact lenses over the past month, sir.”

The Optometry Clinic Non-Commissioned Officer, along with the patient’s accompanying NCO, were then asked to report to the exam lane, where the patient was again asked if he had been wearing contact lenses. He again denied it. Our optometrist then calmly explained to the errant soldier that contacts were in his eyes right now. The patient stated that this was impossible, that the lenses were in his contact lens case.

At this point, our optometrist, who is apparently a much more patient man than I, removed the contact lenses in front of the two NCOs, and had both of them verify the presence of the lenses. At this point the soldier’s NCO looked ready to strangle him. The patient indicated that “I don’t know how they got in there.” He was put on antibiotics and asked to return to the clinic the next day, with his company commander present. He was then escorted from the clinic by his NCO, who looked about ready to strangle him.

—————

My optometrist and I have debated a bit amongst ourselves as to the motives of PVT Eyegoo. So far, we have two operative theories:

1. Private EG truly did not know the contacts were in his eyes. Perhaps he put them in a long time ago, and simply forgot about them. This would explain his willingness to be seen by an optometrist, where any reasonable person would know that the contacts would be instantly discovered.
2. Private EG is not a reasonable person, and thought that the presence of contact lenses would somehow go un-noticed by our optometrist as he examined him under the slit lamp. It may seem incredible to you, but having lived here for six months, I have seen how blatant misinformation is often quickly believed all-too-willing servicemembers. I can easily imagine that a buddy of PVT EG told him how “no one can prove that you have contacts in, not even an eye doctor.”

Either way, I don’t really want this guy walking around Al Asad carrying a weapon, and I am happy to report that he has been relieved of his M-16.

My medics and other co-workers are cheery through a bit of Monday-morning grogginess. One hour into clinic, our patient load has been fairly typical:

• A pregnant soldier. She did a home pregnancy test a month ago, which was positive, but she spent the last month hoping that it would somehow turn negative (and thus she could avoid having to officially notify anyone of her circumstances, which usually results in disciplinary action). She remains positive on our tests today, and will be flying out of Al Asad even before I do.
• Back pain (fell on the rocks).
• Sexually transmitted disease workup: Likely all this soldier has is a case of genital warts, but we will be testing for HIV and syphilis as well. He is really worried about herpes, but we won’t know if he has that until a sore shows up.
• A soldier with an enzyme deficiency which causes him to have a hemolytic crisis every so often (hemolysis = the spontaneous breakdown of red blood cells). He is fatigued and jaundiced, and since our lights just went out, he’ll be heading to the CSH (Combat Surgical Hospital, pronounced “cash”) for labs and possible transfusion/admission. Being a hematologist myself, I’ll check on him later in the day as a medical consultant.
• A crush injury to the left leg: calf/tibia got slammed into a humvee door, and the soldier likely has a bruised tibia, possibly a broken one. We shall see.

Not bad for the first couple hours of clinic. Since I started writing this, the lights have indeed gone out, but a backup system devised by SGT Evans, wherein we have limited light for the hallways and 2 exam rooms, seems to be working well. No A/C, though, and the air is getting stuffier and warmer by the minute. Can’t complain too much: at least I’m not riding in a tank with ten other sweaty men. It’s good to be a Fobbit.

—————

Rupard Mailbag

I had an unexpected surprise on Sunday. One of my soldiers knocked on my door at 3 PM, which is well-established as a “DO NOT DISTURB—NAPTIME” for me. The exceptions to this rule are in case of emergencies and/or mail delivery. (Yes, we get mail on Sundays here, but don’t feel too jealous: there are at least three other random days each week in which there is no mail service, usually due to sandstorms.) I opened the doors of my frosty-cold trailer, and in rushed the 100-degree heat, along with SGT England’s hand holding a priority mail package from the Ainsworths, of Evans, GA. This is my third package from Craig and Kathleen, who are good friends back home, and I ripped it open, finding not one or two, but three boxes of donuts, including some of those sour-cream kind that I love so much. I immediately brought a box next door to the lair of the Halo Cowboys, and they hopped all over them (complaining loudly, of course, that I was unfairly trying to sabotage them with carbs). Mine lasted about 55 seconds, but it was a very good 55 seconds, indeed. Brought the other two boxes in with me this AM and I got literal cheers from the medics, who gathered around.

Also in the Ainsworths’ box was a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread, some peanut butter M&Ms, and a couple of CDs, which I will be transferring to the old ipod shortly. Craig likes the same kind of quirky, guitary pop music that I like, and so far has never steered me wrong. (Last package had Rogue Wave’s “Descended Like Vultures” which has been in constant rotation for the past couple of months.)

So Craig and Kathleen and family: thanks for the sugary goodness, literal or otherwise. You have some (real) mail on the way, from my lovely vacation spot.

—————

Especially For Maya #2

I usually brush my teeth after lunch. I’ve kept my toothbrush in an empty “Jelly Belly” container for some time now to protect it from the dust. When I reached to get at the brush today, I noticed this tiny little fellow, who had managed to get himself stuck in the plastic jar. He was probably about 3 cm long (missing part of his tail), and his skin was almost see-through. Below are a couple of pix for you, Maya.

He’s now happily living in our “dirt garden” out behind the clinic, where he will be able to dine on some very exotic-looking bugs. I truly love those squiggly toes…

First, the biker gang:

Left to right, you see me, CPT Daphne Sims (the other doctor in our clinic), and 1LT Samuel Coleman, our clinic administrator. I kept the wide angle here, so that you can get a sense of the terrain. The crayola boxes in Iraq have exactly three colors: dirt-brown, asphalt-grey, and sky-blue.

An even wider angle. That speck in the middle is me and my red bike. I am coming around the back of one of the strange “pyramid” structures which are some sort of bunker. These are peppered throughout the base, and form a sort of connect-the-dots around the outer loop. I have climbed on these, ridden around them, sat on them, and have yet to find a door or other entrance.

About four miles into the loop is a graveyard for Iraqi planes. I am not allowed to take pictures of much of this, and can’t climb in or on them, as there are some reports of UXO (UneXploded Ordnance) in some of them, so sorry, dad, no cockpit pictures. That bike next to the sign is the one I’ve been riding for the past few months, courtesy of SGT Hert. The yellow bands around the bike and my waist are reflective and mandatory. Dig those cool wraparound shades.

We see a lot of these mini dust-storms as we ride, and occasionally ride right through them. Once, riding with CPT Hall on our way home from dinner, a big orange one threatened to hit us, so we raced the sucker down the road, only to get caught just as we turned into our cans. These eruptions and the more organized dust devils which we encounter are usually random acts of nature, but sometimes are man-made (i.e., a Humvee racing across the flatlands). That barbed-wire fence is one of many which separates us from the bad guys.

On this very hot day (115 F), we took a break in the little shade we could find, on the side of one of the pyramid-shaped bunkers. On the left, sucking on his CamelBak Hydration System (c) is SGT Villarreal. I’m next, then CPT Sims, and finally 1LT Coleman. CPT Baker is holding the camera.

Sitting on top of the pyramid are the three amigos: myself with CPT Baker, and 1LT Coleman, the two guys who, more than anyone else, kept me sane during this deployment. CPT Joshua Baker is our Optometrist, and my next-door neighbor back in Can City. The pose here is kind of dorky, and the careful observer will note that we were all trying not to touch too much bare flesh to the very hot clay surface of the bunker.

And off we go, into the wild brown yonder. Note the thin green backpack-like thingies. Those are the CamelBaks—pouches with a plastic, removable bladder which can carry three liters of water. Crucial on a hot day, especially in combat, where soldiers will be wearing 50 pounds of protective gear in the 100-plus degree heat. I will get to keep one of these after my deployment (sweet!) and would have bought one if that weren’t the case.

These rides will take us between 45 minutes and 1 hour fifteen minutes depending upon our pace. Of the “killer Bs” that I will remember from Iraq (bikes, breakfasts, barbecues), I think the bike rides will be my fondest and most enduring memory.

The re-enlistment ceremony was first, and I was honored to have been asked by SGT Hert to administer the re-enlistment oath to him. I took a few moments to memorize the oath, so that we would both being doing it without papers or prompting.

THE OATH: “I do solemnly swear that I [name here] will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

Next, SPC (p) Castulo Vera and SPC (p) Andres Villareal each were promoted to SGT. I was asked by SPC Villareal to “pin” him—meaning that I would remove his old rank from his uniform and place the new rank on. Of course, the term “pin” is outdated, as the new Army Combat Uniform has rank attached by Velcro. (That crunchy “rrrip!” sound takes a bit away from the ceremony, I must say.) Nonetheless, I was honored to “pin” some brand spanking new sergeant stripes onto Villa’s uniform.

The woman standing behind us in the picture is CPT Melissa Thomas, our company commander, who traveled from another military base to be present for this ceremony.

Another part of the ceremony involves removing the old cap with and replacing it with a new one with the promoted rank sewn on.

In all seriousness, both SGTs Vera and Villareal are squared-away, first-rate soldiers, and will make outstanding Non-Commissioned Officers. SGT Villa has been one of the four gentlemen who have consistently worked out with and inspired me during my stay with the 581st TMC, and I am grateful to him for letting me be a part of this special occasion.

After the ceremony, the two fresh SGTs had to undergo a traditional test of thier toughness, as they were brought out into the sandy terrain next to the clinic, and underwent a series of exercises in the 110-degree heat. First were the pushups:

The tradition is to calculate the number of months that it took for each soldier to make it to SGT and make them do that many push-ups. However, since Vera and Villa both made SGT pretty quickly (3 and 2 years, respectively), the soldier standing to the right, SSG Cano-Perez (known as “C-P”) sort of intentionally lost count a few times, pushing each well over 100.

Next came a low-crawl, which requires that the soldier’s ear touch the ground at all times. This is usually done in a swampy or muddy terrain. Since we don’t naturally have anything even slightly damp in this particular desert, SGT Hert had to create some mud.

After the low-crawl, and with fairly muddy uniforms, Villa and Vera did some jumping jacks (or as we hooah Army types call it, the “side straddle hop”). Note that their feet are not touching the ground in this shot:

And a close-up of SGT Villareal, who looked like he might be getting tired of this game.

And finally, cool-down and clean-up were both accomplished in one fell swoop, with the other soldiers helping out.

Fun times were had by all. At the end of the day, we had one soldier signed up for another four years, and two other fine soldiers promoted to the rank of Non-Commissioned Officer.

Packing My Mental Baggage

For two years back in the late 1980s, I was an LDS missionary—you know, the young, clean-cut guys in suit-and-tie who ride around the city on bikes. We missionaries had a term for the peculiar behavior of those among us who were nearing completion of their 24 months, and occasionally showed the signs of being mentally “home” even before they physically left the mission field. The term was “trunky,” as in “Elder Johnson is a bit trunky, and therefore was not really excited about doing that service project.” I think that the term originally came from the mental image of a missionary sitting on his already-packed trunk, waiting for the ride to the airport. We generally forgave a bit of trunkiness—after all, it’s hard not to daydream a bit about sleeping in your own bed again after being away for a couple of years. Most missionaries fought off the trunkiness pretty well, and kept their eyes focused on the work at hand as much as possible.

I hereby admit to you that I am currently a bit “trunky” about getting back to the green green grass of home (not to mention my wife and kids, the pool, the uninterrupted power grid, etc), though I think I am mostly containing my restlessness. On days in which the lights go out, the sand slaps painfully against my skin every time I walk outside, and the heat is oppressive and uncomfortable, it is easy to dream about better days to come. The other provider in my clinic right now is CPT Daphne Sims, a pediatrician out of Ft Bragg. (And you thought I was practicing outside of my specialty!) CPT Sims and I came to Iraq at the same time, and it looks like we will leave at the same time—may even be on the same “freedom flight” home. So, we are both perhaps a bit on the trunky side. We’ve been keeping each other honest, though, and putting in a solid day’s work every day. But we occasionally talk across our shared desk of the places we’ll go, and the things we’ll be doing this time next month. Our “Calgon moment” is almost invariably interrupted by a medic telling us the sad, sad story of the patient in room three, who has “this thing” on his foot (or some other Al Asad-specific malady). Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

Becky Anundsen, the Anti-Adkins

A few weeks ago, a study came out in the New England Journal of Medicine which demonstrated fairly clearly that the food pyramid which we have been taught for decades (the one with wheat, grains, breads and cereals as the “base” of the pyramid) is all wrong. In fact, an “Adkins”-style diet consisting of very few carbs, increased protein, and moderate fat intake appears to have superior health benefits on nearly all parameters when compared with even calorie-restricted, carbohydrate-neutral diets. When I read the study, I talked to my TMC staff about it, and the end result was that about half of us have been on a low-carb diet since the beginning of July.

That is, until last Saturday.

That was the day that two boxes sent by one Becky Anundsen (”little sis” to me, “Beckles” to everyone else) arrived via the Army Post Office. As mentioned previously in these pages, Becky’s package consisted of five boxes of cookies (sugar, peanut butter, white chocolate macadamia, and pecan choco chip), and the Al Asad TMC staff have been living off of the things ever since. All of the cookies are good, but those sugar cookies are un-be-stinkin’-lievable. They have that slightly doughy taste that all good sugar cookies must have, and they just spontaneously crumble on the tongue, as if on cue. I have not been able to stay away from that particular ziploc container. Unfortunately, I do not believe that Beckles cookies qualify as “low carb.” In fact, I have it on fairly good authority (two witnesses: my tongue and my stomach) that they are not even “medium carb.” But I simply cannot stay away, and neither can my medics.

So thanks for the cookies, Becky. Trust me, they are well worth the extra few (say 20) hours I’ll have to do on the treadmill this week to negate their nefarious effects. Well worth it, indeed.