Friday, October 22, 2004

Observation: Waiting for Falluja  

(Smoke and Lolly: Boys to Men. Image: Kevin Sites)

I'm currently embedded with the Third Battalion, First Regiment Marines or the "Thundering Third" as they like to be known -- waiting for the long-rumored offensive to retake the stubborn, insurgent-held city of Falluja -- prior to Iraq's January elections. It's widely accepted in Iraq and within the U.S.
State Department and United Nations -- that Falluja must somehow participate in the upcoming vote -- or else the process will seem illegitimate and further disenfranchise both moderate and militant Sunnis from the new Iraqi government.

But the Marines here see it in simpler terms -- they've got a job to do and when they get the word they'll gladly clear the city of insurgents, foreign fighters, whoever gets in their way. With all the casualties they've suffered from roadside bombs and nightly mortar and rocket attacks -- they're highly motivated. Before a recent mission there's a lot of swagger and bravado as they gear up.

"Hope Haji comes out to play tonight," is the common sentiment.



(Before the Mission: Marines from Lima Company, 2nd Platoon, 2nd Squad have a circumspect moment or maybe just a micro nap behind their wraparound shade prior to heading out on a mission. Image: Kevin Sites)

Like most of the bulk of the military, aside from officers and non-coms, they're kids really -- 18, 19, 20 years old. They switch from playing imaginary war games on an Xbox in the base rec rooms to living and fighting in a real war. They flip from astounding maturity, trusting each other with their lives, brotherly bonds, to head-shaking juvenile antics -- belittling each others manhood, intelligence, haircuts--whatever presents itself as an appropriate weakness.

The Marines here handle their deadly arsenal of personal and squad weapons like they were additional appendages -- loading and clearing them with the casual precision of having done it thousands of times before. Ready to use them in the same manner.




(Rolling Out: Marines from Lima Company, 2nd Platoon, 2nd Squad ride in AV's or amphibious vehicles on their way to work near Falluja. Image: Kevin Sites)


Camp Abu Graib is a well fortified, but livable dusty bowl. There is power (from generators) and running water (in shower trailers) but both are sporadic. Marines coming back from hot and dirty missions may have to go without shower, cleaning up with baby wipes or bottled water. The Marines live in cinder block buildings, retro-fitted with window air-conditioning units and bunk beds. They bunk anywhere from six to ten in each room, usually by squad or team -- cooks in one hootch, snipers in another. Every door has a black stencil of a snorting bull, the Battalion mascot -- and in red letters underneath the words, "Complacency Kills."

There is a chow hall, which serves pre-prepared meals; the camp is too small (under one-thousand) to qualify for a civilian food operation usually provided by Halliburton subsidiary KBR (Kellog, Brown and Root). There is an "internet café" and phone center where Marines can keep in touch with loved ones -- or surf dating sites like, "Hot or Not."

I've also discovered that almost any base, no matter how close to the front lines, will have a well-stocked weight room where Marines and Soldiers can burn off the frustrations of their protracted deployments in hostile territory. Most bases also have what Marines and Soldiers call a "Haji shop," a little store run by Iraqis that sell local souvenirs like rugs, regime military medals or money, sandals, potato chips and pirated DVD's.

While they wait -- Marines talk, smoke -- but most of all, they dip. The most common sound around Camp Abu Graib, next to a weapon being cleared or an incoming rocket (usually one per day) is the sound of a can of tobacco being tapped loose for the next pinch. Empty water bottles seem standard issued for Marines working inside, cheap and handy spittoons.



(My Hootch: Gunney Ed Payne of the 3.1 got me set up in my own version of the Four Seasons here at Camp Abu Graib -- a private, two person hootch converted from a bathroom. At the moment, I don't have to share it with anyone -- so can I can hang my laundry to dry and spread out my videophone gear. My live shot location is just outside. Image: Kevin Sites)

Despite a history of sacrifice for the nation -- the U.S. Marines are the redheaded, stepchildren of the Pentagon when it comes to the budget process.
With only 150,000 active duty Marines in the whole corps -- they get "hand me down" everything -- or nothing at all. While almost all the combat Army units in Iraq have been issued the shorter-barreled M4 assault rifle (better for urban warfare, easier to wield getting in and out of humvees) and night vision goggles, the Marines are still mostly carrying M16's and are lucky to have one set of nv specs per squad.

But the Marines do have their own distinctive uniforms--a computer-generated, khaki-checkered, camouflage pattern, which appears to operate on the same principle as those pop art pointillism posters -- where Marilyn Monroe or a space shuttle is hidden inside a field of tiny dots. If you look hard enough, you might be able to see the Marine.

Discuss

Kevin 7:13 AM

Monday, October 18, 2004

Layla, part 2.  

(Image: Kevin Sites)


Layla entertains the men of the 5th Marines at Camp Blue Diamond in Ramadi, Iraq. From left to right, Chief Warrant Officer Anthony Rodriquez/Brooklyn, NY, Lance Corporal Brian Covey/San Clemente, CA, Corporal Adnan Chowdhory/Uniondale, NY. These guys are responsible for helping keep the Iraqi National Guard supplied with weapons, uniforms, food and water as they begin to take over more security responsibilites for the country.

Link to previous post: Layla

Discuss

Kevin 8:10 AM

Flying Dutchman  

It's 3am and I have given up straining in the blackness of this night to hear the whumping rotors of the Marine UH-46 Helicopter that's supposed to take me to Falluja. In fact, I gave up an hour ago. Now I'm just working for some sleep. Initially I tried the tarmac, leaning against my backpack propped up against a concrete barrier. There was a hummingbird flash of peaceful dozing, but like all good things-- it too has come to an end.

Now, with a dirty-green plastic poncho liner between me and some knotty-pine planks--I find myself in the peculiar position of having freshly turned 42-years-old, while making my bed atop this picnic table in the Green Zone's LZ Washington.

If life's progress is measured by your current place in the world-- I should be concerned. Instead--I try to get comfortable.

By 5am – we get word from some Marines waiting for a helicopter to Ramadi that all flights have been cancelled. I am, for all practical purposes, stranded with 200 pounds of gear and no place to go. A civil affairs reservist from Cincinnati, invites me to head over to the U.S. Embassy (housed in a series of Saddam's former palaces) where there is a gymnasium-sized tent filled with cheap Chinese made tubular bed frames and foam mattresses. It's used by "transients," military, government or reconstruction types--waiting for flights, transfers or reassignments. It is a perfect Catholic concept of limbo; a place to wait for past sins to somehow be purged before moving on to a better place. For me--any, non-solid surface to lie on is a better place--and at this moment--a fulfillment of my current and only birthday wish--as I hastily blow out some imaginary candles on the imaginary cake in my head.

The reservist is a can-do Marine Major, a personal injury attorney from Cincinnati about my age with a wife and three kids, a month into a seven-month deployment based at 1st Marine Division Headquarters Camp Blue Diamond in Ramadi. Without even asking if I need help, he grabs the handle of the rolling black Pelican case containing my video phone kit. Halfway there, the wheels collapse under its weight, as they have before, and it becomes the equivalent of a horse plow, dragging into the uneven concrete surfaces a jagged chalk abrasion. He finally just picks it up and carries it, immediately surprised by the black hole like density of my television transmission machinery.

At the Embassy's front gate--I must surrender my passport and receive a badge, which allows me access--but requires I be escorted everywhere--including to the bathroom. With a double-suicide bombing of the heavily fortified Green Zone earlier the day which killed four Americans,the security concerns are fully justified.

While I lie on my bed in the transient tent, grateful for the gift of a few hours sleep, I use a few pre-rem moments to scroll through the years of my life, wondering how, at my age, I'm still playing one-man band, carrying the editorial burden of my profession as well as the far heavier technological one. I try to pinpoint when it was exactly, what word I had so eagerly uttered, that turned me into the Flying Dutchman of electronic journalism, a man without a sense of community, cursed to forego family, friends, holidays, anniversaries for an endless voyage with an ambiguous purpose. The word…I remember, before falling asleep, was... "yes."

The next morning I learn my passport has been pulled by members of the Embassy's security office who were upset that they were not told I was overnighting there. After my explanation--they agree to let me stay until I can rebook a chopper out--but ask me to leave my video camera and my passport with them. In return-- I get a new badge that allows me to move around by myself within a limited area-- including the dining facility.

A friend in the public affairs office allows me to use a computer and phone to make the contacts necessary to get on the flight manifest for that evening. There are no promises--just instructions to be back at the Landing Zone at 1:30 am for a possible standby slot.

I have a lot of time to kill--but I'm not supposed to be working while waiting for my flight. I ask my friend if I can sit by the large pool that is part of the sprawling compound. The public affairs director reluctantly agrees as long as I don't report, including blog--anything I might hear poolside. I promise to plug my ears if anything relevant is said.

I pull off my boots, zip off the legs of my "standard issue" quick-dry, lightweight, packable convertible pants (the safari vest for this millennium's foreign correspondent corps) and I sink into a vegetative state.
While dozing, I think at how the hallways of the Embassy seems Ant Farm tunnels, but instead of ants, full of men with guns. There are Khaki clad Nepalese guards with boonie hats and military bureaucrats with pistols hanging like Christmas tree ornaments from complicated and impractical leather shoulder holsters. But the most striking are the private security contractors-- working for the State Department or companies doing business in Iraq.

"They seem to come in two types," one Marine told me over coffee earlier, "the older guys that seem to live for the meals--and the guys that live for the work outs, the guys that are just in world-class shape."

The individuals in the second group are difficult to tell apart. They appear to be a regiment of modern-uber, muscle-men, groomed and dressed nearly identically; baseball hats with sunglasses perched on the visors, shaved-heads or military short, American Chopper goatees, cargo pants with thigh holsters and…as one British military liaison said derisively,
"the PX only carries under amour t-shirts in extra small." It's almost as if they were engineered for the job,

At the pool it's a bit more relaxed. A group of young Marines are taking turns doing tricks off the platform high dive. They are laughing and being silly like 18 and 19 years olds should. From the pool deck, their staff sergeants watches them with fatherly eyes, gently encouraging them to push the envelope. They all laugh while one Marine walks on his hands to the edge of the platform, but then backs off.

"I'm still working on it," he tells the staff sergeant. For a moment these young Marines are not at war in Iraq, but at a backyard pool party--everything lost in liquid blue.

"We're having fun," the staff sergeant tells an acquaintance seated nearby, "what's that about?"

* * *

At 1:30 AM I'm back on the tarmac of LZ Washington. This time my helo arrives--but mechanical problems scrub the flight to Falluja. I wait for another hour and catch one to Ramadi instead, thinking it will at least get me a little closer to my destination.
In Ramadi I spend the next two nights in another transient tent, waiting for flights and convoys that can't, it seems, fit me in.

And at dusk, when the air is still, I lie in my bunk, while insurgent mortar round slicing sky--still wondering how it is I got here, how, I'll eventually get out.

Discuss

Kevin 7:55 AM