There is not much to do around here, but when you are in a deployed environment there is a real opportunity to see all of the myriad things the war machine does in theater. When times are slow, all of us supply a tour for other military who are here, but just do a different type of job; I have had 2 F-16 pilots shadow me during my shift thus far. Last week I was the highlight of my deployment.
After obtaining eye protection from the OR, and ear protection and some gloves from the helicopter pad, I boarded a MRAP and made my way to the home of the EOD (explosive and ordinance disposal) squadron about 1 mile away. From there, we traveled with our EOD crew onto the flight line. We stopped multiple times for FOD removal, and once for a landing F-16. On the far side of the runways there was a big open space and a large concrete bunker.
We parked adjacent to this bunker, and made our way, in small groups to 5 separate piles of ordinance, each with its own EOD instructor and large pile of C4. The mission of the day's controlled detonation was to destroy - read: incinerate - these materials. We were each given a stick of C4 plastic explosive, and tasked with designing C4 squirrels, balls, hearts or whatever the imagination led one to ply with the doughy explosive. Afterwards we staked the C4 around these expired munitions and enemy UXOs (unidenified ordinances), careful to assure that all of the C4 touched itself in order guarantee ignition of all of the explosive. I learned, among many other things, that C4, while explosive and powerful, was actually quite stable, and if not ignited directly via a power source or through direct contact with other previously lit C4, may not explode at all, even at the high temperatures of the blast. This was deemed quite undesirable of a result for the EOD experts as it may end up mandating that they search the blast radius for pieces of unexploded C4, which they obviously could not just leave lying around the flight line.
After the C4 was packed around each of the piles of munitions, the non-EOD "tourists" were escorted back to the bunker, while the experts placed the blasting caps, and ran over 100yds of wire back to the bunker where we all anxiously awaited. I was lucky enough to get to pull the lynch pin when the time came, and watch, in less than a second's time, a large explosion down range, followed nearly simultaneously with a thunderous boom, and subsequent smell of cordite. [Video and still photos pending].
When I returned to the hospital from my "field trip" to the controlled detonation, I was sad to know that a contractor, new to our base, jumped into a ditch when he heard the explosion as he had thought we were under attack. He was in the ER, safe from major injury, but undergoing a scalp repair from the gash served to him from the rock at the bottom of the ditch. This is not the way I aim to create business!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Being here [and too much philosophy]
The distaste, wonder and pungent idiosyncrasity lasted for a month or so. The subsequent month was spent establishing routine and interweaving into the system while attempting to improve the status quo. At this point, I am just here, living. I previously wrote of itinerate nature of this place. The perspective I mentioned, only tangentially, was that of the (dis)affected new old guard. Seeing people go has been a delight in some cases, and sad in others; however, the replacements have invisibly slid into place during the rejoice, or lamentation, over the departure of the old old guard. Now, nearly half of the people I am working with have been here for a shorter duration than I have. The tenor has changed; as so change policies, practice, and positions.
So that is another aspect of being here: its inherent mutability. Establishing, and re-establishing schedules and routines, fine tuning policies and compromising with a new wisdom from alternative background and style. Going from newbee to the new old guard. And part of this moniker comes with acceptance.
Just as Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' described stages of grief, the deployed soldier goes through a similar experiences. The shock is over, as is the anger, despair, and bargaining. A year, or even a half of a year is just too long to hold your breath or thrashing in battle. Now, it is acceptance. There is nowhere to go, and you have to live your life, no matter the current situation, as it is. My family adapting to being without me, and me, reciprocally, finding ways to live, with the exception of brief communications home, as an island. After 15 years with Kristina, it is hard to be an island - albeit with internet access - again. Melodrama, but it is what it is, and it is part of being here.
So that is another aspect of being here: its inherent mutability. Establishing, and re-establishing schedules and routines, fine tuning policies and compromising with a new wisdom from alternative background and style. Going from newbee to the new old guard. And part of this moniker comes with acceptance.
Just as Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' described stages of grief, the deployed soldier goes through a similar experiences. The shock is over, as is the anger, despair, and bargaining. A year, or even a half of a year is just too long to hold your breath or thrashing in battle. Now, it is acceptance. There is nowhere to go, and you have to live your life, no matter the current situation, as it is. My family adapting to being without me, and me, reciprocally, finding ways to live, with the exception of brief communications home, as an island. After 15 years with Kristina, it is hard to be an island - albeit with internet access - again. Melodrama, but it is what it is, and it is part of being here.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Another homage to India...
They say that the caste system in Inda is a thing of the past. It is tough to judge the voracity of this claim in the United States, where most of the Indian immigrants, historically, have been those of means, and heavily weighted of the Brahman caste - whether Gujarati, Bengali, or Punjabi. Most of the custodial work and service jobs here are conducted by some of the middle and lower eschelons of southwest Asia - not local Central Asians, for concerns of safety.
Many of the folks have been here for 5 years and never been home. They mop floors and clean the hospital for low wages, but the contracts are always vast improvements on their home salaries, were they to have them, and they eat for free here. I am not sure of the arrangement they have made for lodging, but I hope it is reasonable. All said, they make their nest eggs here, and send most of it home to children they never see for years at a time. Like sailors of the old age, or soldiers gone for a decade of battle, their lives are made away, to make better lives for their own at home.
Funny thing happens, however, when the simple Sri Lankan who mops the floor meets the Indian-American physician working here, seemingly the owner of the American dream. These workers maintain decorum and great respect for all of us, but they tend to keep a professional distance from me and most of the white/black/hispanic Americans. My Indian-American physician friends, however, they approach with a keen sense of brotherhood, or adoring-younger-brotherhood, if you will. They bring nightly curry dishes to these folks, and constantly ask what special favors can be done for them. They treat them respectfully, even honorifically. They provide easy access to the kitchen and supplies. Most curiously, they rely on their higher society Indian-American brethren for advice, and respect their words for true finality.
We had a contractor recently in the hospital for a heart condition, and I spent 2 days working with him, and explaining the disposition to he and his friend and boss, another Indian man, Rakesh, who had been dutifully at his bedside. Not 30 minutes after my last and most complete debriefing, one for which I was particularly proud of the logic and efficiency by which I had made a plan clear to the patient, I found Rakesh speaking with my Indian American physician friend and colleague. I found that curious, but was on my way to some other task so did not inquire just then. Before I had an opportunity to ask him why he was talking with the radiologist (after all, he had no radiographic studies at all), I had the chance of walking past a group of the Indian custodians talking together in mixed Hindi and English. All I could make out, at the end of a busy conversation was, "...and Dr. Raj will take care of this problem."
Speaking to my radiologist friend Raj later in the day, I was told that one of the custodians had brought Rakesh to him in order to get his care expedited as best as possible. At first I was incredulous, and a bit miffed, that I was circumvented on the disposition of my patient, and this man thought that the radiologist who is completely disconnected from this part of the patient care process could make it happen more efficiently or quicker.
I am not sure if this is a vestige from the caste system. And it does remind me of the way things work in New York City, especially among more recent immigrants, where the only way to get things done is to "know some guy." All I know for sure is that my buddy the radiologist is like a king to them.
Many of the folks have been here for 5 years and never been home. They mop floors and clean the hospital for low wages, but the contracts are always vast improvements on their home salaries, were they to have them, and they eat for free here. I am not sure of the arrangement they have made for lodging, but I hope it is reasonable. All said, they make their nest eggs here, and send most of it home to children they never see for years at a time. Like sailors of the old age, or soldiers gone for a decade of battle, their lives are made away, to make better lives for their own at home.
Funny thing happens, however, when the simple Sri Lankan who mops the floor meets the Indian-American physician working here, seemingly the owner of the American dream. These workers maintain decorum and great respect for all of us, but they tend to keep a professional distance from me and most of the white/black/hispanic Americans. My Indian-American physician friends, however, they approach with a keen sense of brotherhood, or adoring-younger-brotherhood, if you will. They bring nightly curry dishes to these folks, and constantly ask what special favors can be done for them. They treat them respectfully, even honorifically. They provide easy access to the kitchen and supplies. Most curiously, they rely on their higher society Indian-American brethren for advice, and respect their words for true finality.
We had a contractor recently in the hospital for a heart condition, and I spent 2 days working with him, and explaining the disposition to he and his friend and boss, another Indian man, Rakesh, who had been dutifully at his bedside. Not 30 minutes after my last and most complete debriefing, one for which I was particularly proud of the logic and efficiency by which I had made a plan clear to the patient, I found Rakesh speaking with my Indian American physician friend and colleague. I found that curious, but was on my way to some other task so did not inquire just then. Before I had an opportunity to ask him why he was talking with the radiologist (after all, he had no radiographic studies at all), I had the chance of walking past a group of the Indian custodians talking together in mixed Hindi and English. All I could make out, at the end of a busy conversation was, "...and Dr. Raj will take care of this problem."
Speaking to my radiologist friend Raj later in the day, I was told that one of the custodians had brought Rakesh to him in order to get his care expedited as best as possible. At first I was incredulous, and a bit miffed, that I was circumvented on the disposition of my patient, and this man thought that the radiologist who is completely disconnected from this part of the patient care process could make it happen more efficiently or quicker.
I am not sure if this is a vestige from the caste system. And it does remind me of the way things work in New York City, especially among more recent immigrants, where the only way to get things done is to "know some guy." All I know for sure is that my buddy the radiologist is like a king to them.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Fod glorious FOD
If you haven't been in, or associated with the military, you probably have never heard of FOD. But anywhere there are jet planes, and specifically, in dusty deployed locations, FOD (foreign objects and debris) is a big deal. The little pebbles and gravel which account for the great majority of the open spaces, roads and walkways around here are serious hazards for jet engines that can suck in the FOD when revving up for take off. The F-16s, of which there is a squad here, are particularly susceptible given the large thrust - ergo vacuum with respect to FOD - and short distance to the ground where the FOD lies. This is such a costly problem that there are people who write newsletters on FOD... ...really: http://www.fodnews.com/article0r.html
Approaching the flight line, and everytime after re-entry into the flight line, the wheels of the vehicle driving on the line need to be checked for pebbles and dirt between the treads. There are even special FOD tools, which look like dull box knives, made specifically for digging the FOD out of the tires. On really muddy days there are pressure washers to remove large amounts of mud and stones.
This seems like such a low tech problem for such a high tech piece of machinery, and it reminds me that our fancy technology's survival is fragile. Volcano dust or dirt runways can ground American's air fleet. Maybe there is wisdom to hanging on to some low-tech options to survive the natural disasters, EMPs or defense computer hackers.
Approaching the flight line, and everytime after re-entry into the flight line, the wheels of the vehicle driving on the line need to be checked for pebbles and dirt between the treads. There are even special FOD tools, which look like dull box knives, made specifically for digging the FOD out of the tires. On really muddy days there are pressure washers to remove large amounts of mud and stones.
This seems like such a low tech problem for such a high tech piece of machinery, and it reminds me that our fancy technology's survival is fragile. Volcano dust or dirt runways can ground American's air fleet. Maybe there is wisdom to hanging on to some low-tech options to survive the natural disasters, EMPs or defense computer hackers.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Inglourious Basterds
When the war began, and for some time after, the mission was to establish control of the country and neutralize the Ba'ath loyalists and insurgents. As US and coalition military bases grew to support this mission, they increasingly became targets for the enemy, and defenses were constructed appropriately. Fire upon the installations was retalliated against many fold, and the culprits were captured and held as enemy combatants, or tried by military tribunals and sentenced accordingly. Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay hit the headlines and things changed. The capture, confinement and care, and rendition, if applicable, of these types of criminals is now done in concert with defense forces of the host nation - both here and in Afghanistan. This means more paperwork, more legality, less efficiency, in the hopes that civil liberties - whatever of those are deserved by a terrorist - remain intact.
Uncommon are the top eschelon, coordinated military attacks against our installations. The import and movement of the weapons systems necessary to carry out these attacks has become extremely difficult, and the value of personnel capable of manning these complex systems have made attacks of this type very high risk. Instead, as alluded to earlier, single agents, armed with RPGs or small portable mortars sneak up to the fences, fire when in range, and slink back through the fields and disappear within the adjacent hamlets and cities. Our surveillance must be able to see these people on heat maps or in real time video. But in this era of extrication from Babylon, in which we must promote goodwill and avoid collateral injury and death at great cost, and when we must respect the autonomy of the host civil defences, the apprehension of these terrorists is never simple.
Politically speaking, coordination with Iraqi military and police is necessary to make our departure as seemless as possible, though this adds such inefficiency and bureaucracy. [Nevermind the estimates you read in Newsweek that 10% of the Iraqi military is working for al Qaeda in Iraq]. If, and this is a big "IF", the scoundrel is captured, there is the question of rendition. If American soldiers are injuried, or intended to be so by these attacks, logically, these terrorists should be turned over to Americans. It is not so simple here in this amorphous grey area (the mounting responsibility handed to the host nation as we leave this shithole behind). If the perpetrator is caught, his fate is determined by politics, not law. And if he is injured, he is treated for his wounds, here, without prejudice for his safety and for safekeeping.
I claim no firsthand knowledge of this scenario, but can imagine that actions as a physician here have brought life back to men, at one time or another, who may have wantonly launched those aimless RPG in hopes they would land atop the heads of some unprepared American soldier. We care for this person, free of bias; we also fix his chronic problems - a inguinal hernia, perhaps his cataracts - and we send him back to Baghdad where he may or may not stand trial among his peers for the launched RPG which deviously,and with cowardice, crashed upon 3 - and they always come in 3's - of my Sisters and Brothers. One who would be gone, one who would be maimed, and the other psychologically wrecked as a witness.
Uncommon are the top eschelon, coordinated military attacks against our installations. The import and movement of the weapons systems necessary to carry out these attacks has become extremely difficult, and the value of personnel capable of manning these complex systems have made attacks of this type very high risk. Instead, as alluded to earlier, single agents, armed with RPGs or small portable mortars sneak up to the fences, fire when in range, and slink back through the fields and disappear within the adjacent hamlets and cities. Our surveillance must be able to see these people on heat maps or in real time video. But in this era of extrication from Babylon, in which we must promote goodwill and avoid collateral injury and death at great cost, and when we must respect the autonomy of the host civil defences, the apprehension of these terrorists is never simple.
Politically speaking, coordination with Iraqi military and police is necessary to make our departure as seemless as possible, though this adds such inefficiency and bureaucracy. [Nevermind the estimates you read in Newsweek that 10% of the Iraqi military is working for al Qaeda in Iraq]. If, and this is a big "IF", the scoundrel is captured, there is the question of rendition. If American soldiers are injuried, or intended to be so by these attacks, logically, these terrorists should be turned over to Americans. It is not so simple here in this amorphous grey area (the mounting responsibility handed to the host nation as we leave this shithole behind). If the perpetrator is caught, his fate is determined by politics, not law. And if he is injured, he is treated for his wounds, here, without prejudice for his safety and for safekeeping.
I claim no firsthand knowledge of this scenario, but can imagine that actions as a physician here have brought life back to men, at one time or another, who may have wantonly launched those aimless RPG in hopes they would land atop the heads of some unprepared American soldier. We care for this person, free of bias; we also fix his chronic problems - a inguinal hernia, perhaps his cataracts - and we send him back to Baghdad where he may or may not stand trial among his peers for the launched RPG which deviously,and with cowardice, crashed upon 3 - and they always come in 3's - of my Sisters and Brothers. One who would be gone, one who would be maimed, and the other psychologically wrecked as a witness.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Musical Chairs
Unlike normal jobs, military jobs almost always have finite timelines. It is rare that anyone stays in the military in the same location for their entire career. This quality is hyperbolized in the deployed environment where no one stays for more than 12-15 months, and most everyone is only here for 3-6 months. To ebb the tide of constant orienting and for other reasons, most folks come and go on certain calendar rotational blocks. A small minority arrive between the blocks - most likely to avoid having entirely new staff at the same time.
We recently said goodbye to a large group of people in the hospital who were making their long trek back home. Some were going through Germany, some through Ireland, but almost all through some staging area outside of war theater, but within the AOR, namely, Kuwait, Qatar, or Saudi. Special forces guys fly in and out of all kinds of places, but they don't count. I am talking about the regular rank-and-file; the massive support for the warriors and peacekeepers. For them, no one seems to know what is going on, and you must just take deep breaths and exercise your patience. Keeping the flight manifests secret until just prior to the take off is probably in the best interests of security, and allows for execution of last minute operations (e.g. we lost one plane on the way here because a General and his staff absconded with it for reasons unmentioned). It does however engender a copious amount of distrust and cynicism to the system which mercilessly holds your metaphorical testicles at its whimsy.
So, this new batch of folks rotating in have the same smirk, and dark ovals under the eyes which I, and many before me, have worn after finally arriving here. [Funny psychology: 10 days of thankless, tortuous travel, makes you start to pine for a bed, and a semi-permanent shed within which to store your gear, even if the stopping place must be this kind of purgatory]. They tell similar stories of flights delays 7 times, flooded tents with rats, and customs agents who took DVDs or electronic devices. These people also breathe fresh air into the place. The last set of new people then become the veterans to show the new set of new people the ropes, and in the manner of impermenance, redesign some aspect of the ropes to their liking. They come with fresh personalities and idiosyncrasies. And out go those which they replace.
There is nothing like shared suffering to solidify a friendship, like the weld of lead and nickel under smelt; and similarly, not much time does it take to get to know someone fairly well, and truly feel loss when they rotate back home. You feel sadness to go on while they return, but gladness for them to leave this behind them. In the same way, proximity magnifies misery, and these close quarters intensify the polarity of the same idiosyncrases which repel us, in human nature. For these people, there is opposite sentiment of rejoice at their departures and jealousy that they have completed their sentence, albeit, at times, dishonorably or with rancor. We are just glad to see them go.
We recently said goodbye to a large group of people in the hospital who were making their long trek back home. Some were going through Germany, some through Ireland, but almost all through some staging area outside of war theater, but within the AOR, namely, Kuwait, Qatar, or Saudi. Special forces guys fly in and out of all kinds of places, but they don't count. I am talking about the regular rank-and-file; the massive support for the warriors and peacekeepers. For them, no one seems to know what is going on, and you must just take deep breaths and exercise your patience. Keeping the flight manifests secret until just prior to the take off is probably in the best interests of security, and allows for execution of last minute operations (e.g. we lost one plane on the way here because a General and his staff absconded with it for reasons unmentioned). It does however engender a copious amount of distrust and cynicism to the system which mercilessly holds your metaphorical testicles at its whimsy.
So, this new batch of folks rotating in have the same smirk, and dark ovals under the eyes which I, and many before me, have worn after finally arriving here. [Funny psychology: 10 days of thankless, tortuous travel, makes you start to pine for a bed, and a semi-permanent shed within which to store your gear, even if the stopping place must be this kind of purgatory]. They tell similar stories of flights delays 7 times, flooded tents with rats, and customs agents who took DVDs or electronic devices. These people also breathe fresh air into the place. The last set of new people then become the veterans to show the new set of new people the ropes, and in the manner of impermenance, redesign some aspect of the ropes to their liking. They come with fresh personalities and idiosyncrasies. And out go those which they replace.
There is nothing like shared suffering to solidify a friendship, like the weld of lead and nickel under smelt; and similarly, not much time does it take to get to know someone fairly well, and truly feel loss when they rotate back home. You feel sadness to go on while they return, but gladness for them to leave this behind them. In the same way, proximity magnifies misery, and these close quarters intensify the polarity of the same idiosyncrases which repel us, in human nature. For these people, there is opposite sentiment of rejoice at their departures and jealousy that they have completed their sentence, albeit, at times, dishonorably or with rancor. We are just glad to see them go.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Parcel posts
With the rise of email, and mail carrier competition, the USPS has had a rough few years. It seems that people are always complaining about the Postal Service. But, as I sit hear eating the sun dried tomatoes my mother sent to me 5 days ago from south Florida, I cannot help but marvel. It is nothing short of amazing that for $12.50, my family can send a 20lb package 7,000 miles in less than a week's time. Even if the USPS has strategic disadvantages to UPS and FedEx in the states or in the civilian world, their service to APO has been worth my tax dollars.
Mailing things from here is a little more complicated, belabored, and certainly not as quick and efficient. The prices are the same, and altogether reasonable. I have to trapse to the post office about a mile away from where I stay. (This usually involves borrowing someone's dolly or the squadron van, during the daylight hours-my sleep time-that the base post office remains open). All parcels are inspected carefully prior to mailing, a fact I find interesting in its own right. One could easily mail uninspected contraband into this place, but not so easily get it out. What are they searching for, one might ask? The list of prohibited items is tiresomely long and includes the usual suspects (porn, food, knives, guns, relics, etc). Mainly though: war trophies, and flammable objects. The latter is clear, the former less so. I am sure no one was frisking Vietnam veterans as they left theater for Vietkong daggers or ordinance shells. Maybe they should have been; however, and now, they aim to prevent such loot hoarding. Some of this is clearly ridiculous, and you can see why they have the rule. For example, there was one guy who tried to send home an aerated cage with a pet scorpion he found in the desert. Alternatively, there are a few other things which seem more innocuous. One of the surgeons has a 3 inch piece of shrapnel he took out of someone's back that he wants to bring home and use for teaching purposes. That seems reasonable enough, to me, anyway.
When I arrived here in February I came through Qatar (the hottest place on earth) where we remained after our charter flight from Ireland for 5 days. It was 90 degrees Farenheit, and from that point forward during this transit, I was a real beast of burden carrying 130lbs of gear, while wearing a 20lb helmet and 40lb IBA vest - all with the thick USAF ABUs. My current plan is to leave here during the end of summer when temperatures in Qatar approach 140 degrees Farenheit with humidity of near 90% given the surrounding Persian Gulf. My goal is shed as much gear as I can prior to this, even if it is at my personal expense via the USPS. Once I am on the charter plane out of Qatar, I can rest easy with my satchel and trust in baggage handlers. Until then, I am my own mule, so the goal is to keep it light. Thank you, USPS.
Mailing things from here is a little more complicated, belabored, and certainly not as quick and efficient. The prices are the same, and altogether reasonable. I have to trapse to the post office about a mile away from where I stay. (This usually involves borrowing someone's dolly or the squadron van, during the daylight hours-my sleep time-that the base post office remains open). All parcels are inspected carefully prior to mailing, a fact I find interesting in its own right. One could easily mail uninspected contraband into this place, but not so easily get it out. What are they searching for, one might ask? The list of prohibited items is tiresomely long and includes the usual suspects (porn, food, knives, guns, relics, etc). Mainly though: war trophies, and flammable objects. The latter is clear, the former less so. I am sure no one was frisking Vietnam veterans as they left theater for Vietkong daggers or ordinance shells. Maybe they should have been; however, and now, they aim to prevent such loot hoarding. Some of this is clearly ridiculous, and you can see why they have the rule. For example, there was one guy who tried to send home an aerated cage with a pet scorpion he found in the desert. Alternatively, there are a few other things which seem more innocuous. One of the surgeons has a 3 inch piece of shrapnel he took out of someone's back that he wants to bring home and use for teaching purposes. That seems reasonable enough, to me, anyway.
When I arrived here in February I came through Qatar (the hottest place on earth) where we remained after our charter flight from Ireland for 5 days. It was 90 degrees Farenheit, and from that point forward during this transit, I was a real beast of burden carrying 130lbs of gear, while wearing a 20lb helmet and 40lb IBA vest - all with the thick USAF ABUs. My current plan is to leave here during the end of summer when temperatures in Qatar approach 140 degrees Farenheit with humidity of near 90% given the surrounding Persian Gulf. My goal is shed as much gear as I can prior to this, even if it is at my personal expense via the USPS. Once I am on the charter plane out of Qatar, I can rest easy with my satchel and trust in baggage handlers. Until then, I am my own mule, so the goal is to keep it light. Thank you, USPS.
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