With my flak vest as a pillow, and all of my belongings packed to my sides, I had fashioned a room for myself—safe from the bright fluorescent lights of the terminal. Scooping out my gear, I stood up as the many other transients shuffled to the end of the cabinet row to hear the roll call. We geared up and moved outside to the twilight.
An aside: It still amazes me how much the civilians can outnumber the military population out here.
Standing on the flight line, I was surprised to hear the whirling of Chinooks. There is another attitude to those machines. Their mammoth size and innards make them fit for heavy cargo and a higher passenger capacity than Blackhawks.
As we left on our early morning flight towards COB Far Away, the Chinook feature I enjoyed most was the view allowed by the aircraft’s back hatch. With the city lights illuminating the hazy landscape below, we could have been flying over any city in the states. That illusion felt good.
The two soldiers stationed at the back of the craft, after checking the fortitude of their lifelines multiple times, lowered the back hatch and moved far enough to the edge to dangle their feet below. They sat in contentment—scanning around with their night-vision goggles.
Their silhouettes played audience to the lights that grew in size and blur from the haze and distance. The tranquility of the view printed in my sleep-deprived mind a snap shot that I will never forget.
Eventually, the lights became less frequent. One could see the city cluster become an afterthought. Then the lights grew sparse, and save for the moonlight, darkness was plenty. I knew we were getting closer.
We descended on the COB. The cement barrier welcomed all, as is customary.
SSG Finder met me with one of the other-company soldiers at the hangar. As we quietly made our way in the team’s only civilian truck, SSG Finder welcomed me to COB Far Away with sarcastic excitement.
“It’s beautiful,” I responded with matching attitude, “like nothing I have ever seen.”
A few moments later, full of stale seriousness, SSG Finder said, “Oh yeah, just so you know, sir, we get IDF here.” IDF stands for indirect fire, i.e. mortar rounds.
Answering my follow-up before I could ask it, he went answered, “Just had one yesterday. It hit by the mayor cell.”
I had heard of indirect fire (IDF) happening around Iraq while I was at the BN HQ (a few hit some of the neighboring bases in our AO), but the reality of such a close attack on such a recent date was intimidating. I resisted asking a thousand questions about it, but found that no one had been hurt recently though attacks can be as often as weekly.
I tried not to think much of it; most of us use this method.
That was until, after getting about an hour into my much-needed rest before restarting the day for inventories, I was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was SSG Finder.
“Just getting accountability, sir,” he blurted as I stared at him like a zombie, “There was an IDF round a few minutes ago. It didn’t detonate.”
Oh. I see. Alright then. Not knowing how to react, and too tired to care, I resumed zombification.
Another hour later, I was interrupted again. This time it was the post loudspeaker.
“Incoming, incoming, incoming. Incoming, incoming, incoming.”
The pre-recorded announcement later continued with something to the effect of, “All clear. Emergency terminated. Resume operations or complete recovery. And don’t run around like Chicken Little doing the Macarena.”
Roger, Mr. Announcer Guy. The sky is falling, but I will chill out. I can just use my reflector belt as a force field. No worries.
Suddenly, COB Home did not seem so bad. Reflecting on it though, even COB Home used to see its share of IDF from what my soldiers tell me. The lower frequency of attacks is a luxury, not a certainty.
The mini, harmless barrage was a tough reminder that there are still people here who just plain want us dead.
But again, I slept. I had work to do later.
Chicken Little, out.
** ** **
The next afternoon.
A short time after writing the preceding words and getting through a few chapters of The Count of Monte Cristo, a book I began reading about a week ago, I finally tried to get to bed. I wanted to write more about SSG Finder and the inventories I conducted after waking up from those brief mortar naps, but was again too tired. The experiences with IDF seemed sufficient for a day’s writing anyway.
Shortly thereafter was a loud thud. It sounded like a one of the neighbors had slammed the door, but the accompanying rumble was out of the norm for such a thing.
“Incoming, incoming, incoming. Incoming, incoming, incoming.”
For a third time, the shells fell.
After a few minutes I checked outside, and then just sat there on the bed. The warm weather and the full moon’s light must be enough to encourage the attackers. That or I just have excellent luck.
I had felt the shake from this one, and it shook me a bit inside. In a moment of grave pessimism, I took out my Moleskine out and wrote, “I love my family.” I got back to sleep.
Today has been a lazy Sunday—a weekly treat I am glad to keep even in travel. With the inventories finished, getting into too much here would just be overstepping the other-company chain of command.
SSG Finder came by and we went by some of the local national shops (better known by the politically correct moniker: ‘Haji shops’). The selection of DVDs, electronics, and other trinkets still impress me. I still have not been able to find something good enough to warrant a trip to get cash for though.
I delighted in watching SSG Finder look for movies and shows his wife might like. It is always refreshing to see soldiers do things for their family, or to hear fond words for them. Even with the forced stoicism that our profession often dictates, one can often see the devotion that goes beyond the few glimpses of home that an individual may allow publicly.
Sitting here in my temporary dwelling, ready to continue traveling to finish these inventories, I think of my family with a smile.
