I
slept through most of the flight to the National Training Center at
Ft. Irwin. We disembarked the plane to greet the California desert.
It was still dark – and would be for a while – as we had lost
several hours in flight.
I
sent a text message to a friend who lived several hours away: “Hey,
I finally made it to California! Want to come visit Ft. Irwin?”, in
a vain attempt at humor. It was still very early; she didn't respond,
so I guess she didn't find it very funny.
When
the buses arrived in Ft. Irwin – a little slice of Army bland: flat
buildings, air-conditioned trailers, fence, rows of desert-yellow
vehicles and equipment – we did the duffel-bag drag to the briefing
tent. The 'drag is familiar to anyone who has served in the military
forces of the United States: throw everything you have into a duffel,
a ruck, and an assault pack, then carry it from place to place to
place, overloaded and tired, until someone tells you to unpack. I've
done it enough times in the lowly National Guard to get depressed
just thinking about it; I feel bad for fleet Marines and top-tier
Army units who often get 24-hour notice for deployments.
The
“tent” had semi-hardened walls and powerful air conditioning. We
took seats in folding metal chairs while a major briefed us on the
layout of the base, and some general rules to follow while we were in
the RUBA (Rotational Unit Bivouac Area).
Ft.
Irwin is nestled in a valley within the Mojave Desert, and surrounded
on all sides by craggy, orange mountains. It features the
aforementioned equipment yards, military barracks and offices, the
RUBA, and mile upon mile of open desert peppered with the occasional
mock-village or mock-combat outpost / forward operating base. It also
had an internet trailer, a Burger King (yes, really), a PX, and
multiple other small restaurants and shops.
After
our briefing, SGT Thunder and I walked to chow, treading along gravel
pathways between rows of identical buildings. These structures were
metal frames with plastic-like foam shells for walls; they had
concrete floors and no interior walls, but were climate controlled
and more than adequate for infantry used to sleeping in the woods or
in Humvees.
The
cadence of Army life filled the air: Soldiers carried their bags,
officers grudgingly returned salutes, sergeants major patrolled the
grounds looking for uniform infractions, Soldiers conducted PT, and
clusters of men smoked cigarettes and spoke the soft exaggerations of
describing their civilian lives.
I
lifted my eyes up to the mountains. God tested his people – Israel
and individuals – in the Desert. I suppose that I was no different;
I had failed as a Christian my first deployment, coming home broken
and angry. I hoped that I could walk with God through the trials and
the terrors to come.
“If
I try hard enough, I can imagine this is Afghanistan,” I said.
SGT
Thunder grunted in agreement.
“Yeah,
except it doesn't smell like shit here,” he said.
* * *
During
our first few days at the National Training Center, Soldiers went
every which way to draw equipment such as vehicles and radios, and to
receive training in preparation for maneuvers out in the desert.
Often, a majority of our platoon remained behind to catch up on
sleep, conduct PT, and do some internal training (“hip-pocket
training”).
One
day, I had the Joes present a class on Escalation of Force procedures
and Afghan culture. When the Army says “class,” it usually means
someone throws together an impromptu presentation on a given topic.
Because I'm a certified teacher (and because I remembered a thing or
two from the NCO Academy), I had the Joes present their information
in a more structured, formal manner, even though it was only for the
platoon's benefit. It was the first time many of them had taught a
class or been responsible for anything outside of themselves.
It
was a testament to their competency as Soldiers and their
intelligence that they sparked heated discussions within the platoon;
we were still working out what was common sense, what was doctrine,
and what we would actually do in-theater; that is, at what point
would we immediately risk our own lives and safety for the long-term
benefit of a successful mission?
After
the classes, the squad leaders and LT StonyBriches had a heated
debate about how we would operate in Afghanistan. How much were we
willing to risk? Who
were we willing to risk for an unproven policy?
The
implications of the debate disturbed me, but I was glad to know that
my Soldiers had struck a nerve.
* * *
At
dinner chow, I moved through the giant tent looking for a familiar
face. I found one sitting at one of the center tables.
MAJ
Antietam had been a major since I was a college freshman new to the
idea of joining the Army. I had originally gone to college with the
idea of joining the military; Major Antietam, as an ROTC instructor,
convinced me that trying ROTC and enlisting in the National Guard was
a good way to get my feet wet.
I
immediately respected him for his brash, no-nonsense approach to the
Army. He believed in the nobleness of the military tradition, but
also understood the limitations of poor training, leadership, and
vision. Every officer candidate that passed through that college's
ROTC program knew and respected Antietam as a dedicated (if portly)
officer who spoke the truth and took care of his cadets.
Even
after I left the ROTC program, occasionally we'd run across one
another and he'd spend a little time with me catching up. I'd
jokingly ask him when he was going to be our battalion commander;
he'd respond with a smile and a distant look, and say something like
“I've spoken my mind one too many times to expect that at this
point.”
My
fondest memory of MAJ Antietam was when my unit went to Puerto Rico.
The Army was generous enough to give us a day off during our long
drill. We spent our afternoon climbing up a flat, green mountain to
the officer club. There we drank rum and beer until the bar ran dry.
MAJ
Antietam, drunk off both rum and his reputation as someone who didn't
give a shit, climbed up onto the bar with two shots in hand.
“Hey
everyone, shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!” he screamed. With a
moment of silence, he raised his shot glasses to the ceiling.
“To
the one... the one... the one-n'-one-oh-eighth-infantry!” he
stammered. Then he slammed each glass down, one after another.
Cheers
rose up from the crowd; the local bartenders frowned and went back to
frantically trying to fill up shot glasses and snap off beer caps.
When
I was in Afghanistan, he stopped at my Forward Operating Base to
refuel and repair one of his trucks.
“Raab,
how is it out here?”
“Awful
sir. My commanding officer is a moron.”
“Yeah,
a lot of that going around. I could tell just from talking to the guy
that he's an asshole.”
“You
think you're gonna come to this area?”
“I
might.”
“Thank
God, sir. Save me. This is awful.”
I
didn't see him again, but it was a nice thought that he might show up
and I could have an officer above me who wasn't hell-bent on getting
everyone killed for no reason.
And
there he was, at Ft. Irwin, so many long years later:
“Raab,
how the hell are ya?” he asked as I sat down.
“Living
the dream, sir, of course. You?”
“Man,
I'm just looking forward to getting the bullshit over,” he said,
smiling and taking a sip from a paper cup.
“Haha,
tired of it already sir? We just got here.”
“Don't
get me started,” he said, smiling.
We
caught up; like all veterans, mostly we discussed The War. He was a
part of the same general mission that I was – the now-defunct Task
Force Phoenix, which was in charge of training the Army and the
Police forces of Afghanistan. We exchanged stories, talked about Army
stupidity, and generally agreed that the Task Force was a terrible
failure: false reports, a lack of resources, and no vision or
discernible purpose to the mission crippled any chance at success
while we were overseas.
(Before
someone starts throwing nastygrams my way, it should be noted that
General McChrystal – and then Petraeus – agreed with us.
McChrystal, before ending his career with a stunning display of
thickheaded unprofessionalism in Rolling
Stone,
disbanded the Task Force. Petraeus did not reinstate it, instead
opting to coordinate the training of Afghan Security Forces with
local battlespace commanders – an approach that those of us doing
the mission had often discussed and considered a sensible alternative
to the silliness that was an unsupported and adrift combat adviser
mission.)
Like
all veterans of our era, we laughed, we cursed, and we shook our
heads with downcast eyes, thinking of wasted resources, lives, and
opportunity for American victory on battlefields distant and strange.
I
mentioned – well, bragged, really, trying to impress this officer
who had had a big impact on me when I was a snot-nosed Freshman with
no idea what being a man was all about – that I had been published
on the New
York Times
website, and that I continued to write for a veteran's advocacy
group. I also mentioned my blog – this blog – and told him how I
had been told that battalion leadership read my work. I had to watch
what I wrote and how I wrote it, especially as I moved closer to the
deployment.
He
smiled and squinted at me.
“Since
when have you ever watched what you say, Raab?”
With
that, we shared one more laugh, shook hands, and went our separate
ways.
It
was good to know that there were good officers out there.
