Hillah, Iraq.

The real horror of war is that a civilized man must make a beast of himself.Wars are rarely fought in the fashionable parts of the globe. The war in Iraq is fought in abject poverty and filth. People live in dirt lots, inhabiting huts framed of stolen lumber and sided with thatched palm leaves. They often have no shoes. They are malnourished, and open sores peek through holes in what is likely their only articles of clothing. One doesn’t worry about dental hygiene when there is little work for your dents. The only running water is the open public sewer. It is hard being in such a wretched place, and harder still to accept how quickly one can get used to it. The hardest is the eyes so full of desperation and want that I cannot see the hope.

The warrior must also be able to shrug off civilized standards and behaviors to survive. There is no such thing as a fair fight, and every one involved must pick up unfamiliar skills to hedge the odds. For example, a good way to take control of a situation is with speed and a violence of action. One must establish dominance of the opponent to subjugate him. A fine way to subjugate someone is to strike him forcefully in the sternum with the business end of a rifle barrel. Not only does this satisfy the ‘violence of action’ criterion, but also knocks the wind out of him, generally forcing the opponent to his knees, a felicitous position from which to flex cuff someone. As a rule, it is considered good form to break the sternum when striking the opponent. It doesn’t take much extra pressure, and helps ensure a quiet prisoner. Never buttstroke someone you wish to dominate with your rifle, as raising the rifle to strike him points the barrel in various directions, none of which are at the person you will have to shoot if he chooses to resist your violence of action by not caring to be poked in the sternum with a rifle.

I can also offer a variety of opinions on where to shoot someone to defeat body armor, how to look for booby traps, building charges to blow down doors, the concept of ‘self defense’ with regard to air to ground warfare, as well as the efficacy of laser guided weapons.

My point is that the civil man may occasionally have trouble changing mental states, which can prove detrimental in this age of virtually instant communications.

Today’s entry is a very long but heartfelt apology to my Beautiful Bride in the most personal yet public forum I can think of. Nothing in this world hurts me like my Beautiful Bride being angry at me. But I shall tell you first of two very different fights.

New rumors have circulated as a result some draft messages from the Marine Corps detailing a redeployment of 4th Anglico (military units never ‘return home’, or ‘go back to base’. They always just deploy someplace else). The first date mentioned is actually quite soon. Some of the Anglico Marine leadership are not at all interested in returning home. Coincidentally, members of those factions have no family, or no job, or in some cases, their job keeps paying them while they are overseas.

Other factions are ready to go home. Staff Sergeant and I fall firmly into this one. Today at breakfast, we were discussing the way things were going. Up until recently, each day offered a new challenge or adventure. But after the helicopter assault, there really doesn’t seem to be much material left for good stories. You can only go out and arrest bad guys so many times before the novelty wears off. The helicopter assault, in my opinion, marked the point where this deployment “jumped the shark”. For those who may not understand the reference, the television series “Happy Days” had a cliffhanger episode where Fonzie jumped a shark tank on water skis. Predictably, the episode ended with Fonzie in mid air over the shark tank. This episode is generally acknowledged as the peak of the series, with the quality and subsequent viewership falling off afterwards. Thus, when something “jumps the shark”, it is generally considered to be at its zenith, with only the denouement to follow. In case you were wondering, Fonzie made the jump.

Our ODA/Anglico team has done some pretty amazing stuff. Not only are we fighting the war much, much more aggressively than the other Anglicos, but we are pretty creative with our ideas. No other unit has used Iraqi cars, carried out helicopter assaults, or any of the other adventures we have pulled off. In fact, it is getting hard to think of new things to do. We are planning another bigger helo assault.

Done that. We had pretty good success with IOVs, and plan on using that strategy. Again.

We built a pool.

And a deck.

Really, I am sort of stumped to do something that is not just a repeat of something else.

Staff Sergeant and I have tried hard to ignore rumors about a redeployment date, but this one actually came from message traffic from the Marine Corps. And as we talked about it, both of us realized that we are more than ready to go home. We both like our real world jobs and our lives, and while there is still a lot of work to be done here, we are both confident and comfortable that we have made a difference.

The first fight was personal. My Beautiful Bride and I have been bickering over what is most likely a non issue. Learning the proper way to fight with one’s spouse has got to be one of the primary challenges of marriage. On one hand, you have every right to voice your feelings, but care must be taken to fight fairly. For those that don’t know, wives generally get to determine what is ‘fair’.

I find myself distressed by dark imaginings born of fatigue and loneliness. The distress is made worse by the lack of real time communications. Pretty much all we have is email, but even this is a challenge because my Beautiful Bride and I are separated by eight hours of time. She is going to sleep when I am waking up. I am going to bed when she is still at work. And we both delight in being in control, which can make things interesting. Alas, things have not been interesting because she won’t do what I want her to do with regard to an issue that I really have no say in.

I got really assed up (military guys don’t get angry, or upset. They get’assed up’) about this particular ‘non issue’ situation, and decided to make a call. We have a satellite phone, but those minutes generally go to the junior Marines to keep in touch with their families. Also, we have been using a lot of minutes because the Marines’ pay is a thorough mess. The Marines are not getting paid what they should, and in some cases, not at all. The issues have been pursued with a disappointing lack of zeal by the admin people at the reserve center, and we have to use a lot of phone time to keep them at their business.

But I had decided to call, so I tracked down the phone and called. I made my feelings on the matter known.

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I will also admit that I may have….belabored…the subject a bit. The matter of right and wrong rarely enters into the relationships between husbands and wives. Things are the way they are, and how the couple deals with the adversity of each other’s company is probably a good measure of the strength of the marriage. I tested her patience, and most certainly stressed the relationship. With the benefit of hindsight, calling was not a wise decision.

The second fight was outside the wire. We had a team meeting, during which it became known that the gas crisis in Hillah is artificial. The gas lines have grown quite long of late, at both the state run and private gas stations in town. It is not uncommon to see lines two or even three miles long. Tonight we learned that the reason is that the Iraqi Police (IP) have begun providing ‘security’ for these gas stations. Apparently, the definition of security now includes allowing Iraqi Police to get fuel first, taking bribes to allow cuts in line, and closing the gas station whenever they feel like it.

The Team Sergeant got really assed up about this, so we decided to go see what we could learn. I was excited because this was the first trip with my new car stereo. We loaded up, and I inserted a CD I brought from home. We rolled out the gate listening to Violent Femme’s “Blister In The Sun”. We got to the gas station, which was closed. However, the line of cars still stretched far down the road. We talked to the locals who gave their side of the story, a version that agreed pretty much with what we have been told. The station manager drove up, and he confirmed that the Iraqi Police (IP) have been up to some unethical behavior. The Team Sergeant promised the locals that we would investigate the matter, which we promptly did by going to IP headquarters.

I wasn’t privy to the meeting because I stayed outside, pulling security out front. Since it seemed appropriate to fighting crime, I played Isaac Hayes’ “Theme from Shaft”. Providing the soundtrack to combat patrols is fun. We caught the IP guards dancing to the disco tunes.

After the IP visit, we decided to go visit what was called an orphanage. I was happy that we had brought many of the hearts and minds bags. Ultimately, the orphanage was just a clump of buildings in a dirt lot. The walls around the lot were crumbling cement, and the lot itself was rife with litter. Old car carcasses were scattered about. While there were some houses, most of the shelters were huts made of lumber and palm thatch. The Green Berets began to talk to the locals about their dealings with the IPs, as well as asking for news of foreign fighters passing through the area. Again, I pulled security, and just watched. The people were thin wretches, most wearing torn clothing. Few had shoes. They had no water for hygiene, and the lot was redolent with the reek of closely packed, unwashed bodies. Dust hung heavy in the air, and stray dogs and cats rooted in the trash for something to eat.

There were a lot of children, who immediately set to begging. I didn’t want to give away HNM bags quite yet, as I knew it would cause a riot. We patiently denied begging hands and faces asking for water, money, or food. The Staff Sergeant finally put his hand on his pistol. The message came through loud and clear. These people understand the Law of the Pistol.

The Green Berets gave us a five minute warning, and our interpreter told the girls to line up. The mob began building.

We started to hand out bags to the girls, but they were immediately snatched by more clever hands. The mob pressed forward, pushing us back towards the car. The interpreter began to berate the crowd as boys and then men slipped around the line in an effort to get something. Anything. Groping hands finally grabbed the box, and the bags were flung into the air. The pack set upon them, and soon they were gone.

Men came up begging for something for their families. Then women offered us their babies, hoping for a better life for them.

Theirs must be a very sad life if a mother will give away her baby.

As we headed back to CAmp Charlie, the lead vehicle developed some troubles at the top of an overpass. We all stopped so they could make repairs. Our car was in the middle of the convoy, right at the spot where I had timed the dog barking for 43 minutes. There were two vehicles behind us, and Staff Sergeant stayed in the vehicle. As they were finishing up with the lead vehicle, a group of half a dozen guys with rifles appeared below us. The rear elements brought their weapons up, and I did the same, keeping my laser aiming point on the head of one of the riflemen. The lead vehicle started up, and the front of the convoy started to move. I radioed that there were bad guys back here.

Staff Sergeant yelled at me to get in the vehicle. I told him that we had bad guys, but he couldn’t hear me over the motor. He again yelled at me to get in, as the convoy had started to move. I was standing there on the side of the road, my weapon raised against some unknown force, while Staff Sergeant and I yelled at each other about getting into the vehicle.

Finally, Staff Sergeant realized that his radio wasn’t working, and I managed to pass the word that the rear elements were engaged. The convoy quickly stopped, and we went on the offensive. We were able to determine that the riflemen were Iraqi Home Guard, a sort of local militia force. They were coming out to see what we were up to.

I tried to call my Beautiful Bride when I got back, but I only got her voice mail. I later received her email stating that she was in the shower when I called, but the satellite phone had already been passed on to somebody else. I emailed her a couple of times, but I got no response.

I am tired of being far away.

I miss my Beautiful Bride, and I hate that I hurt her because I couldn’t separate civilized fighting from the war.

I miss her pressing the snooze button three or four times.

I miss the way her hair smells.

I miss her asking me what she should wear, even though we both know that she is going to wear whatever she wants.

I miss hearing the exasperation in her voice when I bother her at work.

I miss the way her eyes shine when she is happy.

I miss the hundreds of things that she does that charm and irritate me.