Hello once again to the show that never ends...
That's right, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, faithful readers of all of my rants and raves, it is time once again for a dispatch from my little spot in the BLAZING HOT FREAKIN sun...
Been a while since I last written and I apologize. Apparently my muse got leave before I did and took off without leaving a trace of inspiration, or motivation, at that point... but at long last, my muse has arrived, unpacked, and donned the appropriate battle rattle, so let's rock...
So when we last left of, I was about to start a wondeful week of third shift tower duty. I'm sure you can all remember my original description of the wonderul landscape surrounding Club (I mean Camp) Bucca and I am happy to report to you that four weeks later, it looks completely, absolutley, positively... unchanged (kinda anti-climatic, I know). But, as it WAS third shift, I did have the dubious "privelege" of peering at my favorite little landscape through the every blurry, ever fogging NODS (Night Vision Goggles). These wonderful contraptions, brought to you by the lowest bidder (just like our weapons) rob you of any shred of depth perception, which can be dangerous with two full grown men in a tower that makes a cubicle look like the PLayboy Mansion. And yep, because it was third shift, there were two of us... me and Francis "Psycho" Hyland. So, armed with our depth-perception robbing "foggles" we spent the nights tripping over objects that appeared to be light years away, while reaching for radios that we 8 feet away from us, yet looked to be right in front of our noses. And we are supposed to be able to shoot accurately with those things... hmph
So there we are in the towers, watching nothing happen to nothing when we decide an FM radio might pass the time quicker. Next night, we out there with our wonderfully overpriced radio (thanks to the folks at the PX) and we're searching for Armed FOrces Radio or British Forces Broadcasting Station... and we're searching... and searching. Seems our little pin of an antenna did not want to cooperate. Well, thanks to our high-speed, low-drag Army training, PPsycho and I did what comes naturally to us as soldiers. We shot the radio and then bragged to everyone how it was really three death squads that we saved the camp from. Kidding. We adapted and overcame. First we tried boosting the size of the antenna with soda cans -- they're metal, they'll catch a frequency, right? Wrong. Then we wrapped all the aluminum foil we could scrap from the trash... to no avail. We needed something that could catch frequencies from any angle... something wide and spindly... something metal... something that looked JUST like the grille to the space heater we kicked out of the tower to free up some space... I gave Fran time to use the latrine so as not to be a witness to my actions, which he faithfully rejected. I then went to work on tearing that SOB right off the front of the heater. Minutes later, BCBS was clear as crystal... when the SOG came up for a visit, I gave him my best "it was like that when we got here" face, which was about as convincing as Baghdad Bob's reports that IRaqi soldiers were repelling the US Army in Baghdad last year. So thank you, tax payers, both for our wonderful space heaters and also our new sound super duper sonic booster radio accessory.
Easter weekend followed and we here at Camp Bucca had a wonderful day. After just enough rain to make the day miserable (Iraq smells like a wet dog when it rains), we settled down to our lovely shoe-leather slice of what they called ham. Then we were back off to our missions, which, over the weekend, had shifted to convoy securirty. Iraqis know how to celebrate Easter. Driving past a flea market that apparently sells nothing but fifty gallon drums and broken furniture, we were treated to the IRaqi Boys Choir's rendition of "*#@* You Americans," "Go Home and Leave My Camels Here," and "Death to the INfidel." All accompanied by the ever heavenly sounds of Zamphir's AK-47. Now, I'm no Rhodes scholar, but I think I read somewhere that what goes up, must come down (for an example, see Bush's Approval Ratings). Apparently, one of two things is true in Iraq. (1) the laws of gravity go unobserved like every other law in the country or (2) people don't realize that a bullet shot stright into the air will eventually travel in a downward direction, gaining speed until reaching terminal velocity, at which point it will strike some point on the eart traveling at a very high rate of speed. Stand in the wrong place at the wrong time and you go from celebratory Haji to dead Haji, but I'm sure they shoot AKs at funerals as well, so the cycle continues...
Anyhow, back at BUcca once the convoys are done for the day, the squad and I are sitting, like all good christian boys, contemplating the sanctity of the day... alright, we were watching Indiana Jones movies chowing on all the easter candy faithful readers have sent to us... when the call goes in for all MP's to report to the IF. Right about that time, we all started arguing that we were not exactly MP's per se, but rather Field Artillery, so we could coast, but apparently since we left our howitzers at home, we are considered MPs (though we are STILL, after TWO MONTHS, waiting on our 9mm pistols -- civic minded readers, write your congressmen and senators) so we were off to quell a riot at the IF.
Minutes later, batons in hand, lined in rows, listening to the shouting coming from within the cell block, I leaned to CPL Colburn with this bit of logic "y'know, with a few pints of Guiness in us, this would be JUST like and Irish Easter!" Then we both agreed the mere mention of Guiness was uncalled for, given the circumstances and decided to take out our lack of beer agression on the first haji we could nail coming through the chute...
Well, our IF Detainess, silly little SOB's that they are, may be dumb, but the are not stupid. Seeing us lined in rank and column in full battle gear with really big "Stop-YOu-Dumb-Iraqi" sticks in our hands was enough to convince them they'd rather we stay on OUR side of the fence. That was their second strike... we've already decided that should we get called into the IF a third time to deal with a riot, we'll tear the damn fence down our selves... and we'll be bringing our guns, not batons...
That's pretty much it, here in lovely Camp Bucca. I realize my attempts at humor have declined as of late, so I will attempt to recover with a short list of things I cannot do in Iraq:
1. I cannot call Sgt Hutton "dipsey" over the radio
2. I cannot call Sgt Hutton "dipsey" to his face
3. I cannot tell Kuwaiti Border Guards to hurry the hell up
4. I cannot breed scorpions with camel spiders to create a giant, jumping scorpion-spider
5. I cannot go to the shower station wearing just a towel and flip flops
6. I cannot call Marines "jarheads" or "leathernecks" to their face
7. I cannot put things in the platoon fridge and expect them to be there the next day
8. I cannot jump on top of the picnic table and scream "In Your Face, old Man!" when I beat Staff Seargeant Sowers at Phase Ten
9. If I know what is good for me, I cannot beat SSG Sowers at Phase Tenand finally...
10. I cannot use a computer for over the half-hour time limit, even if it is to write and send my dispatches.
Well, take care and keep the emails, letters, etc. coming... any and all correspondence is appreciated and enjoyed... I apologize for my longwindedness, but as I said, me and my muse have some catching up to do...
D
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