Will You Please Wear the Uniform Correctly?!

That’s what I heard another Soldier say as we passed each other by the other evening. He said it in utter frustration, half to his buddies, half to me.

Not SSG Stowell

He was probably an E-7, sergeant first class. I know he wasn’t lower, because an E-6 staff sergeant wouldn’t care. Any higher and he would have stopped me for sure. But I wear the sergeants’ stripes with one rocker, so an E-7, only one rank higher than me, would not be so sure that I wasn’t E-7 in the dark, and he wouldn’t have wanted to look like a total a**hole to someone of equal rank.

But perfectly content with being an a**hole to someone of lower rank, he split the difference, yelling at the night air and hoping that I was sufficiently shamed to justify his self-satisfaction at having corrected an ate-up Soldier.

Was I wearing the uniform improperly? Probably. The supposed violation was either in the gloves or the fleece. I have heard that it is “unauthorized” to wear gloves without a jacket, and that, conversely, it is unauthorized to wear a jacket without gloves. They go together you, see. Except they don’t. At least I think not. For the past three years I have been in a doctoral program at an R1 university, and I can barely make heads or tails of those darn Army regulations. I could find no prohibition on wearing gloves without a jacket.

When the cold-weather coat or other authorized cold-weather outer garments are worn, Soldiers may wear the olive green scarf and gloves, but are not required to do so. DA PAM 670-1 Para 5-7.

That certainly doesn’t mean that the E-7 didn’t think he was right. The Army has no shortage of Soldiers who know made-up regulations like the back of their ungloved hands.

Oh, that brings me to two additional points. Reading a uniform regulation should not be harder than reading a troubleshooting manual for the reactor in a Nautilus-class submarine. So give some joes a break for not knowing everything. And don't make stuff up and just throw around words like "authorized" to make it sound legit. If you've read-- actually READ-- the regulation, then you can speak to it. But you haven't read the regulation.

Maybe it wasn't the gloves, but the fleece cap. I was wearing the coyote tan one. A foliage green (read, “gray”) fleece cap is authorized for wear with the combat uniform, and it matches perfectly the green and gray universal camouflage pattern (“digital camo”) that has become emblematic of the Army in the past ten years. But out here, the gray stands out like a clean-shaven Taliban fighter. But wearing a fleece cap that actually matches the color of the uniform in theater might get one yelled at (sort of) by a zealous E-7. And perhaps the coyote tan fleece is authorized. Deviant uniform wear is often prescribed by policy of the command or garrison.

None of that is important thought, for the purposes of this post. What I want to know is, why did my appearance bother the guy so much? What is going on in that' guy's life to get him so worked up?

My hard-core active duty friends will no doubt say the usual stuff about discipline, but then, the big Army guys we went out with tonight all wore their coyote tan fleece caps.

You can probably tell where I stand.

But what do you think?

These Taliban Guys Are Mailing it in

Remember Baghdad Bob? The Taliban ought to hire him, what with their information office in such an embarassing disarray. 

Jonah Goldberg quipped "if you’re going to go down in a blaze of glory, why be stingy with the kerosene?" A corollary could be, "if you're going to turn loose the obvious propaganda, why not try to make yourself look at least slightly more competent than an ISIS finishing school drop out?" 

Here is a recent example from "Voice of Jihad," or some such other ominously-named Twitter account that speaks for the Taliban. 

The Islamic Emirate mujahedeen is reporting from Char-Chano district of Uruzgan province that, this morning a resident of Langar village of Char-Chano district by the name of Ramatullah son of Naqubullah which was serving in Tarin Kot as soldier with commander Mirwas by the effort of our recruitment commission repainted hi mastics and joined the mujaheddin.

He brought one motorcycle with him.

Stop the presses!

Maybe this is totally accurate (though I can neither confirm nor deny that anyone was repainted with hi mastics). But if it is, it's worse than not saying anything at all! 

For Heaven's sake, tell the enemy you're recruiting droves of dudes now without having to give away all the "Hygiene is for Infidels" t-shirts and Mullah Omar keychains. 

Who can seriously believe that any substantial number of Afghans are on their side when news about one measly recruit makes the front page? 

Oh! But he brought his motorcycle!

Baghdad Bob's pronouncements might have been met with derision and laughter by the invaders, but at least he put his heart into it. 

The Legend of the Kosovo Eight

Sometimes a one-hit wonder needs to let well enough alone.

We had a major hit back in 2009, when our group toured Kosovo. We were known then as the 69th PAD, and we were rockstars. Great leadership, energy, and moxie. The chicks really dug us.

A certain COL Cooper didn't have much use for us, except for s few silly command photos and slices of Anthony's pizza (that he got by crashing our pizza party), but we got pretty big audiences with our photos, videos, and the mother of them all, The Guardian East magazine. Think of it as our White Album.

The magic and Glory came to end end around December 2009. The band fell apart, each of us going our separate ways. The leader, CPT Jonathan Masaki "Mahalo" Shiroma got promoted and went on to a solo career. MSG Paul Wade also left, then there was no keeping us together.

One member (He Who Must Not Be Named) departed before we finished touring. SGT Pepper, Swatts, Smith, Samudio, and I went home to fading memories of our greatness.

Our bassist and rhythm guitarist-- Samudio and Smith-- found new band to tour with. They played much bigger venues, like RC- East in Afghanistan. Places with crowds much bigger than we could have dreamed in Kosovo.

Kosovo was intimate, like the club scene of the Beatles' early Liverpool days.

But Afghanistan? Tough. Samudio came just after Kosovo. The man re-classed to get here. That's Army-speak for, he went to school to learned a new trade so he could deploy with a combat unit. So he's one of the few triple-qualified military police/ public affairs Soldiers in the Army. I'm pretty sure he volunteered just so he could make a cool documentary, but carried a big gun and saw combat.

Nevada Jack Smith went to a different state to get on an Afghanistan deployment. It was Hawaii, so we can't give him too much credit for sacrifice, but they did deploy to RC-South where things were a bit hairy. Less coffee and yoga back then.

Swatts went on to a tour in Iraq, which was probably then like Afghanistan is now. But these places are always risky, and it was no Kosovo. the pressure was high. It was the big time for all of them.

I bring this all up because I get teased for having it easy. Guilty as charged. I would not wish for combat action, and every time I here someone in operations tell me they're having a boring day I reply, "Good. Means we're doing our job."

Most deployments for most Soldiers are not year-long versions of Lone Survivor. They are more like bad vacations.

And public affairs Soldiers have it particularly easy. We complain about not having enough compact discs and limited access to YouTube. I wouldn't do any other job in the Army, though, unless of course I was ordered to. But no one orders us not to complain, because it is what Soldiers do best.

But these guys volunteered for the fight. That's the mark of a true warrior.

As our good captain (he is a major now, but he will always be "commander," to me) put it in more or fewer words:

Whether you get into a gunfight or not, whether you primarily reside on a FOB or go out of the wire everyday, you wear that uniform in support of our operations overseas. You should be proud of what you have done and our nation thanks you for it. I personally am proud of you in your respective roles in OEF. You have stepped up to do something very few other Americans your age have. 

I should also mention that MAJ Shiroma did a previous tour in Iraq, where his job as a HHC commander and PAO did not spare him the horrors and stresses of modern combat.

 am enormously proud to have played with these guys, and I respect them for standing up to fight. I think of them often as I enjoy iced coffee inside the wire at a relatively safe Bagram Airfield.

Man, the band should really get back together.

If the Army Changed Diapers, and Happy Birthday Joseph!

The following originally appeared in the blog "Musings of a Factotum" on September 17, 2008, shortly after the birth of my first son. 

As a new dad, I have the privilege of waking up to a screaming baby at the inconvenientest times of night. He is beautiful, and his cry is even adorable, even at ungodly hours. Sometimes he wants food, other times it a fresh diaper he wants. For the former, his mother promptly obliges. In the case of the latter, I can lend a hand, which I do quickly so I can get back to rest.

Though I don’t always get up eagerly, I don’t complain. Four days before Joseph was born I was at Fort Meade, Maryland doing some Army training. It’s the kind of place where you have to wake up at 0400 and present yourself for inspection. Fireguard duty in the middle of the night is the norm, and cleaning dirty latrines is a fact of life.

So waking up to change my own son’s messy diaper is no big deal. I do it and move on. But it got me thinking, what if changing diapers was an Army task?

First, everyone in the room would have to wake up and be in uniform before they could report for diaper duty.

The diaper changer would report to the NCOIC, who would ensure that everyone was in the right place and ready to go. Of course, any NCOIC worth his stripes would never abide a baby making noise while preparing to execute a mission, so someone would have to get the little one to forget the predicament that brought them to this point.

The next step in the baby-changing procedure would be the completion of all applicable DOD forms. This is to ensure that NCOs and officers can track the different diaper changings. Despite the fact that such forms never get read or followed up on, they are very important.

The Risk Assessment is the next step. The Army loves to assess risks, and there are many, even in a routine diaper changing. Take the risk assessment lightly at your peril.

Diapers and other supplies (wet wipes, lotion, powder) need to be requisitioned from Supply. More forms, and more approval. All requests need to go through the NCOIC for preliminary approval, but need the Commander’s signature. For any supplies used, forms need to indicate who used them, the quantity, and the time they were used.

Before changing the actual diaper that is dirty, a run-through should be conducted to improve accuracy and performance. After the drill, an After Action Report will help identify strengths and weaknesses.

Finally we are ready to change the diaper. By this time, the boy is potty-trained.

The Day I Got Arrested in Kandahar, Part 3

This is the third part in a three-part series. Read Part 1. Read Part 2.

"Get down!" yelled the Belgian captain.

He was quite serious. The "big voice" notified us of the incoming indirect fire. These things, while not a daily occurrence on KAF, are not out of the ordinary by any stretch. And while the procedures for responding to a rocket attack are sound, the reality is that avoiding injury from an enemy rocket or mortar on a big base like KAF comes down to nothing but sheer luck.

I hit the deck. Cameraman had a $5000 camera on a tripod, and was more worried about it than anything else. "You have to get down," I informed him. He grudgingly complied. The Belgian was clearly irritated by our lack of earnestness.

After a couple of minutes, we were to move to a bunker. Instead, we got inside the police vehicle and drove with the sergeant to the "precinct."

Threats were issued. Regulations cited. More phones calls.

I offered to have myself flex-cuffed, just to make it official. But since the security officer had a flight line to clear (his protocol for a rocket attack) he let us go with a very stern look on his face.

He was from Utah too! So I thanked him for being so meticulous in his security practices, and he took us to retrieve Ricky, who had been left alone 100 meters away. The Belgian had gone after him earlier and directed him to the nearest bunker.

We met up and moved to another bunker, where we baked until given the all-clear (see photo of Ricky baking). Luckily there was an Air Force E-7 with his rifle at the ready in case the enemy launched a follow-on ground attack. Given that such an attack never came, I assume they had scouts that saw the E-7 and concluded that it wasn't worth the risk.

We went on with our mission for the rest of the day. We ate curry. I played volleyball with the Australians that night.

The aftermath of this, while somewhat anti-climactic, reveals a lot of what is wrong with the Army at times.

I got a call a few days later from the Belgian. He was back! He told me we had to talk about the incident. I told him I had moved on. It wasn't him, I assured him. It was me. We had just grown apart. He really didn't want to end it.

Then I get a call from a Romanian, who apparently do the dirty work of the Belgians. He told me that I needed to come in and sign some paperwork acknowledging the grievousness of my sin. Okay. I went and found out that I had committed several escort violations:

1. I shouldn't have driven on the taxi way. Why did the guard let me in? The Romanian didn't know.
2. I was too far away from Ricky. How far is too far? The Romanian didn't know, but assured me that the Belgian assured him that I was too far. Imagine if we came under a rocket attack, all the bad that could happen. You just never know.
3. I didn't have a memo. The Romanian did know about that, but we all did. You're probably wondering if the lieutenant colonel who was supposed to have provided me a memo took any responsibility. 

Cliff hanger, huh? Well, while the light colonel was avoiding responsibility, a different light colonel was conducting an investigation of his own. He summoned me for a final berating, which was punctuated by,

"Don't do that s--t."

All of my violations apparently sent ISAF into a tailspin.

I also had to get my escort badge punched. It's like getting branded a war criminal. They're not getting that back, I hope they know.

Now this entire story might seem anticlimactic, to which I say, "fine." But let it be a lesson.

Never trust a lieutenant colonel.

The Day I Got Arrested in Kandahar, Part 2

This is the second part in a three-part series. Read Part 1. 

Ricky Schroeder and his camera rode in the back of the Land Rover I drove, first onto a parking area just off the taxi way, and then down the taxi way to a spot where we could get some good video shots.

We were a hundred meters or so from the civilian Kandahar International Airport, and I parked off the shoulder of the asphalt on the other side of a t-wall. We got out and cameraman went one way, Ricky and I the other. 

I made my way back and forth between the two thinking to myself, "yeah, I'm probably pushing the envelope, but I'm doing a great job! These guys are going to get excellent shots, and they'll have me to thank."

NATO's busiest single-runway airport saw little traffic that day. It was hot. It was the day before the now-infamous presidential runoff, as I recall. Ricky and I made small talk. Then I ran over to cameraman and made small talk. Then I repeated the drill.

When I was with Ricky, I noticed a truck with sirens pull up to cameraman. The giant FLS on the door indicated that they were not looking for directions. I headed back to do my job as a combat-trained, secret-clearance-holding, flight line-access-badge-wearing, weapon-toting, DINFOS-distinguished-honor-graduating warrior-escort.

"They are with me, sergeant. We're cleared. All good."

In the military no one is "all clear" without a memorandum. It is the coin of the realm. My lieutenant colonel sent me out without a properly signed memo, though. Or any memo for that matter. My instructions were, and I quite clearly remember this part, "if anyone asks you anything, tell them you're with public affairs, and that should cover it."

It didn't. No matter that I had a super official-looking NATO flight line badge and an escort pass. Sergeants are not paid to infer, though. Perhaps that's what the captain is for, who joined us soon thereafter. 

Problem was, this captain was Belgian. Belgians haven't been in combat much, so this was his chance for action. He wasn't having any of my silly public affairs explanations, and told us, in true police fashion, all of the things that he could do.

Just then we came under a rocket attack.

Come back tomorrow to read the exciting conclusion in, "The Day I Got Arrested in Kandahar, Part 3." 

The Day I Got Arrested in Kandahar, Part 1

This is the first part in a three-part series.

It's time the story is told.

I found myself detained at the Base Operations Center at Kandahar Airfield in the custody of some Air Force security forces. The civilian cameraman who accompanied me was threatened with having his cameras' memory cards confiscated.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

A lieutenant colonel assigned me to escort a pair of civilian media members to get imagery of the flight line. The flight line, you see, is where cool stuff happens on an air field. 

It's ridiculous, and a bit embarrassing sometimes, how much senior military professionals trip all over themselves to accommodate civilian media. And it's one of the biggest frustrations of Defense Department public affairs service members. The military trains us in imagery acquisition and writing, not to mention combat skills. they give us a weapon, access to sites, equipment, and secret clearances. Then they proceed to make it as difficult as possible to put out stories in which normal people would be interested. All the while they tell us how valuable we are to the fight. It's an information war, you know. 

Meanwhile, if a civilian reporter gets the misfortune of an assignment to cover Afghanistan (the cachet of reporting from a combat zone having long ago withered among the civilian press corps) s/he will get the red carpet and a bunch of green lights. High ranking Soldiers become star-struck groupies. All other PA operations grind to a halt to accommodate civilians journalists, whose stories cover the more interesting dimensions of our mission, and are not vetted by the command. 

So that's what happened here a few months ago. And it wasn't just any old civilian journalist. It was none other than Ricky Schroeder-- yes, of Silver Spoons and "Whiskey Lullaby" video fame. Everyone stands to attention and a battle-hardened light colonel becomes as giddy as a 7th-grade girl backstage at a One Direction concert. 

Ricky and his cameraman, who are working on a documentary about OEF, were given carte blanche. I was only there to follow protocol. As a combat-trained, secret-clearance-holding, flight line-access-badge-wearing, weapon-toting, DINFOS-distinguished-honor-graduating warrior, I was the man for the job. Plus I really like Silver Spoons. My job was to essentially get them onto the flight line so they could get cutaway video shots of C-17s, fighter jets, Predator aircraft, and other cool s--t.

Oh, and I also drove. In the military, driving is generally considered to be menial work, and these were the biggest celebrities to hit Kandahar since the actress who played the hot substitute teacher on Drake and Josh. So they got a driver.

As a Soldier who want to get things done, I drove up to the guard gate and explained the situation. I presented all of the proper papers, as they say in spy movies, and asked-- yes, asked!-- if I could drive on to the flight line so we wouldn't have to lug a bunch of expensive and impressive-looking documentarian camera gear all around.

The guard, whose job is presumably to act as a "gatekeeper" of sorts and decide who and which vehicles get to go through the gate that he was, after all, guarding, waved us through. "No problem," he said.

Well, no problem wasn't exactly right, as you will find out in, "The Day I Got Arrested in Kandahar, Part 2."

Kissing up to the Master Sergeant

He's got "master" in his title, after all.

Prior to my first deployment, to Kosovo, then-SFC Paul Wade presented his vision for our unit.

"My job is to make sure these guys have fun," he declared as his enthusiastic and semi-well-behaved German Shepherd prowled the room during a Family Readiness orientation before we deployed.

And fun we had. Our time in Kosovo was no picnic, but we made it count.

As many Soldiers are fond of saying, "we work hard and play hard." For nine months our seven-man section met resistance from the command staff, but still managed to produced a 30-plus-page monthly task force magazine, which required the management of printing contracts off base; produced 11 video magazines and distributed fully-functioning DVDs to the task force; Established one of the first Army unit YouTube channels; developed and managed a Pleistocene-age intranet site; produced a 20-minute end-of-tour video, the likes of which had never before been conceived by a brigade-level element; and took care of the countless command photo-ops and "hooah" videos that always fall to any public affairs unit.

But our NCOIC made sure we had fun. So we had barbecues. We played volleyball (poorly). We met new people and new units. We got creative with our photography and video-making. We visited historic sites and hiked mountains. We had snowball fights. We ate on the economy-- sometimes it was good, sometimes not so much.

More than anything was the comraderie developed from small, but meaningful, interactions every day. Hanging out at chow, joking around about a mission, that kind of stuff. Wade had a penchant for making fun of me in an exaggerated Mr. Peabody voice as he pushed up his notional spectacles. When we started to guffaw, he'd put his monologue into high gear until we split at the seams from laughter.

All of these morale-building efforts took, well, effort. They didn't just happen. Someone had to make sure we had fun. That someone was SFC Wade.

I'd put his photography, writing, and graphic design skills up there with anyone's in the Army. But I'd put his capacity for having amd making fun second to none.

He is now a master sergeant, and sits in an office most of the time, I presume. I get his Facebook updates, and it looks like he is still committed to the f-word.

When all is said and done, all sentient Soldiers with the capacity to emote (so you can omit most light colonels and above), hold on to a set of memories from deployed life that includes friends made and good times had. Yeah, we worked. That work probably made an impact. But the real impact on me and most junior Soldiers was the fun.

Thanks, Master Sergeant.

Cookies! Oh Yeah, and Democracy, Too

The Coalition surrendered important territory in Kandahar Province last month, marking a bump in the road to Westernization and democracy.

When TGI Friday's was dismantled, it signalled an abandonement in one of the most promising efforts to bring stability, and deep fried foods, and fatty sauces to this part of the world.

Just when I had almost lost all hope, I discovered the cookies.

Cookies, particularly of the chocolate chip variety, are some of the most important weapons in democracy's arsenal.

I've written about this before, sort of. Back in the days of the Kosovo counterinsurgency, the Camp Bondsteel cookies kept morale high and the force fully capable. Don't underestimate the power of good food.

These KAF cookies are doing much more. They are forging critical bonds between US forces and the Afghans.They are spreading the ideology of democracy. The pride on the face of the third country national was immeasurable when I told him his fare was as good as anything in the United States. He knows he has the best cookies, but my endorsement confirmed to him that he was as much a proponent of the great American cultural experience, rather than a consumer of it.

Let's face it, if Afghans develop the type of healthy addiction to cookies from which I suffer quite happily, then this would be a place fit for democrats, religionists, atheists, nihilists, dudists, and even hipsters, like the kid who served me. It's the latest iteration of Thomas Friedman's McDonalds Peace Theory; this one will hold up better than Mr. Friedman's original formulation, because chocoloate chip cookies make people happy in a way that a Big Mac never could.

Big Macs are, while delicious, are indicators of a level of prosperity, whereas the cookies indicate a level of cultural sophistication and have the added benefit of inducing  state of bliss that makes armed conflict almost impossible to contemplate.

Until you take them away. Then all gloves are off.

Nobody could muster much outrage over the closure of TGI Fridays. Disappointment and sorrow, sure. But I wouldn't fight over it.

I would fight for these cookies, though. Luckily I won't have to. Because we're goona make it.

Long live Afghan democracy. Long live the Kandahar Fresh Deli chocolate chip cookies. 

Darth Vader and the Sith Counterinsurgency

I love cointerinsurgency. I think the word just sounds cool.

It conjures up images of night raids, secret assassinations, psychological operations, and CIA-style covert destabilizing.

It's really more mundane than that. The US Army and Marine Corps just updated their counterinsurgency (COIN) manuals, highlighting the fact they the powers that be think it will be relevant for a while. A brief read through the publication brings back bad memories of high school civics.

The Army lists some well known historical countersinsurgencies-- the British attempt to quell a revolution in its North American colonies in the 1770s, the US government's smashing of native Americans tribal rebellions, and my favorite, Darth Sidious' quest to rule the galaxy in the face of a tiny rebel alliance.

It was the worst counterinsurgency disaster in the universe. And we can learn a lot from it.

You know what the Emporer's biggest mistake was? He didn't develop a sustainable ideology that could motivate his followers after his death.This was probably the downfall of the American Indians, too, come to think of it. That and the counterinsurgents had lots of superior guns, nor were they as interested in addressing "core grievances" in the spirit of 21st-century COIN doctrine.

But the Indians weren't homogenous, and they weren't motivated by imposing their culture or way of life on the counterinsurgents. The Emperor should have known better. As ruthless as he was, he needed to develop some sort of program, complete with trappings of orthodoxy-- songs, chants, oaths, symbology-- that other totalitarians learn on the first day of Opressive Government 101.

Yes, yes, Sithism is a belief system, I suppose. The nerds will have to elaborate here. But there was no apparent attempt to indoctrinate the masses into that belief system. To the contrary, it appears that some of the senior officials in the government were distrustful of it:

Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's ways, Lord Vader. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes, or given you clairvoyance enough to find the Rebel's hidden fort...

So the emporer didn't cultivate a belief in his ideology, and he didn't develop a coterie of competent loyalists who could carry on after he departed. I mean, even if the Rebel Alliance didn't destroy the Death Star while he was aboard, the guy was old and frail, and he would have died soon at any rate, right? What was his plan for continuing the Empire? (And was the Empire evil mainly because it lacked representational government, or because a bad dude was at the head of it?)

Darth Vader, we learn, was really good inside. Sure, he had some questionable tactics. Choking out underlings who failed to share isn't something I could imagine David Petraeus having done.

At any rate, the Emporer was a poor leader, at least bad at managing a counterinsurgency. Somehow he motivated vast numbers of military officers and bureacrats to do his bidding, but presumably that machinery was mostly in place before he disbanded the Galactic Senate. He did not transform government and society, he merely exercised a coup. And be badly misred the insurgency that never let him establish a foothold of real power.

If Emporer Palpatine had taken the time to read the updated Army Field Manual 3-24, he would have realized that he ought to have pursued a shape-hold-clear operation. After areas are cleared, good counterinsurgents move into a build-transition operation. There is scant evidence that imperial forces did anything right in any of these phases.

A proper "shape" phase would have included information operations to cut off the insurgents from the support of the people. Were there any siginifcant development projects on Hoth after the Emperor seized power? It appeared that the economy shrank between the periods of Episode II and Episode IV. How about rule of law efforts on Tatooine? Blowing up Alderaan didn't help endear the empire to the people, I am sure.

An armed state is one thing if the quality of life for large majorities of the people, but a large security apparatus is merely oppressive when information operations and economic development are left completely out of the picture.

The Empire did conduct adequate clearing of insurgents, but it never followed that up with building security and transitioning the governing capacity to local civilians.The civil affairs piece was entirely ignored, and public affairs was taken for granted.

For their part, the rebels conducted a nearly picture-perfect insurgency. Obviously lacking the resources of the government, they used small guerilla attacks and informal networks to harass government forces. In the style of Paul Van Ryper, they employed primitive communications and weaponry when appropriate ("an elegant weapon for a more civilized age").

But they also went for high profile attacks, forcing the government to spend too many resources trying to protect their interests instead of rooting out the insurgency with a direct approach. A footprint as large as the Death Star-- fully operational or not-- was obviuosly going to invite attack after attack until the rebellion was thoroughly stamped out.

Of course, the entire affair is proof that insurgency/ counterinsurgency is valent-neutral. That is, it's impossible to tell the good guys from the bad just by the label.

Maybe one day I'll leave the ranks of counterinsurgent and join a cool insurgency, but only if there is a really hot princess up for grabs. Who's not my sister.

Army Travel Is So Much Fun

Getting to KAF was quite an adventure. And a test of our best virtues.

Our scheduled departure time was at 0100 on a Thursday morning. Of course that meant we had to be ready the prior afternoon.

The Army was kind enough to put a shipping container right outside our door so that each of us could put our three bags inside and not have to walk to wherever the postal unit we were joining was located. We loaded the truck by 1700 and at 1900 hopped onto the bus to drive over to meet our travel partners.

It was a 100-meter drive. Unloading our container and reloading the other container took much longer than it would have to walk over there in the first place. All warm and fuzzy, we piled back onto the bus and headed off to the Philadelphia airport.

Approximately an hour later the bus arrived at a small private "Executive" terminal airport and we were all told to unload the bus and wait inside for further instruction. The inside of the terminal was outfitted with comfortable couches and wooden furniture. We all nestled in for our five-hour wait and I was very satisfied with how our night was going. I should have known better…If you are traveling with the military and you feel “satisfied” there is definitely something wrong.

The announcement came down: get back on the bus to head to the main airport terminal to get weighed. We all waited in line with our bags glued to the front of our chests and individually stepped onto the airport scales for our final weight.

We then reloaded the bus and drove back to the previous terminal. As soon as we arrived back and started unloading we were immediately told to reload the bus.

Our time had come! The buses wound their way onto the flight line, where our chartered 777 awaited us. A quick fuel up and we'd be on our way. Four hundred Marines were warming our seats. There was just one hitch. The baggage handlers hadn't shown up, and Soldiers had to load the 60-pound duffles into the belly of the plane.

Soldiers loading bags is nothing new, but spare us the, "oh, someone didn't show up" routine. And by the way, we could have waited for them to show up, because we were on that bus, on the flight line, staring at the airplane, for about two hours.

Eventually, of course, we boarded and experienced the coldest flight of our lives, with a two-hour stop in Bangor, Maine.

The important thing is that we arrived in Romania safely, early in the evening. The Army made sure we got a hot meal immediately. By immediately I mean after we unloaded our baggage from the plane, loaded it onto trucks, unloaded it and organized it by unit, received a brief about what to expect in Romania, and my favorite part: removing our ESAPI plates from within our vests at the bottom of our duffles for inspection.

If I ever get shot and my front or back plates save my life, I'll be very thankful for that minor inconvenience, since my plates failed and I had to exchange them. In any other event, I'll hail it as a monumental waste of time.

Before loading the bags again, we took possession of our weapons and packed a 36-hour bag, and finally got to eat at around midnight. It was exceedingly yummy.

Two sleeps later we were boarding a C-17 for a  loud, cold (not as cold as the one to Bangor) flight. And not even a direct one. We dropped off the flock of Marines at Camp Bastion in Helmand.

One might say that the whole point was to make us grateful to arrive in Afghanistan.

But if it was a test, we must be virtuous beyond measure.

See You in Afghanistan

On the eve of a major movement, I sit in my bunk at a NATO base in Romania. It is very interesting how the world changes. Less than a generation ago, this installation likely housed troops of the Warsaw Pact. Now it’s the staging center for the largest and longest ever NATO operation.

The room looks like it belongs in the Ikea military catalog—small and minimalist. White and shiny.

I can’t say that I’ll miss this place. I stare at the few belongings the Army was kind enough to let me hold onto for the 36 hours we were here. It all fits into a single backpack. The extra Rubbermaid container is along for the ride simply because I refused to have spent $4 on it without keeping it a while longer.

Houston just walked in. He is abundantly optimistic. I wish I possessed that quality, in slightly less measure than he. Not that I am pessimistic, by any means. It’s just that I am easily annoyed. If you like this blog, you ought to be glad, I suppose, since a good portion of the posts are outlets for Army-induced frustration.

Esther and I have been texting. We’ll find out next billing cycle how badly T-Mobile is going to shake us down. Right now I don’t care.

Etheridge, who per habit went to sleep several hours ago (it is now 11:00 pm), has just woken up. We argue for a bit about the past participle of “wake.” Solomon argues that I should just write “awaken.” I don’t want to. Etheridge asserts that the sentence should read, “He has been awaken by the people in his room.” He promised to smother us in our sleep.

How does it feel to be on my way to Afghanistan? Hard to describe. I am trying to remember what is was like at this point on the Kosovo tour. I really can’t remember.

I am excited, for one thing. I have been hyping this thing up in my mind for over a year. I just sent an email to my dissertation committee members explaining to them my proposed timeline. Breaking away from school, work, family, and life is a huge emotional challenge. Part of that challenge is talking myself into looking forward to something that’s going to be so hard.

One emotion that I am not feeling is sadness. I got choked up a few days ago, when we were leaving Fort Dix. Esther and I talked on the phone and the thought of finally leaving the United States put us both in a state. We’re both past that point now, and just planning on how to make things easier on the boys.

We show up at 6:45 am in front of the Ikea barracks to catch a bus to the flight line. They say we’ll get on a C-17, which is kind of cool for about eight minutes. It’ll be a five-hour flight.

Now the guys are talking about going to midnight chow. I don’t want to get out of my bunk, but I probably will.

See you in Afghanistan. 

Insecurity Is an Army Value

By SSG Lyndsey Prax

If you've ever spoken to anyone in the U.S. Military then there’s no doubt you know why their service is better than the others.

The Air Force for example has better everything: better food, lodging, equipment, facilities. Marines, as they tell it, are tougher and more willing to fight (in bars and on beach heads). Sailors apparently get to travel the world in boats.

So what is so special about the Army you ask? This blog has addressed that question before. Twice, actually. But the real strength of the U.S. Army comes from its multitudinous experts. Seventy-three per cent of Soldiers experts, and that number rises to 94 per cent for E5 and above! Experts at what? Yes.

Soldiers are experts at pointing out others mistakes and even better at making excuses for their own.

Let’s use today as an example. Today I cleared my weapon three times inside of two minutes. Clearly I am an expert at clearing my weapon. However, the last time I cleared the weapon I failed to switch my selector switch from “semi” to “safe”. Thank God my expert NCOIC discovered my mistake and punished me by demanding I perform 25 push-ups.

And wouldn’t you know it-- every other Soldier in my unit was an expert in diagnosing my push up deficiencies. One expert dropped to the floor and started showing me how to perform a correct push-up, but apparently she was not performing them correctly either! Good thing there were other experts on hand. They proceeded in turn, each performing their best push-up while the others from the side performed their duty of criticizing.

Of course no one’s was perfect. The real point of the exercise was for each to defend his or her own expertise. We have to prove, after all, why we are better than those Marines (in the bar or on the beach head).

Although I am nearly perfect in every way, I am happy I chose the service that has individuals with the courage and integrity to point out all of my flaws and mistakes; the service that affords me the opportunity to turn my defensiveness and insecurity into a virtue by encouraging me to point out, er, correct, others' weaknesses.

I can’t think of any better way to spend my time.

E5 promoted two ranks for psychological disorder

FORT BRAGG, North Carolina, March 29, 2014—The Army promoted Sergeant Justin Richmond to Sgt. 1^st Class on Wednesday after military doctors diagnosed him with a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Eric Swenson, Richmond’s battalion sergeant major, said that Sgt. 1^st Class Richmond’s attention to detail was a key part of the decision.

“As we draw down from two major wars, we need NCOs who can begin to focus more on uniform appearance,” Swenson said. “Combat is all well and good, but a properly garrisoned Army must be neat and tidy.”

“We have confidence that Sgt. 1^st Class Richmond’s condition will give him the ability to spot uniform wear violations quickly. It’s really the most OCD soldier I’ve seen in a long time. He’ll be an outstanding senior NCO.”

“I’m stunned. I never thought of myself as a senior leader,” remarked the newly minted E7 as he adjusted his chest rank for the 11^th time. “But then again, I don't consider myself mentally ill. I just can’t ignore egregious deviations from standards.”

Richmond corrected his commander’s uniform no less than four times during the promotion ceremony. Swenson said that with that kind of moxy, he thinks Richmond could be on the fast track to sergeant major.

“He’s got 19 patrol caps, for God’s sake,” the sergeant major said.

Richmond says he just hasn't found one that has a front seam exactly in the middle.

Promotions based entirely on medical conditions are extremely rare, and Richmond’s promotion was the first since World War II that an enlisted soldier moved up two grades.

The doctor who examined and diagnosed Richmond would not comment on his case precisely, but indicated that a theoretical case of OCD that was excessive would probably give a patient extreme sensitivity to regulation violations.

“We just need to marry up his compulsivity to the exact regulations in AR 670-1,” said Master Sgt. Gail Brice. “That’s really all there is to excelling as an E8 in this Army nowadays.”

"There is a fine line between mental instability and the kind of vigilance over a soldier's presentation we need in the Army," added Brice.

Others aren’t convinced. First Lt. Joseph Samudio thinks there is more to leadership than merely pointing out variations from appearance standards.

“What about combat tasks? Decisions making? Judgment? There are 100 things more important than uniform wear,” said Samudio.

Staff Sgt. David Swittingham, Richmond’s former squad leader, echoed those sentiments, saying that he wanted a leader who understood the individual needs of his soldiers, and could customize training to meet the needs of the soldier and the needs of the Army.

Richmond promptly ordered Swittingham to do push ups.

(Photo altered, original  by SSG Michael Zuk)

Soldiers at McDonalds: Exporting Democracy

Two years ago I reminisced about Army chow. Let me take this opportunity to reminisce anew. I have often said that Army food is pretty darned good. That statement disregards MREs, of course. It now disregards most of what comes out of the chow hall at U.S. Army Garrison Yongsan in Seoul, Korea.

Luckily, we had alternatives in abundance.

It was wonderful to see the Golden Arches all over Seoul. So far as I can tell, there are 25 McDonalds in the greater Seoul area. We visited one, and I saw two others in my very short travels.

This blog reports that the chain hopes to have 500 restaurants in the ROK by 2015.

I am a loyal McDonalds diner here at home, and in my visit to Korean Mickey Dees, three things made me particularly happy.

1. As trite as it sounds, the taste of McDonalds is consistent and welcoming. Coming off a string of less-than-desirable meals featuring kimchi, cups of noodles, and a tubed meat paste that we were never able to identify, a good old Big Mac soothed the palate and the soul.

2. Seeing lots of Koreans stand in lines for burgers, fries and coke justified, to me at least, our 60-year alliance. If we can't get a McDonalds where we send our Soldiers, then what good is war? I joke, but only a little. McDonalds works pretty well. They are able to deliver a product to a lot of people who want it. Everyone involved in the arrangement seemed pretty happy about it. (I didn't asked the cattle).

While I'm not going to go so far as to say that McDonalds causes prosperity  I will say that I believe McDonalds-type chains to be an indicator of economic and social stability. Put it this way, they don't have any Mickey Dee's in North Korea.

3. Korean McDonalds are much more upscale than their American progenitors. I've seen the same thing in Germany and heard the same said about McDonalds the world over. It's not five-star, but respectable, and not patronized solely for convenience (the restaurant we went to in Seoul didn't even have a parking lot). Oh, and Korean McDonalds delivers!

To recap: Army chow good. Korean Army chow bad. McDonalds as good as ever. 

Shoveling it Down: An Ode to Food

I haven't reduced my holiday calorie intake. I think by mid-April I might return to normal levels.

Whether it's huge helpings, the need for dessert nightly, or taking advantage of endless choices for dining out, I am just plain eating way too much.

By the way, I love suburban restaurant chains-- their value and variety are part of my own little American dream. (I'll include McDonalds in that dream, too, though whether the fast food king belongs in the suburban category is a matter for another time.)

Recently I shoveled down good American dream-type food at the Texas Roadhouse. My family got together there because, as the rumor went, the ribs just fall off the bone. When it came time to order our waitress confirmed that "the ribs just fall off the bone."

I got the ribs. But that was after bread and sweet butter to die for, jalapeno poppers, and a deep fried onion appetizer. I also dug into my sweet potato with all the fixings before I went after the ribs. Sure enough, the meat just fell off the one.

It all reminded me-- in a very roundabout way-- of Army food.

OK, you're back on your chair? Check for bruises before you continue reading.

In Nine Weeks I describe Army food (chow) in very glowing terms: "delectable" and "fantastic" are two words you'll see in the chapter about chow. Here's another:

Breakfast in the chow hall was All-American. Nearly every morning one had a choice among eggs, sausage, bacon, waffles, pancakes, an entire array of fruits, yogurts, breakfast pastries, cereals, and a variety of milks and juices. It was a veritable smorgasbord of breakfast bounty, one for which I would cheerfully go out to PT each morning knowing that I was that much closer to a feast.

Now since Basic, I have tempered my enthusiasm of Army food, only because I have been to some really bad chow halls. But I stand by my assessment of the food at Fort Sill.

The problem was, we never really had time to enjoy it.

"Shovel it down! You can taste it later!"

Four years into the Soldiering thing, and I am still shoveling it down, much to my wife's chagrin.

Maybe that's why I am eating too much.

The Awesomeness of Killing

I was honored again to attend the commissioning of a family member.

Since the previous one had the crap beat out of him in SERE training, partly because I outed him as an officer, I will refrain from naming the most recent one. Also, I can't spell his name.

But congratulations, What's-Your-Name.

The ceremony, as tradition required, featured a first salute, whereby a non-commissioned officer renders that high sign of respect to his once-junior. Often, the NCO will accompany the hand signal with a clever saying.

I can't remember what he actually said, but the sergeant major who rendered What's-His-Name his first salute wanted to say:

"Sir, a dead enemy is a peaceful enemy."

To which 2LT What's-His-Face should have responded, "Blessed be the peacemakers."

Now that's very clever.

And very appropriate. The Army trains killers. I highlighted that very stark reality in Nine Weeks, because it caught me off guard when I first dove headfirst into Army culture.

From my debut at weekend drill, when entire platoons of 18-year-olds sounded off with "One shot one kill!" to Fort Sill, where we answered our drills sergeants' query, "What is the spirit of the bayonet?"

"To kill! Kill! Kill without mercy!"

It is kind of refreshing to find an organization that minces no words about what they want to accomplish.

The Soldier's Creed itself proudly proclaims, "I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States in close combat."

It's sometimes muddled when politics requires Soldiers to abide by silly feel-good phrases like "hearts and minds." Hardcore types interpret it as tactical doctrine: "That's where we aim first."

Soldiers kill. The Army is not a work program, nor is it a vehicle for social justice. It is a necessary component of our national security, and I am grateful that there are people willing to do what it takes to ensure it.

Photo by Air Force Master Sgt. Michael Haggerty; "Sniper! One Shot One Kill."

A Brief but Productive Hiatus

Loyal Cynics (and NSA employees who are tracking anti-government websites):

I am currently at an Army training school, which means I am spending much of my time cleaning latrines and tightening hospital corners on my bunk-- you know, the sorts of things that make us so fearsome to the enemy.

It also means I will have too little time during the next two weeks to post anything meaningful.

But fear not, for I am taking copious notes, which, if you know anything about the history of this blog, should provide me with bountiful opportunities to offer constructive criticism of Army teaching practices.

My list is already at 11, and it's only the first day.

Get ready NSA.

Basic Training for Grumpy Old Men

In my day, we didn't have fancy training regimens. If you wanted to get ready for war, you just rode through the streets of West Oakland on your bicycle flying a flag that said "I hate black people! And we liked it!"

One can imagine the young Dana Carvey, playing his classic "Grumpy Old Man" describing how improvements in life make nothing but softies.

The following is an example why G.O.M. is so funny-- because it's so ridiculous. Nobody would argue that current condom technology is inferior to rabbit skins and bungee cords, so we can laugh at it.

The following news item (which I discovered three months late) illustrates how Army training is improving, too: Army training: Bayonets out, ‘ab blasters’ in

Sadly, there are thousands of grumpy old men in the military. 

Talk to ANYBODY in the Army, and they will tell you that they had it harder at Basic than anyone who went through after them.

It's a bunch of crock. Maybe the drills could beat them or they had to polish leather boots all the time, but that doesn't mean it was harder.

I have heard a dozen reasons why BCT was harder in the past, before the Army got "soft," and started worrying about "feelings."

But for every reason some dimwitted old codger in an ACU can recite, I can rattle off two reasons why being a Soldier is more stressful today.

In fact, the current changes merely underscore the more difficult circumstances in which young men and women are volunteering to serve today versus three decades ago.

Getting beat up is infinitely easier than having to weigh the multitude of considerations in today's highly-politicized war.

In my day, we don't have the luxury of mindlessly going through the motions, and claiming we are good Soldiers just because we broke a sweat. Today's Army is a more dynamic and powerful force."

And we are better for it.

Talking in Formation? Never!

In class, why do students think they can get away with off-task behavior-- particularly talking-- simply because others are doing it?

My 9th-grade students do it all the time. The main rule in my classroom is to not talk during any type of presentation. Usually, it means that students should shut their pieholes while I am delivering instruction. I don't spend more than six or seven minutes at a time talking, but I have rarely made it without multiple interruptions.

Reminds me of the Army Formation-- that dreaded organism that is neither dead nor vibrant, a weird limbo-like collection of Soldiers who await the judgment of some higher authority.

While waiting for inspiration, revelation, or resucitation, Soldiers usually violate their oath of silence. At Basic, in fact, most of our troubles were the result of bad formation manners.

As I put it in Nine Weeks:

"Privates trickled out from the stairwell and laundry room and found their spots in formation. Once assembled, we waited like statues for DS Jackson to march us off somewhere. But before long, we were in a full-blown family argument. It would start with one soldier making a comment, inducing someone else to tell that private to shut up. Of course the first man would have to defend or explain himself, at which point several others would jump in trying to quite the first two or take sides. The reaction was thus unleashed, everyone trying to solve a problem that they didn’t realize they were a part of. The noise would reach a crescendo just as the drill sergeant appeared.

Open ranks, MARCH!”

I wish I could put my students in the front-leaning rest.

Whatever causes erect privates (get your mind out of the gutter!) to chatter and quarrel in formation is the same impulse that compels high school students to talk, and bicker about it, while in the classroom "formation." 

In that way, my math students are a lot like the Soldiers in an Army platoon formation.

Frequently, students will claim innocence in the face of a charge that they were talking. Often, Student A will use the fact that Student B was talking as an excuse. Periodically, the lone student will start a chain reaction of misbehavior.

That when, sad as it is to say, the drill sergeant comes out. What can we do to instill discipline without resorting to yelling and group punishment?

Let me know if you have any ideas, because I hate scolding the group for the sake of a few. And it seems to be counterproductive anyway; the few miscreants seek safety in the group. I suppose I continue to punish everybody in hopes of building a group culture, one that does not tolerate substandard behavior.

That's certainly the idea behind collective punishments in the Army. Teamwork, we are told, is the goal.

It must take more than nine months to develop.