Out of Ghraib Danger

Good morning, afternoon, or evening, depending on where you're located around the world. It's been some time since I've posted, and since most of you (my friends and family), who faithfully read this blog know that I am back in the U.S., I don't know how great the audience will be for this final blog entry. For those of you who are still reading, please say a prayer for Martha, Brian, Rob, Paul, Wayne, Mike, and Katie (my friends still in Iraq), and for all the other troops U.S. and Coalition who are still in country. May they all return home safely. I've been home now for almost a month. I've mostly settled back into the way things were before I left, but some things are still weird. Running water and soap (instead of disinfectant gel) and flushing toilets are no longer foreign. Driving, especially a non-armored vehicle, wearing civilian clothing, watching American cable television, and working normal office hours and getting weekends off have again become the norm. I am thankful for that, as I know my compadres will be when they return. It's back to the gym and work as normal with plenty of free time for my own endeavors. However, fresh memories are still evoked by the sound of helicopters, which are aplenty around Malmstrom, as they are always flying over the missile fields. And the other night, I don't know for what reason, but who I can only imagine were children, ignited some serious firecrackers near my window. They were extremely loud, and I was initially extremely jumpy. I think anyone would have been, but I'd also be less than honest if I said I didn't for a second there think I was back at Abu. But only for a second. I can tell you I don't like thinking about being there. I was only in country for 100 days, but they were 100 days of my life I'd rather not think about. From time to time I have second thoughts of emailing my friends who are either still in Iraq or who I know from Iraq, as I'd rather not think about that place and by remaining in contact with them I am forced to think about that place. But in the end, I always contact them; they are great people, and they are still over there. It may sound a little corny, actually I know it sounds a lot corny, but so long as they are still over there, a piece of me will remain over there with them. Any affects Iraq had on me are quickly wearing off, and with time the experience will completely come into a less edgy perspective, but not until those I served with are safely back home. So get home soon ladies and gentlemen.

Thank you all who supported us and me throughout my deployment. Support from home was definitely put into perspective for me. I never gave it much thought or proper estimation, but it means everything. A note from a loved one or a close personal friend means the world to a deployed troop. Even a note from a distant acquaintance means a great deal. Just knowing that someone is thinking of you back home and wishing you a safe journey home, and most importantly, creating the feeling that you are not alone. Thank you all for giving me that feeling. I rode it like a wave out of Iraq and back to the beautiful beaches of home. Thank you.

The Way Home

Good evening. For the first time since leaving the states back in May, I feel comfortable using time of day references. Prior to returning, there was always the inconsistency of being 10 hours removed from Montana, and "good evening" just never came across appropriately, as I was usually writing around 0730 hours ... take that back, at 7:30 am. I'm still weening myself from Army speak. Another day, and I should be all finished with Hooahs, DFACs, affirmatives/negatives, and the like. Anyway, good evening. I'm finally back in the states. I've actually been back since Thursday afternoon, but I stayed in Baltimore for a few days and have been removed from a computer. I just now arrived back in Montana and back to email. However, I am taking solemn comfort in the fact that I no longer use the email domain "iraq.centcom.mil." So I don't know what I expected return travel to be any less eventful or adventuresome than my deployment up to that point. Perhaps because I had redeployment (as the Army calls it) planned out 45 days in advance, I just assumed that things would go smoothly. I apparently forgot I was in Iraq, and nothing goes smoothly in Iraq. Nothing. Our return trip began at BIAP, where Tim, Sean, and I waited in the hanger for our flight for almost 22 hours. Eventually I had to succomb to sleeping on a dusty floor, I was so damned tired. After 22 hours of waiting, we got ready for our C-130 trip out of Baghdad. We all proceed to gear up in flak vests and Kevlar (helmets) for our trip to Kuwait City. The first several minutes of the flight are usually the most "exciting," for lack of a better word, as we're leaving the city and God only knows who's out there with what weapons wanting to and with the ability to take a pot shot on our aircraft. But we eventually get enough altitude where anxiety gives way to relief. The helmets come off and we begin the chit-chat and joking, as much as possible over the roar of the engines. Unlike commercial aircraft, military aircraft, much like military vehicles, do not come with proper upholstery and paneling to deaden sound. Both are chalked with bare metal and exposed wiring and piping. Noise is not stifled in the least, and the four engines of a C-130 are loud. But we manage. And we're shooting the shit over the roar, others are sleeping, when all of a sudden, and I mean all of sudden, like out of no where, like completely off guard, like no one on the plane had any earthly idea that what I'm about to describe was about to occur. The plane takes a hard dive left. I would guess the dive was at least done at a 60 degree angle. Everyone's stomach was in their throat. It was much worse than any roller coaster I've ever experienced, and I've been to Sand Point in Ohio. Needless to say everyone's scrambling to redon their helmets and grab the netting to hold on for whatever was coming next. Generally, when a pilot takes evasive maneuvers like that, he or she, is doing so to ... suprise ... be evasive, i.e., evading a rocket. That's what I and many others assumed it was, so naturally we assumed there'd be others, so we all braced ourselves for whatever came. All the while, those of us who were going home, which was most everyone on the plane, was quietly thinking to him/herself, how much it would suck, and I suppose how ironic it would be, to go down on the flight home. The good news was there's no bodies of water between Baghdad and Kuwait, and the news was good because there were no flotation devices on the plane. Anyway, nothing more than the initial dive occured, and the remainder of the flight was unevently, thank God. Uneventful except for the fact that I suffered from residual nasea the entire remainder. Other troops had actually asked for a barf bag.

An interesting flight to Kuwait, to be followed by an even more interesting next 48 hours lugging four bags each from Kuwait (the Army side) to the Air force side, waiting another 22 hours, and then flying (in the middle seat) to Italy, then to Germany, then to Baltimore. It took us three days to get from Baghdad to Kuwait, which is maybe 500 miles away, and then we flew, in a single day, from Kuwait City to Baltimore, probably 8,000 miles away. Such a crazy situation. Needless to say, it's nice to be home.

I cannot thank you enough for all of you who supported us through deployment. Martha and the other paralegals are still at Abu and will be for the next 6 weeks. Please pray for them as you did for me. I can't thank you enough. If any of you ever needs anything, and I mean anything, you need only say the word, and I'll make myself available.

(This is for my sister) Walsh out.

Starting to Feel Real

I turned in my IBA today. For those of you who don't remember, that's Individual Body Armor. I've been wearing it everywhere I go for the past 3 months. Again as a memory refresher, it adds 55+ pounds pounds to every step. I'm definitely filing a claim for spinal compression when I get back. (Actually, for you government types reading this, I'm just joking ... unless my back really is screwed up, then I'm not joking.) So I've been in Victory for a couple of days now, and I'm slowly making my way back into the real world. There is in-door plumbing (I'm sure I've already made a few of the males angry here at the Victory office as I'm still not used to flushing), coffee shops, finished rooms (you know with small things ... like dry wall), and of course, no IBAs. The last one is my favorite; although a close second is the first. Just between you and me, even though I have running water in the office, I still use the port-o-potties from time to time for old time sake. Speaking of which, I was talking with my friend Katie today about my affinity for water closets after having been in Abu for so long. We were joking that I'll be going to college football games and instead of getting in and out of them as quickly as possible, I'll be in there reading the paper and taking my own sweet time, just like my morning constitutional at Abu Ghraib. Back to the no IBA. Today I began dismantling my IBA, removing my ammo holders and utility pockets and clips. It is now solely an IBA and nothing more. I took it over to AF supply and they crossed my name off the list as they accepted it back into their inventory. I admit, I was a little saddened. My IBA was with me everyday for my entire time here in Iraq. I don't know if I have it to blame to my safety, but I felt safe wearing it. In fact, you definitely get a feeling of nakedness the first time you walk around outside without it for any extended period of time. The point is turning in my IBA was a real first step toward getting home. It means no more convoys and no more traveling in Iraq. You can't travel here without your IBA. The only travel I have left is for home. Today, the prospect of home, for the first time since my arrival, started to feel real.

Derek's Homecoming

Every morning (and no I'm not going to start this story off with how I'm currently listening to my daily dose of Miss Jones) for the past 3 weeks I've brought Derek back breakfast to go. Actually, I would bring Derek all three meals a day for the past 20 days. Since he hurt his knee he obviously hasn't been as mobile. Grabbing an extra meal has just become another part of the daily routine over here. So much so that on the few, few times that Derek has been driven to chow to eat with us, I would still instinctively grab two sets of silverware and a grab-n-go box preparing for the meal that I later realized I would not have to get this trip. On those occasions it was nice not having to get an extra meal because that meant that Derek had once again graced our presence at the dining table. And for those of you who don't know Derek, he's great for commentary, conversation, and comedy. So you can see why he'd been missed during those down periods of the day. Anyway, today was one of those rare times in the last few weeks when I didn't have to get Derek a meal. Unfortunately, however, it wasn't because Derek wasn't eating with us. Derek left for home yesterday. He should be back in the US before the week's end. Definitely a sad for the Magistate Office and for the FOB in general. He's been a fixture here for 6 months and certainly the entire time I've been here. And it's always sad to see good people go. That said, it's always wonderful to see anyone not from here go from here. It's nice to know that people do leave and go home from this place. Plus, it's just one more step in the direction of others returning home. I guess this is a little tribute to Derek Mills, a thank you for getting all of us a little closer to our out date. And a congratulations that he got his. Derek, I hope to see you at the Tennessee game.

Update from Abu

Has it been five days already since my last post. Time is really starting to pick up here. It's amazing what a little diversity can do for you. Generally everyday seems exactly like the previous. I walk the same route, I eat in the same place (and generally the same meal, there's not much to choose from and the "fallback" meals are becoming more and more common the more I eat at the exalted DFAC, which is bad because although my "fallback" meal used to be healthy turkey sandwich, over the last few weeks it's become a cheeseburger. And since we're on the topic of health, I also used to avoid the Baskin Robbins like the plague because well, it's tasty, but, and I'm not a dietician, I don't think it's all that healthy, especially the mint chocolate chip which is my favorite, but I'm sure my mother's reading this thinking I'm crazy because she believes it tastes like medicine, but I love it. However, I do get concerned with its color. I'm pretty sure martian green is not the natural shade of dairy product. I could be wrong, but I have to think there's something artificial in there. Bottomline I'm sure it's horrible for you, and what used to be a splurge has also become a staple. So there it is, my diet as of recent, cheeseburgers and mint chocolate chip. If only I had a margarita or just a beer. But I seriously digress.). I believe I was talking about every day being just like the previous. Everyone wearing the same uniform ... well you get my drift. A lot like the movie Ground Hog Day with Bill Murry. I really feel sometimes like I relive every day since the scenery never changes. The odd part is when I really think about it, it's not that much different from being back in Great Falls, Montana. Everyday there is pretty much the same as the one before it. But there is the difference of there I can drive to Helena without having to take a convoy and avoid IEDs. But that is a funny thought, imagining what a convoy of Honda Accords must look like, with .50 cal gunners on top driving down a U.S. interstate. Anyway, time's been moving fast lately because there've been so many different things going on. Rob is back in the States with his family so that's great for him. He's been missed dearly. But I suppose his wife and kids trump his family at Abu. Plus he has been here for 9 months, longer than anyone else on the FOB. Basically, Rob is like Morgan Freeman's character in Shawshank Redemption, he's the "Guy Who Can Get You Things." The ironic part is his ability to do so also occurs in a maximum security prison. So Rob's at home, and I'm covering for him. I really didn't know his shoes were so big or that he wore so many hats. I'm being pulled in a million different directions. But it's fun because it passes time. He meets with Iraqi dignitaries and generals and pretty much anyone else who visits, since he is the official SJA (Staff Judge Advocate) for the FOB. Also, we have a new Major visiting to help with the backlog of cases quickly becoming a frontlog of cases at the CCCI. That's a huge help for our own process. But he's also out at the camps quite a bit and I go with him. I've been out to the camps much more in the previous 48 hours than in the previous 48 days. It's a whole new world getting up close and personal with the detainees, but that's a horse of a different color. So the office pace has picked up considerably. In addition to Rob, we have two paralegals out, so the attorneys are helping to pick up that slack, and we're all running hither and thither to keep this place up and running while implementing new and better ways of doing things. As a wonderful byproduct, all the work is keeping us so busy time is really starting to fly now. I'll be home in, and by home I mean the U.S., in exactly 27 days. Until then, take care.

Not Quite the Garden

I just got in to work from breakfast at the DFAC. While I was there it dawned on me that the DFAC really takes on a life of its own here on the FOB. I don't know how it is in other places around Iraq, but at FOB Abu Ghraib there is really nothing to do but go to work, go to meal, and go to bed. This place is not big, if I were to guess, I'd say it's not even 2 miles all the way around the inside wall of the FOB. And the path my daily route takes me is much, much smaller than that. I'd guestimate, but my trigonometrical skills to convert the area of a triangle are failing me right now. I definitely should have paid more attention to math in high school and college. But hey, that's why I became a lawyer. Anyway, my daily path from the LSA to work, from work to the DFAC and back, and from work back to the LSA is definitely not even a quarter of a mile for each leg. And since laundry and the gym are next to where I live I don't get any new experience from traveling to those places. So my basic existence is a small triangular walk between my bed, my desk, and my meals. My bed is okay. I don't have air conditioning, so that sucks. But those around me do, so my place stays fairly cool, and by that I mean my room doesn't get above 90 degrees during the night. Anyway, it's a cot, so the sleep is not all that great. But the DFAC, now that is a different story.

The DFAC has become a sanctuary. It's the one place on the FOB that is completely comfortable with A/C always blasting at 1,000%. It's full of friendly faces, and it's where everyone absorbs their television/CNN quota for the day. I say absorbs because most people are too busy eating and talking and resting and lapping up the cold to really watch the television, but it just feels good to have a television on in the background. Brings back a miniscule sense of home, like when you're getting ready in the morning for work and the news or whatever is always in the background. You're not really watching it as much as absoring it's effect, which is soothing, at least to Americans. It's funny to watch the HCNs (Host Country Nationals (Iraqis)) and TCNs (Third Country Nationals) watch the movies they sometimes show in the chow hall. For example, one time they showed the movie Rundown with the Rock. I don't know if you've seen it, but the opening scene is a violent fight where of course the Rock kicks the crap out of an entire NFL starting lineup. A bit far-fetched, but certainly Hollywood worthy. Every non-American eye in the place was glued to the television like they were watching a real fight. They definitely get into the movies.

And of course the DFAC is the one place on the FOB to satiate your most basic instinct, get food. It's really the FOB's Garden of Eden. You don't have to do any work. There are no working lunches in the DFAC. It's just a place to sit and enjoy the feeling of maximum comfort and security among friends. And of course free Red Bull and free Baskin Robbins. By the way I've been meaning to ask, as I've been out of the loop for some time now, has Baskin Robbins changed their slogan from "31" to "4 Flavors?" Because that's all they seem to be serving here.

A Tribute to Doc and Mike

Hands down the best aspect of the FOB is the sense of camaraderie among everyone, troops and civilians alike. Difficult conditions and the daunting environment have a way of molding people together, rather quickly. We all know we're all in this together, and knowing that we do what we can for each other. It's a great feeling. My point is Norman Rockwell would be proud to know that the sense of small towness and teamwork he created so well in his paintings is alive and well on the FOB. Our office is a microcosm of that attitude. I've only known the people in this office for a little over two months, but already I feel like I've known them for years. You get to quickly know about their families, their pasts, and their ideas for the future when you spend every waking moment among them. Today our small town got a little smaller when two of our three interpreters were moved without warning or notice to the Embassy in the International Zone. Doc and Mike (His name's not really Mike, but that's the American name he and Rob agreed they'd call him. One of the other interpreters asked to have the American name Antonio. Don't ask me why, because I have absolutely no idea. Maybe he's seen too many Antonio Banderas movies.) were interpreters here for almost a year, and they were like a rock on this place. Everyone new them and they new everyone. Mike was a pretty quiet guy with a hard background, much like Al, the gentlement I wrote about before. But he had a great personality, they both did, and added a lot to the office. Doc was just a character. And that's really the best way to explain him, an absolute caracature. He loved ping-pong (and I'm finding most Middle Eastern men do) and backgammon (again another ME favorite). He loved being the best at any cost at any stretch of truth. One time we got a new guy in the office and doc was bragging about his ping pong, so the new guy asked him, "Doc who's the best ping-pong player?" Doc: "I am the best." (You have to picture all doc's responses are in broken, accented English, which make them probably funnier than they are.) But Derek is also a very good PP player, and so as Doc said he was the best I asked him, "Doc have you ever beaten Derek?" Doc: "No, but I am the best after Derek." That dialogue still makes me laugh out loud. Another time, Doc was playing Derek in darts. Doc beat Derek and was bragging for days. We all had the best laugh at Doc's false bravado as Doc never once conceeded that the only reason he won was because he was standing 2 feet from the dart board to Derek's 10 feet. He's just funny. They both were, and good guys to have around. And when people like that have been around for so long, you just get to know them as always having been here and blindly assume they'll always be around. But they both wanted the Embassy and they got it, all within about a 6 hour period. It was a tough blow to the office, but I wish them the best, and they'll be missed, if for no other reason that they were a big source of our jest.

"Welcome to Abu Ghraib"

Those were words uttered by Sgt Royal, welcoming a US convoy to the FOB, but more significantly, welcoming a US convoy to the relative safety and comforts courtesy of the US military protection. Sgt Royal works at the FOB gate. I met him yesterday. Like all of the other soldiers here, he is not a hardened, special op-trained, gun-wielding machine. None of them are. Unless you know the soldiers or work with them, at least this held true for me when I was back in the States, I was under the perception that soldiers are beyond human. That they are people somehow bred for soldier work. They don't have to sleep as much, eat as much, or enjoy life as much as the ordinary person. That they are machines. Maybe this is all a bit melodramatic, but even now, I see the soldier on the wall or who goes out on patrol as comicbook-like supermen. And to a great extent they are. They are courageous, brave, and possess and unbending sense of duty. But they also bleed, hurt, and feel sorrow like ordinary men. Most people over here are from the National Guard or the Reserve; ordinary people who up to a year ago were leading ordinary lives, when Uncle Sam came calling. And Sgt Royal and company are now over in Iraq standing on walls and guarding gates. While his wife and three children are back in the states. His kids are beautiful by the way, he showed me pictures.

Now those ordinary people are over here being asked to do extraordinary things, like go out on patrol. The sad thing about this country is, that it's completely been taken hostage by terrorism. I don't have specific numbers, but I would guess that 90% or more of the people just want to go about their daily lives and are fighting as well for their safety, while the other 10% are conducting a very, to say the least, disruptive insurgency. Becausee of those 10% you really can't trust 100% of the people. Trying to conduct operations with a people you don't even trust is not an easy task. The point is, going out on patrol or anytime you leave a military compound, it is dangerous and you always have to be on your A game so to speak to be cautious of anything and everything. I may have mentioned this before in an earlier blog, I'm beginning to forget what I've written and what I haven't, and I'm way too lazy to go back through them. But if you've ever seen the movie The Matrix, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. The Agents in that movie were the "bad" guys, and they could be anyone and everyone at once. And so it feels here. The lady plowing the field, because the women do all the farming work and I'm not really sure what the men do, could be a simple plowwomen, or she could be a spotter for an a rocket attack. The road-side bystander could be just walking down the road, like so many people do, or he could be the triggerman for an IED. You just never know. And with the dishdashas you don't know who has weapons and who doesn't.

So I was at the gate yesterday when Sgt Royal welcomed an incoming patrol. Pretty much everyone on the patrol looked like they has just started to shave. You could see the relaxation and happiness in their faces just to get to a familiary and "safe" and "comfortable" place like FOB Abu Ghraib. And Sgt Royal was so nice about it. I've been out to the gates before, and I have not heard anyone welcome a patrol or convoy. Sgt Royal stands in the head all day at a tower viewing the same view for 12 hours everyday, knowing his family is back in the states and that he still has many, many months to go, and he still has the kindness and courtesy to welcome troops to the FOB. It was nice to see that though this place may bend our troops, it cannot break them, not mentally. I know the troops coming in enjoyed the welcome. The gunner of the first gun-truck smiled about a big a smile as I've ever seen. Some of it was in jest, undoubtedly at the thought of being welcomed and feeling welcomed at a prison, but most of the smile was sincere because he no doubt felt sincerely welcomed back to the safety of the FOB.

So I've just realized that I have been writing some melancholy stories lately. So I'll try to think of some more light-hearted ones. Fun and funny things definitely happen here all the time, I just haven't written any down in a while. I'll make that a point. I hope you all are doing well.

Alone Time

It's almost 11:00 pm. I'm still at the office. It's still well over 100 degrees outside. I'm eating beef jerkey and listening to Norah Jones. Derek and I have already decided we're going to have write her a letter thanking her for helping us through our deployment. If she only knew. But that's a story for another time. I'm sitting here trying to decide whether this time is helpful or hurtful. I love the mornings and evenings for their quiet and solitude. And for the weather. Mornings are the only true reprieves from the heat. Believe it or not it cools down here to around 85, pretty nice compared to 120. The water in the water buffaloes (the stationary machines we use as personal water suppliers not the animals) has actually cooled to a comfortable temperature. I can walk outside in the morning and feel a tiny, tiny chill in the air and sweat doesn't instantly form on my brow. It's nice; it's actually pleasant. Every morning without fail, mostly due to the weather and not so much to the armored humvees populating the motor pool outside my room, I feel the desire to run to the nearest coffee shop and pick up a hot, dark cup of java and a newspaper, sit outside and just enjoy the morning. Then I remember the nearest Starbucks is probably in Greece, and I can't remember the last time I read a newspaper. Anyway, the mornings are nice, and tonight, as with most nights, is beautiful. It's still hot and remains hot for most of the night, until probably around 3:00 am. But the stars out in full force, and I'm happy to report the big dipper looks the same from Iraq as it does from Kansas and Montana. But I had a point, which was the mornings and evenings are enjoyable for their quiet and solitude as well as for their natural environment. As you can imagine, around here resources are scarce. Office space and residences are at a premium, and if they're not super small, they're double-booked. Everyone is on top of everyone else, and the small reprieves that accompany the early morning and late night are welcome. However, they also open the door for thought, and when your mind turns to that, thoughts of home are not far behind. I've found that thinking about going home doesn't make the time go by any faster. I often wonder whether anyone around here, myself included, really needs to work as hard as they do, or if they do it because there's nothing else to do, and more significantly, they wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise. When I hit the rack it's because my body is running on empty, and I can't stay up any later. I sleep from fatigue, not because I'm tired. Ask anyone around here, and they'll tell you they're tired most of the day if not the entire day. No one gets as good of rest as they think, even if they think they do. There's always sub-surface stressors at work, usually danger and home. Those two things are always on everyone's mind. And when you stop to think of either, time goes a little slow, and this place gets a little harder. Don't get me wrong, time to think is great. You can think on all the wonderful support you have at home, all the love waiting for you when you return. All the things you want to do when you get back, and that you'll never take anything for granted because you're so lucky to even be from America. However, you are also thinking that you can't do any of those things right now, that you miss your family, that you can't quite experience that love waiting for you, because you're not in America. Alone time is just another obstacle presented by this place. Another step to take on the journey home. Now I'm going to bed so I'll be one day closer to going home.

Iraqi Duststorm

Thought I'd share some pictures that one of the paralegals took of the FOB during a duststorm and on a "normal" day, because there are no normal days around here. He took the pictures from the same location and at the same time of day. This is what happens when even a little wind comes in contact with a seemingly endless supply of baby-powder fine dust.

Something Beautiful

Walking back from chow this morning surrounded by brown and gray and sand as far as the eye could see, which wasn't far, as I was tromping through dust storm number too many to count, I couldn't wait to get to work and hear Norah Jones. Derek and I begin every morning, without fail, much to the chagrin of our co-workers, to both of Norah Jones' albums ... the entire albums. Her voice is beautiful and lightens even this place. That got me thinking, which is dangerous I know. Nonetheless, if you look around the FOB you see the best pictures of home, families when they're most happy, pictures of half-naked women are everywhere, maxim magazine and FHM are huge sellers, as are pictures of mountains and other beautiful landscapes. When I first got here, I dismissed a lot of it as meaningless lockerroom antics, the population here is afterall around 90% men. But today it all reminded me of a line from Beautiful Girls, my favorite movie, where Mo tells Willys, "We all want something beautiful." The same sentiment rings absolutely true for everyone over here. In a world of drab browns and grays, ugliness, bars and walls, we all want to find something beautiful. I know that at least for me, I try to find it here locally as well. I don't want to paint a picture that this place is Dante's 9th ring of hell. It's not, it's more like his 2nd ring. Actually, I've seen parts of the city that are beautiful, and you know in their prime were wonderful places to visit. The interpreters tell me that Baghdad had a mini-rennaisance in the late '70s, and this place was like our Roaring '20s. I believe it. You can see that this place was once great, and perhaps, that makes it all the more depressing. To know that this was not just some distant empire, like Rome, but that this place was great recently and has fallen so quickly. I'm told places up north, around Mosul are absolutely breathtaking, surrounded by mountains and lakes and growth. I wish I could see it. Unfortunately, our situation is not that conducive to sight-seeing, and we are stuck with our immediate surroundings, which as I've previously discussed, are not that plush. So in the closed universe in which we live, we all are constantly looking for something beautiful. Or maybe I'm just writing this attempting to justify the Maxim Magazines on my floor and the Jessica Simpson Dukes of Hazards poster on my wall.

The Little Things

This is a picture of Abu Ghraib's newest bar & grill. Well, actually, it's Abu's only bar & grill. Well, actually, it's not really a bar & grill at all. Up until about a month ago, it was just the wall to another living quarters with a hole in it that acted as a doorway. There are a group of guys who work at the hardsite, which is Abu's old hard-structured prison. The coalition detainee camps are tent-centric structures surrounded by razor wire and fencing. They are "soft" sites. The hardsite is Saddam's old walled and barred prison, and trust me when I say it makes any American jail/prison pale in comparison. Well, the hardsite is where PFC England and company had a little too much fun. But I digress. The hardsite is now run by the new Iraq Government and confines all convicted prisoners. Our detainees who are convicted at the CCCI (and if you don't remember what that means you're going to have to scroll quite a way down) are transferred to Iraqi control at the hardsite. The Iraqis have hired American contractors to run their hardsite. They are all people from the U.S., some former military, but mostly just work in the U.S. prison system. There is one guy who works there who used to work at Fort Leveanworth, at the federal military penetentiary. Those guys in the pictured hole-in-the-wall. They are easily the coolest guys on the FOB, in fact, in our infinite creativity here at the Magistrate Office, that's what we call them, The-Coolest-Guys-On-The-FOB. As holders of that title, they couldn't sit long living in just a hole in the wall. So it slowly began to evolve into the bar & grill you see today. The matting came out to cover the sand. Chairs began popping up in ones and twos. A remodeled 55-gallon drum showed up one day as a grill. And of course some shade was needed for bar-b-ques, and presto, a cammo net. Then tonight, an iPod with speakers made its way outside for one hell of a barbeque. Now, I know they were just shitty probably-not-even-meat burgers from the chow hall, but they tasted like the greatest grilled cheeseburgers I've ever eaten. You don't have much here on the FOB, so when you can experience something from home, anything, you grab onto it. There's a golf net here that Derek and I use from time to time. There's the near beer I'll sip every now and then. And there's a budget movie theatre that's I think a sheet on the wall, but the movies are near new and you at least get some semblence of the feel of a theatre. The little things really hit me last night watching "Sideways" with Rob and Derek. We sat watching this movie about wine-drinking and road-tripping with two beautiful women through California's physically beautiful wine-country. We watched this all from a country where you can't even drive a car, greenery is replaced by dry, baby-powder sand, walls, bars, little mobility, amor and ugliness, and definitely no wine and definitely no Virginia Madsens or Sandra Ohs. This has definitely been an experience worth the perspective. I know that I'll no doubt get home and time will pass and I'll jump right back into my ways of taking American amenities for granted, but I will always appreciate not being able to take the little things for granted. So much so that I won't take any of the little things for granted until at least a week after I get home.

New Photos

I thought I'd post some new photos. There are many more to come. Take care, All, and thank you for your wonderful support. Martha and I both thank you.

GOOD LUCK!!!

Everyone please wish my brother luck. He's taking the bar exam next Tuesday and Wednesday. He's been studying all summer for it, and next week sits to knock it out. Good luck, Matthew!

Losing It

A soldier died today. Many soldiers died today in Iraq, Afghanistan, and soldiers from other countries in other locations. But the specific soldier I speak of died in the courtyard our office shares with the FOB hospital. This afternoon, while processing files because we're always processing files, we all heard an explosion, ... a loud explosion, the second loudest explosion I've heard since I've been here. It was definitely not one of ours. You can tell our explosions from those use against our soldiers. Ours are crisp, timed, synchronized, intentional, purposeful, but mostly, they're simply clean. You may think it strange that sound would carry these characteristics, but clean is all of them, the sound of something that operationally sound, as if all it's parts were constructed to perform the specific task to which they are now being employed. Enemy explosives sound much like they are made, from home wiring, household electronics, crude and undistilled oil products, dusty and dirty components. Much like everything else I write about from Iraq, you really have to experience it to know it. Enemy explosions just sound evil. I'm not going for the dramatic flare, the sound of a make-shift, homemade IED sounds like evil. The explosion we all heard this afternoon certainly sounded evil. And all you can do is sit there and hope no one was hurt, and especially that no US troop was hurt. Shortly afterward we heard the helicopters moving into the FOB, never a good sign after an explosion, since that usually signals medical evacuation. Come to find out that that was the case here. My friend saw one of the doctors standing outside waiting for the choppers. Rich, my friend, said the doctor appeared "to almost lose it" as he recounted for Rich how the helicopters had arrived quickly, but not quickly enough. A US soldier had been hit by the IED that resounded evil. And he died before the med evac could get him to surgery. Doctors do this on much too frequent a basis around here.

Turns out the hospital chaplain, a priest, was present to administer final absolution. The soldier was Catholic. The priest mentioned this in tonight's Saturday night vigil mass. We prayed for the soldier whose life was prematurely taken. Even I find time for mass in a war zone. During the prayers for petition the nurse who was reading them was reading the final that said "Lord, pray for all us men and women serving in the military over seas that You return us safely home to our families." She only got the word "seas" before she was too choked up to cry. There was a long pause before she could finish. For a few seconds, she lost it. I think we all do here from time to time. I know I have. Not to the point of tears, but that point, I know, hovers beneath the surface.

Sorry for the sullen story. This if life on the FOB.

New Definitions

Good morning everyone. It's 7:55 am here, 10:14 pm central time. A quick weather update, it's officially hot as hell. Yesterday's high, in the sun, 128 degrees, and the low, I was told, was 86 degrees. However, I don't know at what part of the day it actually gets that low, because last night at 11:14 pm I checked the thermostat that you reach before walking upstairs to our living area and it was 104 degrees. No shit, it was over a hundred and almost midnight. Unbelievable. Oh, and it's been sandy.

There has been continuous sand storms over the past couple of weeks. The sand here is as fine as baby powder and blows up at a moments notice at the slightest movement of wind. One night my friend Derek and I were walking back to the hooch, and it was night so we couldn't really see much on the walk home, but around the LSA is lighted, and just from walking and talking through a mild sand storm on the way home which is probably 4 minutes at the most, a film of brown had built up on Derek's teeth. This place is crazy. It still seems so surreal that I'm even here. The worst part is you know you're breathing it in. Because the sand appears innocuous enough. It just looks like a little fog has rolled in. Sometimes visibility is not that bad, and sometimes you can't see more than 25 yards. But it's so fine, at first blush, it's easily mistaken for fog. Except when you start coughing and sneezing later and your mucous is disgusting dark colors, and you know you haven't been smoking because I'll get to that later, you know you've been breathing fine sand particles. But that's only been of late, usually, in the morning, it is actually beautiful. I generally get up at 6:00 am everyday, and at that hour, the sky is blue, there's a crisp feeling in the air, and the smell of shit and Iraq that usually inundates this place always seems to have blown away overnight. Needless to say, it's my favorite part of everyday. Normally, I'd sit outside for a while, read the paper, and have a cup of coffee, but as things stand here, I put on long pants and shirts and 60 pounds of IBA and weapons and helmet and walk to work for my morning emails and a Red Bull. My new definition of a normal day.

Your definition of normal completely changes. We were heading to chow the other day, and as we walked out into the courtyard of where we work, and I say "courtyard," but please don't let the pleasant or even exotic nature of that word fool you, our courtyard is composed of gravel to keep the sand down (for "dust abatement") over about half a football field area with about half a dozen gurneys always at the ready, a dozen port-o-potties and two shower trailers all strategically surrounded with blast barriers, so it's not quite the garden of eden courtyard I envision it will be everytime I walk out our building's front door only to be sorely disappointed again. So we walk out into the courtyard, and there was a "normal" four-door sedan. On most any other day and in most any other place the vehicle would have been as normal as a civilian dressing in civilian clothing. It may as well have been an Accord in any major city. But Abu Ghraib circa 2005 is no normal place or time. On the FOB that car stuck out like a sore thumb. It was just a strange sight for us to see a vehicle that wasn't tactically designed and shrouded in armor. Even the SUVs on the FOB, when you get inside them, are armor reinforced. Everything mobile around, with the exception of the occasional four-wheeler, is armored and tactical. We have tanks, bradleys, humvees, and so many other military vehicles that have weird DoD letter-number names that I certainly don't know. Anyway, it is funny to me that it was just so strange to see what is a perfectly normal and ordinary looking vehicle appearing so out of the ordinary in this place.

Another situation, that isn't really a new definition as much as an obsolete one is the "social smoker." Derek and Rob pointed out the other day that you don't see any social smokers here on the FOB. And I hadn't thought about, because people are frequently seen smoking in groups around here, but the fact of the matter is they aren't smoking to be social, they are smoking because either this place has driven them to or more likely they already smoked, but this place has driven them to smoke more and they just happen to be smoking at the same time in the same place. As I'm sure you all know, there is the social smoker and then there is the real smoker. In college, law school, and even since, you always meet people who will blaze in the midst of company, but have no desire by themselves. Social smoking is usually accompanied with fun times and a night on the town or in celebration of something. Well, there are no social smokers here. There are only real smokers who sometimes smoke together. Real smokers smoke for to alleviate stress, fear, or whatever other negative emotion or psychology this place is conducive to. There's that scene from the movie Airplane that's oft quoted around here, where the air traffic controller keeps making statements to like "I picked the wrong year to quit drinking," or everyone's favorite "I picked the wrong year to quit sniffing glue." It's unanimous on the FOB that you can come here not smoking and remain that way, but no one even pretends that they'll quit while they're here. I'll just keep my vices limited to Red Bull.

Take care everyone. David

Limited Vices

I don't know if I've previously mentioned this, but Abu Ghraib is not exactly Las Vegas. It's a place of limited means and certainly of limited vices. Of course drugs are not allowed, but also outlawed, much to my chagrin, is alcohol. I've already talked about my disdain for non-alcoholic beer so I won't readdress that here. I also know I've previously mentioned my delight in free Red Bull so I won't touch on that again. What I will mention, which involves alcohol-style drinking and free Red Bull, is my new vice. The new in-thing at the Magistrate Office: Shotgunning Red Bull. I don't think the shotgunning in and of itself performs a function beyond the stimulating function that Red Bull, traditionally drank, is supposed to provide. So maybe it's not a vice per se. But the shotgunning certainly adds that "frat" feel to an otherwise mundane activity in an otherwise mundane (if also 3rd world) environment.

Only the Good Words

Thank you all again for your support. The comments are great, and I enjoy reading them. They are the first thing I check for as soon as I get to work every morning. My sincere Thanks.

On another note I've discovered that the joy of learning the "naughty" words in another language is without limitation and appeals to people of all ages, races, nationalities, and gender, etc.... In our office we have a 50+ year old interpreter from the middle east. Apparently the lawyers' (and mostly mine) bad habits are rubbing off on him, as he loves dropping F-bombs. And it's so funny to see him when he does, because he thinks it's hilarious, laughing at himself and seeing how much we laugh, just encourges him to do it all the more. But we've created a monster, he walks around, "this fucking computer," "this fucking song," "this fucking whatever." Somehow he works the F word into one of every five sentences. And then he proceeds to laugh and laugh and laugh. As do we. It's nice to know not only am I working as a magistrate over here in detention ops, but I'm also acting as an ambassador of American culture. It reminds me of the scene from Top Gun when Goose flips off the Russian. We are simply keeping up foreign relations. And having fun doing it.

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY FROM ABU GHRAIB, IRAQ!!!

Happy Independence Day everyone! We didn't do much special here other than have our friday night fights moved up to tonight. It's not much, but it's entertainment, and everyone on the FOB loves them. We have boxing matches every Friday night. Anyone can join in, and it appears the more amateur the better. There's all types from fomer boxers to first timers, and the laughing and ooohs and aaahs rarely stop for the better part of three hours. And of course the National Anthem is sung and the flag saluted before any boxing begins. Usually it's played by CD player, but tonight it was sung live by another servicemember. It's very uplifting to see everyone in the crowd face our Nations colors and salute during the playing of our Anthem. I don't want to be cheesy, but sometimes over here cheesy is all you got. Tonight was moving to say the least. It was a little slice of home in a galaxy far, far away. Enjoy your holiday, and please, please have a beer for me. I'll have several for all of you upon my return!

Johnny Cochran is Turning in His Grave

So I told you that we went to the CCCI, the Central Criminal Court of Iraq, downtown. The legal process here is in a word: interesting. It is evidence based rather than charge based, like our American system. The way it operates is instead of evidence being admitted or denied at a trial based on a set charge, the evidence is admitted at a pre-trial investigative hearing. I personally observed a pre-trial investigative hearing, and I swear it was a scene from Miami Vice or from the Sopranos or something. It's a small office with leather couchers and a desk with an empty bookcase. There is a ceiling fan on the absolute lowest speed possible, more for decoration. It's hot and humid inside. The investigative "judge", who was smoking the entire time, basically sits and questions the defendant about the photos, diagrams, and statements provided by the US attorneys. A quick digression, unless you have photos, diagrams, or something else visual, don't even bother trying to bring it to court. Circumstantial evidence is as foreign to this place as this place is to me. You could have all the scientific data in the world pointing to the defendant, but unless it's somehow captured in a photo or drawn on a piece of paper, forget it ... they can't see that he didn't do it, so he must not have done it. It's crazy. What's even crazier is you don't have a right against self-incrimination. In fact, if you don't talk it's specifically held against you. I.e., if you don't explain yourself, then you must be guilty. So the way it works is our CCCI attorneys charge the defendant with a crime. Honestly it can be any crime, because it all shakes out according to the evidence. The Iraqi prosecutor, the investigative judge, the "trial" judges, and probably all their mothers have an opportunity to change the charge to better tailor it to the evidence admitted, i.e., presented, to ensure the conviction sticks. In the US, which is charge-centric, when you charge the defendant, with very limited exceptions, that charge stands and you must tailor the evidence to prove the charge. The Iraqi system of let-all-the-evidence-in-and-we'll-figure-out-what-to-charge-him-with-later invites a fishing expedition into everyone's life to try to find something to charge the guy with, a concept very foreign to modern US law. Anyway, so we're in this tiny room with the smoking judge like some back room scene from Sopranos and Tony's interrogating a rival. Because that's essentially what's going on in an investigative hearing, it's an interrogation. Not even the "defense counsel" plays along. Case in point: being a foreign fighter is a huge crime in Iraq. They don't want jihadists from Syria and Saudi Arabia coming into their country and starting shit. Anyway, the US is presenting evidence against an Egyptian foreign fighter at the investigative hearing, and as evidence, the JAG introduces a photocopy of the guy's Egyptian passport, to prove he's from another country. The guy denies that it's him in the picture, because it's a photocopy and there was an off chance it wasn't him. Well HIS defense counsel quickly cleared that up. He took the picture, examined it for a second, and looked straight at his defendant, and said in front of the judge, God, and everyone else, "Oh yeah, this is you." Apparently, even the Iraqi defense counsels don't like foreign fighters. So at the hearing all the evidence gets admitted into evidence. A report is generated in Arabic for the trial judges, a panel of three judges. The generation of the report happens later. There is about a month or so between the hearing and trial/sentencing. The trial lasts about 30 minutes, tops. All defendants are tried jointly, meaning if there was more than one person involved in the crime, then all involved are tried at the same time. And during trial they are kept in what looks like, and I'm not exaggerating in the least, a giant adult playpen or crib. It's a large wooden structure that is basically a cage for adults. In the trial I saw all three defendants were put in the crib, still in their orange jumpsuits ... because, let's be honest, I think any bias from their prison clothes is the last thing these guys have to worry about in front of an Iraqi court. Their crib is situated by the defense counsel, sitting directly across from the prosecutor, with the three judges sitting in between them and off to the side so everyone can see each other. At this point in the process, the CCCI attorneys have examined the evidence and decided what to charge the defendant with. The investigative judge has had further opportunity to examine the evidence, listen to the defendant's story, request more evidence, and retailor the charge to meet that. The prosecutor has also had this same opportunity. Now it's the judges turn. They also interrogate the defendants, without advice of their counsel, who is sitting about three feet away but doesn't seem to care or even to really do anything. After the question and answers, the judge sends everyone out of the room except the prosecutor. The defense must leave, but the prosecution and the three judges stay so the four of them can decide what the final charge should be in light of the evidence. They may even decide on a sentence together, who knows what's going on behind closed doors. After literally no more than five minutes, everyone is called back in, and the chief judge announces charge, verdict, and sentence. Johnny Cochran would not be impressed. It was interesting to say the least.