War Wacky
Time was drawing close for me to get out of Iraq (hopefully for the last time). Every time I’m about to get the fuck out of this place my tolerance for bullshit goes way down. This is lousy because I don’t have patience for anything, but at the same time all madness of the place seems to resonate more vibrantly in my mind giving me pause to reflect on truly how fucked up this situation really is. It all started about 2 weeks out. Two short fucking weeks between me and the big PX. Beer and boobies and burritos. I can do anything for two fucking weeks, but the madness of this place really put that notion to the test.
Our chief of base over here has been constantly complaining. Bitter, crabby, says the contractors like myself are always joking around, lowering morale. He says all we do is “work out, sleep, and eat”. I swear he is a fucking vampire. He looks like nosferatu. A bald, withered, grey skinned old man. Most of his faculties are starting to fade and sanity was completely abandoned years ago. Every time we get a rocket attack half the team has to bang on his door with rifle butts to get him to wake up and get into the shelter. We’ve nearly smashed his door in on two separate occasions just trying to make sure the creepy little fucker doesn’t get blown to bits when the next mortar or rocket comes blasting in. We joke that he can’t get the lid off his coffin quickly and wonder why he doesn’t just have a ballistic coffin made. The funny thing is that his life is basically run by fear. He is easily excited and goes running off for his Kevlar helmet every time any kind of loud noise is heard. He loves that fucking helmet like that thing can somehow magically protect him just by touching it. I was throwing darts at the dartboard he has attached to the side of his hooch just after dinner the other day and he came running out in a complete panic. He was wearing his ballistic helmet and white boxer shorts and nothing else.
vampire “Wha…!?… What was that, whats going on?!?”
I almost lose my shit laughing about the way his beady little bug eyes keep blinking in fear and confusion as his creepy little vampire head looks around erratically.
Me, “Nothing man, I’m just throwing darts.”
vampire “Well stop that immediately! That is not for throwing darts at! Go throw them somewhere else. Some people actually have to work in the morning!”
Me, “Uh, ok… Sure thing dude.”
He’ll sleep through a rocket attack but wake up for a fucking dart? And what the fuck, it was only 7:00 pm!?!
He actually volunteered to have the dart board installed on his hooch. Everyone though it was crazy until we looked deeper into his fearful little world. The only reason he had the dart board put up was as an excuse to have the 1” thick plywood board put up on the side of his wall that is used to hang the dartboard. Its real purpose was to give a scared little vampire peace of mind and a little extra protection. He is so aftraid of being killed in one of these rocket attacks that he goes running around with his ballistic helmet on for hours making these quick turns over his shoulder like just behind his back a fucking rocket is sneaking up on him. It’s pretty funny to watch, but scary at the same time because everybody knows that he is in charge of the camp. Keep in mind, this is the same little vampire that I caught picking weeds around camp. Utterly insane.
The fucked up thing is that not only is he completely immersed in fear but he is a total sociopath as well. We found out after starving for 2 weeks waiting for a resupply bird that he had a giant freezer filled with steaks and lobster tails and chicken breasts and all kinds of bbq goodness stashed away. I had to have my sister send out a goddamn can opener because I was reduced to opening tin cans with a wrench like some kind of a demented street person. Apparently the vampire sociopath saw the steaks merely as a tool to schmooze generals and ranking state department assholes and stuff like that, basically a way to win friends and influence people, but not for us to eat even if we’re starving.
We finally had enough of his shit and broke into the freezer and stole all the meat. We cooked it up right, invited the whole camp, and everyone had a great time, except the vampire. The crabby fuck just stayed in his hooch and never came out. Maybe we should have gone to medical for some bags of blood. It was the most fun we had in a long time, the best laughs (of course) coming from everyone on the site making fun of the vampire. Unity was forged, and the team strengthened. The next day is when he started complaining about the contractors lowering morale and making everybody miserable.
Napoleon – Grandma just called and said you’re supposed to go home.
Uncle Rico – She didn’t tell me anything.
Napoleon – Too bad. She says she doesn’t want you here when she gets back because you’ve been ruining everybody’s lives and eatin’ all our steak.
A couple days after the bbq, to the vampire’s great dismay, we had another rocket attack. This time the rocket turned out to be a dud, but the problem was that nobody could figure out where it landed. The army swept the camp three times without success until one of the local nationals came forward with the information the next day. The rocket somehow had landed in the ‘most secure’ part of the entire base, the officers smoking area. Specially constructed next to the headquarters tent it was surrounded by hesco barriers and t-walls in every direction. Regular troops were not permitted to go smoke there because the officers feared that they would hear their conversations through the thin tent walls. Since none of the troops were cleared to enter that section the rocket went undiscovered. Even though the headquarters smoking area was specially planned and constructed it was totally useless. None of the officers smoked, only the troops did. Since the regular troops can’t use the smoking area they just smoke wherever and throw their butts on the ground. The butts started adding up so headquarters hired a bunch of local hajis to go around camp and pick up the butts. Since nobody was using it, and it was their job to pick up butts anyway, and the little fuckers don’t really know where they aren’t supposed to go, the hajis were using the headquarters smoking area to take their smoke breaks. That’s how they found the rocket. The army tracked the serial number on the rocket to Iran. Another perfectly executed US military operation. I’m sure somebody was put in for a medal on this one.
The next rocket attack missed the base completely but ended up causing more problems than if it had. It overshot the entire compound and blew a giant hole in a mosque about 1000 meters behind the base. The people at the mosque were understandably angry, especially when they found out from the insurgents that the rocket had been fired at them by our base. Well they lined up the hole in the mosque with the base and believed every word of it. After some vehement protesting and complaining about the Americans shooting rockets at their mosques, headquarters decided to pay to repair the damages to try and ease tensions. Good old US Army, the grand appeasers. Lets go fight a war but only if we don’t piss anybody off. Later it was discovered that the repairs were paid for out of the fund used to finance the ‘home guard’ – basically an Iraqi anti-insurgency police force. I’m sure somebody got a medal for this one too.
So the madness fills you up. Everybody can see it but nothing is said or done. The army guys can’t question it. They’re not programmed to think but they want to. Sometimes they even think that they can think, but that’s just the programming talking. You can see it in their eyes. They are begging to complain about shit, to call people out on stupid actions, to actually have an opinion of their own. They look at you begging, pleading, praying that you walk over and say “hey dude, what’s the deal with this?” so that they can confess their sins. Confess their deepest feelings, their fears, their resentments. They all know, somewhere deep down, that they are totally fucked up. Every aspect of their lives a farce. Their mission here a pathetic joke. Their youth and patriotism squandered, thrown away, utterly destroyed for nothing at all – all the while watching tax payers money rebuilding mosques that were blown up by insurgents and we took the blame for. And still they say nothing. Wake up you assholes… But its no use. “I am awake. I am aware. I am conscious. I am self determined.” It’s all just programming. Go buy another Hard Rock Café Baghdad t-shirt you robot, these are not the droids you’re looking for.
So I am embalmed in this madness. My guts are removed and the madness is used to pickle the empty space where they used to be. Your brain can’t exist in a situation like this for an extended period of time without making certain concessions. Making certain compromises that allow you to carry on, do your job, and not go completely insane. The compromise is that you just turn everything off. Flick it off like a switch. Turn the lights out so that you can’t see the horrors that are inches from your face. It’s the psychological equivalent to hiding under your covers. But if you don’t do it then the madness will swallow you up. But when I get short the covers come down and I revel in the wretched madness until I finally escape.
You can think about it, talk about it, dream about it, and joke about it, but not until you wake up between Ambiens at 30,000 feet are you really on it. The freedom bird. I lurched around BIAP for two days like a zombie. Stomach queasy from lack of sleep and too much coffee. I was walking around totally numb-faced trying to just keep myself together long enough to get on the flight. Once you’re on the flight you can finally turn it off, turn off the alertness, turn off the give a shit, turn it all off for 20 hours until you hit DC and you’re free. I hang around my room but the bed starts looking too inviting, tiredly strip each piece of clothing and leave it in a pile on the floor. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for 2 days now and they are starting to become a part of me. I get into the narrow plastic box they call a shower. I turn on the hot water and the steam starts to fill the room. I press my palms on my temples and prop my head up with my elbows wedged against the white plastic walls. The hot water sprays directly onto my thinning crown. My breathing is labored and rumbles as the steam starts to break up the months of dust, dirt, and ash collected in my lungs. I cough some more, eyes water, I gag, and spit a long thick cord of saliva into the steam and hot water. I dry off, feeling tired all the way through my body. Put my dirty clothes back on and shuffle back to the kitchen for some more coffee. The plan being that if I can just stay awake until the flight then I’ll sleep unassisted for a few hours before I start popping pills. Its worked before but these flights are unpredictable and I always seem to get fucked by delays and fuck-ups along the way. I guess that’s just part of the fun. Fucking sucks.
mantra of a travel zombie:
20 hours in the air
20 hours here to there
20 hours and I don’t care
because I’m going home
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