|From Drop Box|
I am going to start this blog the way ever real story should start. Four words in a simple phrase to denote a beginning. Four words used by men to tell war stories long before I ever had a story to tell. Four words that set any real story apart from a fairy tale, but not without leaving a bit of interpretation open to the bard:
So there I was… It was late March, maybe early April. I stopped keeping track of the days when we crossed the border. 2003, Iraq. A day's haul south of Baghdad, somewhere between the Karbala gap and the middle of nowhere. The Army was stuck. Camped out in the middle of the desert, blinded by the biggest sand storm in decades. The combined forces of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines lost track of the Medina Division, one of the premier units of Saddam’s Republican Guard. As soon as the dust cleared we were to push through the Karbala gap, in full chemical protective gear ready for the WMD attack that was “sure” to be launched. The a drive through more wasteland and on to the Euphrates River. With the main bridge sure to be blown, my platoon’s mission was to assault across the river on engineer float bridge pontoons, and secure the far side bridge area for the 3rd Infantry Division to race to Baghdad. That bridge was now loaded on a convoy of trucks behind me. Low tech boats and pontoons that could be the Army’s only hope of crossing the Euphrates. Its only defense… 1st Platoon Bravo Company 54th Engineers. My platoon.
We were dog tired from weeks of zigzagging through the desert, scrounging for parts and fuel, as we outpaced our supply lines. These guys were mostly beat from a year long deployment to Kosovo. I joined them only two months earlier, as their Platoon leader, and I barely knew what the hell I was doing. This was OJT the army way. My the first time commanding my vehicle was on the ride to the Iraqi border. My first Operations Order was the invasion. My first training mission was rehearsing the breach of the boarder defenses only 48 hours before execution. Now my platoon was the only thing standing between the Medina Division and the 3rd Infantry Division’s bridge. How the hell did it come to this?
I looked off into the haze of red dust. I imagined hearing the whir of diesel tanks cut through the wind as T80s burst through the cloud of sand only a few yards from my position. I went through how we might be able to pick a few off with AT-4s, how we might avoid the mass of shrapnel from our C4 loaded tracks detonating. Which track still had a functional radio and how to get the call out? The chance that we would survive such an attack was slim at best. How the hell did it come to this?
This is the backdrop to the lowest point in my life. Or at least the point I like to think back on for a smile when I think things are going bad. But it wasn’t the weight of the situation. I was already used to that. It wasn’t the bad food, or the fact that we were dangerously low on water. It wasn’t the fact that I spent the night prior lost in a sandstorm before having to sleep on top of a vehicle with nothing more than a poncho liner covering me. It wasn't the fear of impending chemical attack, or the pain of setting trench-foot from over used dirty socks. At this particular moment in my life I had bigger concerns. I needed to hone all my skills of balance, focus all my faculties with a Yoda like concentration, and maintain a ninja grip on my roll of toilet paper. Yes, I was shitting in a sand storm. How the hell did it come to this?
The important and unfortunate thing to know while performing these operations is that one must face into the sand storm. Reversing the position while wearing several layers of uniform and protective over garments could be disastrous. This of course exposes the individual in question to an uncomfortable kind of sand blasting. Compounding the problem, my platoons most prized, and perhaps most advanced piece of equipment was lost when a passing truck swiped our non-army issued portable toilet seat off the side of one of our vintage 1970s Armored Personnel Carriers. Not having to squat was one of the few luxuries 1st Platoon enjoyed over our sister units. Also, in a sand storm you can't dig a “cat hole,” as was Army regulation for outdoor excrement deposits, since shifting sand instantly refilled any work done with a shovel. This resulted in what we call “surface laid” munitions. Much like a land mine, miss steps were hazardous.
So there I was. Shitting in a sand storm. How the hell did it come to this? Sometimes I wonder if Abraham asked himself the same questions while making a pit stop on this way to the holy land. “Who did I piss off? What life choices did I make to get here? When will the storm stop? Where did I go wrong? How the hell did I get here? I had a perfectly good seat at my house back in Ur.” But following in the same footsteps of the patriarchs didn’t give much reprieve to the situation. Inglorious though it may have been, I was proud of my accomplishment, carefully dispensed the toilet paper into the gale force winds, and kicked extra sand over my product like a stray dog, and the low point in my life came to an end.
Its times like today, July 17th 2009, that I like to look back on that day in the desert to remind myself that life's just not that bad. That sometimes you make all the right decisions in life and you still end up caught in a sandstorm with your pants down. That you can still make it through the toughest times with a little bit of faith and a little help from your friends. That no matter how bad it gets in life I will always find a better place to go to the bathroom, maybe even with a seat.