Like Son, Like Father

     Soldiers will always be my heros.  As a child I used to see my father come home from work in his Army uniform and help pull off his boots in the hopes of getting a quarter that he stuffed in the sides of one of them.  As I grew I watched my two older brothers, invincible heroes in my eyes each don an Army uniform and I wanted to be just like them.  I remember seeing my eldest brother Robert in full gear beside one of the trucks he drove and I thought he was a green camoflauged Storm Trooper from StarWars.  My brother Larry wore desert tans (DCUs)  and Battle Dress greens (BDUs) and Digitized Pattern grays (ACUs), moving up the ranks from E-1 to E-8 a constant True North to set my compass by.  I will always look up to my father and my big brothers for their valiant service to our Great Country as I know our children will look up to us for ours. 
     I met someone today that reminded me that fathers can look up to sons just as much as sons can look up to fathers.  Sitting around a small well worn chess set with several chess pieces that had been reglued together on a wooden bench in front of fully Up Armored Tactical vehicles as the sun was beginning to set on Camp Cropper, Iraq I asked the gentleman sitting across the board from me a question.  "How long have you been in the Military SGT Smith?" SGT Smith looked about 65years old but was just in his mid fifties.  The effect was enhanced by the fact that he had just come off of a mission and his deep seated facial creases were lined with dark dried dirt.  "15 years now, Sir. I was going to get out but my son changed my mind."  "You're son changed your mind?" "Yes Sir.  I had done my time, and my son convinced me to re-enlist.  I wasn't going to but then he got killed while fighting in Kirkuk and I signed back on in honor of his service.  He died fighting 2 years ago today."  I saw a wet streak of grime run down his face without embarrassment.  I asked if I could pray for him and his family on this the anniversary of his sons sacrifice.  16 hats flew off dirty bowed heads and I prayed my heart out.  When I finished I reached my finger over to my King and slowly set it on its side...Soldiers will always be my heros.

The Sounds of the Guns

     I have been overwhelmed by the sound of silence thus far in this tour.  I know I have only been here a short while, but I am in Baghdad, Iraq less than a mile from Route Irish that was the flashpoint of hundreds upon hundreds of bombs, attacks, and forever changed lives.  It should be named Patriots Path, because it has been washed with the blood of heroes.  Weeks and I have not heard any of the sounds that haunt my dreams, and steal in front of my eyes when I'm present but still far away.  No prayer calls, no mortars, no crackle of gunfire and wail of sirens. No blaring radio, urgently calling for my aid, no purple hearts laid on patriot chest, no smells that evoke instant tears of sorrow.  I'm not complaining nor am I wishing for these things, I am off guard, teetering unsure of which way to lean, towards belief, or towards fear that the lightning is about to strike and wars thunder any moment will breach the errie silence.  Somewhere in the middle is what Im attempting with a modicum of success outwardly.  Inwardly I wait, and feel lost without a purpose, and at the same time guilty for the sensation.  Silence isnt sadness, its always been the preceptor of the chaos.  Yet minutes have crept to hours, hours to days, days to weeks and the chaos only has shape in the echoes of my dreams, familiar nightmares like welcome friends, comforting in their presence.  Unseen Medals for the privilege of serving next to legends in a time quickly being forgotten by hands rushing to turn the page.  Trying to put this strange feeling into words, I wrote a poem to help express my thoughts.

The Sounds of the Guns

     Where are the sounds of the guns?

How have the mighty gone silent?

     Heroes walk as tourists now

taking pictures of ghosts from not so long ago.

     When the sounds of the guns were the music that filled the night

Blackhawks like predators in the darkness swooping, screaming, gone.

     Haunting prayer call piercing silence,

Whistle heralding mortars approach.

     Feel the reverberation before sound deafens

Belated warning prepares for more.

     Echoes now, only echoes of a war that defined yesterday,

wounded today and scarred tomorrow

     with glassy-eyed zombies telling tales to non-believers

of the sounds of the guns whose terror now diminished

     is longed for by those whose hearts and souls were shaped

by their sounding, ever sounding, now silenced.

     How can they keep rhythm anymore?

     How have the mighty gone silent

Now that the streets are filled with dusty silence

     And the guns are gone in all but stories told

By veterans who were made to age too soon

     To wide-eyed Soldiers who seem far too young

Too young, too young to hear the echoes

     Of the sounds of the guns.

Transitioning

     Its been a week full of walking around, shaking hands, cups of coffee, powerpoint presentations, staff call meetings, arranging offices, moving offices, Skyping family, playing pool, ping-pong, basketball, karaoke, and cluelessly roaming about during an Indirect Fire Attack. All in all, a whirlwind of events cascading about me whose only distinguishable sense of order has come from each events relative occurances being either before or after breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
     As far as Chaplain services that I am responsible for there are currently three ongoing events.  A Wednesday Night Bible Study, Sunday Morning Protestant Service, and a Sunday Evening Ugandan Service.  Wednesday went well, and I look forward to my first lesson in the drivers seat this upcoming Wednesday.  It will be like my Friday Night Bible Studies that I looked forward to all week back at home. (Minus some awesome cooking by my wife, which is why everyone else who attended it looked forward to it all week.)  Sunday morning service had around 50 people in it, and could have fooled me into thinking I was back home on American soil in the Post Chapel (except there everyone conceals the weapons they've brought to Church, here you have to say "Excuse me Sir/Ma'am but I think your gun is digging into my hip.")
     Sunday night has a lot of potential.  When I heard I would be leading a Ugandan Service (the Ugandans pull most of our outer perimeter security these days.) I expected it to be just that, Ugandan in flavor.  It turned out to be 20-25 Ugandans trying to mirror the morning service.  The Chaplain preached in English to glassy eyed seemingly non-comprehending congregants (which I suppose kind of mirrors most Churches back in the States as well) and then when the choir was asked to come sing, they had sheet music trying to pronounce the words to the same choruses that were sang in the morning service and with pained smiles they beat the lyrics out, and with barely contained winces we endured because it was obvious their hearts were in it.  After the final line grated to a reverberating halt and my neck muscles began to untense the Chaplain said "Do ya'll have one more you might could do for us?" Apparently they had not planned for another, so they thankfully set the sheet music aside and in perfect barbershop harmony sang the most hauntingly beautiful hymn in Zwahili that I have ever heard.  Tears came to my eyes quicker than if I was told a fresh pot of coffee had just been brewed.
     I quickly gathered together all of the Ugandan choir members and asked if anyone felt confident enough in the English language to be able to translate next weeks sermon into Swahili, and everyone immediatly pointed their fingers at one person (probably their equivalent to the lowest ranking private) and he said "I would be happy to Sir."  I asked if they thought it would help to translate the sermon and every head bobbed in unison, as they said many more Ugandans would come who could not understand  English as well.  I told them it was settled, the sermons would be translated each Sunday evening.  Then I added "And from this point on, only sing in Swahili."  All faces broke into big smiles.  Then the gentleman who got peer chosen as a translator asked "But Sir, did you understand the praise we just sang to God?" And I said "No, but I understood the Spirit, and I worshipped with you."  Next Sunday should be awesome.

Shrunk To A NUB

     In 2006 when I deployed to Iraq I had made the acquaintance of a gentleman in the United States that I called “Battle Buddy Bob.” Battle Buddy Bob and his company send thousands of boxes of goodies a year to Soldiers deployed in theaters of war and they are filled with all sorts of morale boosting items, such as soap, toothpaste, chips, candy, and even humidors filled with expensive cigars.  Upon receiving the call to return to Iraq this year I re-contacted my old Battle Buddy and true to form he sent an initial set of boxes even while the Unit was in the States preparing to deploy and among other things it contained a humidor filled with cigars. 

     SFC Ford loves cigars.  In fact he is the closest thing I have ever met to a cigar connoisseur.  Discovering he liked cigars I turned over the humidor and cigar collection sent by Battle Buddy Bob to SFC Ford’s tender care and discretion in distribution.  As a side note I discovered in Ft. Bliss, Texas while our Unit was doing its training exercise for Iraq while sitting outside my tent one night with SFC Ford while he was smoking a cigar that he and I had actually met each other in Mosul, Iraq in 2007 on a sad day for his Unit (which is when I unfortunately met most Soldiers over there being a hospital Chaplain.) What a small war. Anyway… As soon as SFC Ford arrived in country he was very quickly knighted in ceremony as the President of the Camp Cropper Cigar Club.  This in and of itself is not surprising, I mean while attending one of the smoky meetings of this club SFC Ford was asked why cigars have paper bands on them and without pausing he gave an informative lecture on how Mary Queen of Scotts loved cigars but as royalty would not let her hand touch tobacco. Since she was uncomfortable using only one glove to handle the cigar, her advisors wrapped a small band of paper around it so she could grasp the cigar bare fingered without sullying her royal digits.  I say that to say, he is Cigar Club President worthy.  What was surprising to me is that SFC Ford has told me he wants to see about having me knighted as the Vice- President of the Camp Cropper Cigar Club.  (I think it’s because I’ve pledged to be a supplier of Cigars through the generosity of Battle Buddy Bob, not because I know anything about cigars, but hey Vice President sounds pretty cool, and no Vice President ever gets too much media attention unless they shoot someone on a hunting trip which is not my present plan.)

      Last night I was headed back to my room after a rigorous workout and a hasty dinner when I noticed a gathering of said Cigar Club around a community table outside and I decided to walk over and join them.  SFC Ford was regaling the crowd with several cigar related adventures from previous deployments (the man truly is the most interesting man in the world and will have his own commercials one day).  When he saw me his face lit up like his bright cigar and he asked “Chaplain! What kind of Cigar would you like?” As a potential candidate for Vice Presidency I didn’t want to say “I have no idea what brands of cigars exist” so instead I diplomatically asked “What kinds do you have?” He rattled off several to the “Ooos” and “Ahhs” of the listening group.  After he had listed the Baskin Robbins 31 flavors and all eyes turned expectantly to me I was in no better shape than I was before afraid that I was at a fancy French restaurant trying to impress my French friends by ordering from a French Menu and not knowing what the waiter had just spouted off as choices.  So I answered as smoothly as possible, “Why doesn’t the President let me try his favorite?” All smiles and nods from the group for a decision well made.  I’m a shoo in for the Office.  Proof that idiots sometimes get hired to political positions I suppose.

     You see Cigars have not only different names, but different levels of strength, or death-like effect producing potency in Non/Very Rarely Smoking individuals such as myself, and I had unwisely just asked a smoking expert who had spent years building up an immunity to iocane powder to give me his favorite dosage of the stuff.  He reached into his treasure box and gingerly lifted with two tenderly cradling  hands his cigar of choice.  I am certain a light emanated from the humidor as he did so and an un-seen cigar choir began singing as he reverently handed me his version of the Holy Grail.  “This… is a NUB Chaplain.”  He waited expectantly so I quickly changed my face to a look of awe, which I assumed to be appropriate for the situation.  For the sake of the other less informed members of the Cigar Club he explained the NUB (I listened in a non-interested manner as though this was common knowledge).  He said in Cigar shops people will smoke their cigars so that the Queen of Scotts Cigar Band Label can be seen by all.  If I am smoking a “K-Mart” equivalent Banded cigar I shall be shunned while if I am smoking a “Rolex” Equivalent Banded cigar people will gravitate towards me just for the privilege of getting cancer in my presence.  He said with a NUB, everyone would be looking at me as though King Arthur had returned.  All eyes turned back to me now, wide as though I was King Arthur suddenly made manifest, after all it was I who held aloft the Excalibur of cigars… the fabled NUB.

     In order to light said Cigar SFC Ford lit a long match and I had to draw vigorously several times to make sure the flame took.  It was then I had realized my fatal mistake.  I had just drawn into my mouth Riot Control Strength C.S. Gas and had to look at my adoring fans (or at least the cigars adoring fans) and let out a convincing “Ahhh.” I wanted to cough and scream out “AHHH SH<<<!!!!” run into the barracks and inhale the fire extinguisher which I’m sure would have been an improvement to my lungs.  However as this would not have been appropriate for a potential Vice President of the Cigar Club (let alone for a Chaplain) I smiled and wheezed slowly out “Ahhh” and left the rest hanging in the air like a dangling modifier for my upcoming nightmares.  The next hour saw us slowly drawing down the cigars length.  It was taking as long as the Troop draw down in Iraq.  The Club policy is no one leaves the table until everyone has finished their cigars.  SFC Ford announced to 1LT Acred as she started to leave for the bathroom 30 minutes in that “I know you’re not leaving yet, Chaplain and I still have cigars left.” I knew then I was doomed to my fate.  I made witty banter while the world began to spin. Casually wiped away beads of sweat in the 30 degree winter air, and thanked the Lord for the cover of night so that my greenish pallor could be hidden. 

     Finally we excused ourselves and I stumbled gracefully to my room turned off the lights, collapsed on my bed and held on with two hands so I didn’t fall off the spinning world.  At two O’Clock in the morning I finally woke up with the taste of NUB fresh on my breath and the realization that I was still fully clothed…and an idiot.  I could almost hear God smile and say “Want another one son?”     

There

Got the hardest part of the deployment over: Kneeling down, hugging my crying children, and telling them how much I love them and will miss them.  Kissing my brave and wonderful wife and then trying not to look behind me as I set my jaw towards the path that would lead me on a grand adventure in a land far far away.  Loaded up into the Delta Airlines plane that would take me to Germany and then on to Kuwait and was surprised when I was told that a First Class Seat had been set aside specifically for me!  I have never ridden in First Class in my life, and I felt a twinge of guilt right up to the point that I sat down in the most comfortable fully reclining lazyboy chair in the world. It had lumbar adjustments, individual Television set, reclining and adjustable legs, computer outlet plugs...wow.  While in flight a stewardess asked if I would like to come sit with the pilots and my first thought was "Oh Lord if the pilots are asking for a Chaplain we are in serious trouble."  They just wanted to say hello and let me take pictures.  I was expecting a two handled steering device like in the movies.  It wasn't there. They had an Atari joystick that they only used on takeoff and landing. The rest was automatic. I was allowed to come and go as I pleased in the cockpit.  The coolest time came when we were flying over Turkey and the pilots had me come take a photo of the mountains of Ararat as we glided over them, flying past clouds like we had road-rage.  I'll check the footage later for any Ark sightings.  Made it to Kuwait and am working on getting over jetlag.  I think its a combination of the flight and the fact that I'm trying to go cold turkey on all sodas that has me so physically zombied-out.  Hello everyone, my name is Stephen and I am three days clean from sodas.  Coffee has been affixed to me permanently via IV however.  Did rollover training today.  I discovered that when a vehicle rolls over and I'm inside, I have the capacity to roll over as well. Fun times!