The Tourist

     I got my tourist opportunity in today.  I went with some fellow Soldiers onto Victory Base to tour the never completed but very bombed to pieces “Victory over America Palace” that Saddam was building in anticipation of whupping the world’s largest super-power.  Back in 2003 the palace wasn’t completed, or even occupied but had to be bombed on sheer principle alone because of its incredibly presumptuous name. 

     I walked through four levels of rubble that once was marble and carved stone.  An elaborate testament to the state one finds themselves in when they fight against U.S. Soldiers.  From one of the top balconies I took pictures of “The Flintstone Village” That Saddam had built for his grandchildren to play in after he had killed their fathers.  I suppose his thinking was “Dads will be missed, but a good playground is forever”. 

     So in the very halls built to celebrate my demise I took pictures of myself smiling amidst the debris and enjoying such classical pieces of U.S. art on the walls as “I love you mom.” And “Suga-Nuff was here.”  Shock and Awe people, shock and awe.

A Food Coma

    

     What a fun day!  The sermon I preached on this morning came from the Book of Daniel chapter one, and was all about how to be people of integrity and praise God even when life doesn't work out the way we want it to.  With this sermon ready things began giving me opportunity to practice what I was about to preach as the proxima for the songs that we had spent a lot of time on refused to work.  It was turned on but no matter what I did (even those things that had worked previously) the computers screen would not show on the proxima.  The Colonel sat waiting, my Rater and Senior Raters sat occasionally checking their watches for the start time when I made the decision for no slides.  I walked up to the choir director to whisper discreetly that he just teach us the words as we sang, and he stood up, walked to the back where the computer was and pushed the same buttons I had been pushing and the songs appeared like magic on the big screen...The first song "How Great is Our God."  Unfortunately somehow the W had disappeared mysteriously and in great big bold font on every slide was "Ho  Great is Our God."  The Ugandans sang it loudly just as they read it.  I prayed God would let me keep my internal monologue internal.  After the service a Soldier shook my hand as she was leaving and said "The choir is so good, I felt like they were singing right to me." I couldn't shake anymore hands and excused my smiling self for lunch.

     Lunch was at an Iraqi restaurant and it was delicious!  I ate Hummus, and beef kabob, and pork kabob, and two different kinds of soup, and multiple forms of rice, pita bread, veggies, jalapenos...I wobbled away from the table with blurry vision and was just a breath mint away from slipping entirely into a food coma. We drove back to Camp Cropper around 3 O’clock and SFC Ford said at 5:30 we would meet back up to go to dinner at the local Iraqi Generals house.  I laid down on my bed and was instantly awakened by a tapping on my door.  Struggling into an upright position I cracked the door open to see SPC Nelson as he said, "Are you ready to go Sir, its 5:30."  I had indeed suffered a two hour food coma from which I was not entirely recovered. 

    We drove onto the Iraqi compound as the last rays of light from the sunset began fading to darkness, and the first thing I saw was three men around a burn barrel made out of what looked like an old sink and I knew we were in the wrong neighborhood.  On one side of us the grass was as tall as our vehicle, and I was told by MAJ Johnson that this used to be a wildlife preserve.  As we pulled in front of a mini palace I saw a horse tethered to a tree and wondered if it was scheduled to be up-armored at some point.  Off to our right was a large cage filled with monkeys and I began wondering what dinner was actually going to consist of.  Inside was a mixture of US Soldiers, Italian Special Forces, and every uniform in the Iraqi inventory. Small glasses on saucers were filled with piping hot sweet Chai Tea and we were quickly given ours. In the center of the room was a circular drop-off into a body of water that flowed in from somewhere below the building.  I was told that crocodiles used to help interrogate people there at one point in history.  Alongside the railing of this drop-off to the water ran a massive banquet table filled with every kind of Iraqi food imaginable as well as drinks, and plates...but no chairs.  The table was of normal height so eating while sitting was out of the question.  One of the Iraqi interpreters from Camp Cropper saw us and came over to explain.  He said the General had been serving this great Banquet for everyone each Sunday for the past four years.  He took us near the table and had us stand near a plate.  He said when you hear the bell ring, rush to the plate and start filling it with food before it is gone.  The first ones there get the best things.  I guess Iraqi dinners aren’t that different from my house after all. 

     Dinner was magnificent!  I ignored my stomach screaming that I had lost my mind and cleaned my plate then downed several more glasses of Chai as I walked around like a happy tourist and took pictures with every group of Iraqi Soldiers I could see.  We returned to base around 9PM and after spending some quality time thinking about the consequences of my gluttonous ways in the latrine I decided to share my fun day with whoever wanted to read.

Unseen Badges

                                    "Even in Laughter the heart may be sad." (Prov 14:13)

     I laugh a lot.  Most Soldiers I know laugh a lot.  Dave Roever, a motivational Christian speaker who was horribly wounded serving as a Navy Seal in Vietnam once said "I beat back depression one laugh at a time."  I spend a lot of my time laughing with Soldiers, drinking coffee, talking about extremely insignificant things often in inappropriate ways as they decelerate and defuse from unseen pressures that would crush softer souls yet they seem to bear up under the weight with the strange help of the many callouses Military life has earned them.  The harder the pressure the more necessary the laughter.  The times I sit and laugh about nothing unjudgementally, undemanding, tends invariably to somehow earn me the right to later sit on sacred ground with those same Soldiers and hear stories that wrench all laughter away from me.

      I have noticed a pattern among the warriors of our time.  Broken relationships laughed at hours before wept over in private conversation.  Nightmares that are held at bay only by the body refusing to go to sleep.  Barely contained to uncontrollable anger at the slightest provocation, usually dealing with mundane issues that were once easily overlooked.  Addictions from sleep aides, to smoking, to drinking, to a host of others drowning out reality at all cost.  Struggling with every bit of fight within them to avoid becoming zombies inside living but dead with each day being nothing but a gray haze of survival.  Young men and women on their third, fourth, even fifth deployments to the only life that still has any color in it left for them, and yet they serve with pride. 

     These scars they bear are unseen badges earned by sacrifice to a Country that loves them but is filled with people that don’t understand them.  How does one explain for instance that feeling alone while in a crowd is the saddest feeling that I wouldn’t trade for anything? I wouldn't lose its awkwardness because it was purchased by huddling together in instantly over crowded bunkers with other wide eyed ridiculously grinning Soldiers while being attacked at 2 in the morning.  And now that crowd of Soldiers with the same shared terror of mine are lost to the pages of yesterday’s war and I find myself lonely in crowds yet unwilling to have the unseen badge taken from me at any price. But how do you say that? 

     So we laugh...I found myself tonight at Camp Liberty at a sister Cigar Club to Camp Cropper’s as a host of Soldiers I had never met laughed at relationship pains and failed coping mechanisms, and shared badges that each of us could see plainly and felt a camaraderie from the shared knowledge that we were the only ones who could, and that was ok.

A Fathers Protection

     I am addicted to Spice Chai Lattes from Green Beans.  They taste like melted Pumpkin Pie. I was impatiently waiting for my fix to be fixed this morning when SGT Smith who I wrote about earlier walked in to get his daily dose of liquid sunshine, (which was necessary today as the rain has been relentless.  I believe it is dutifully watering the desert so that the sand can grow big and strong this summer).  As soon as he saw me he broke into a big smile and said he had been looking for me. 
     Apparently after I had finished our game of chess and prayed for him, his family and his unit's protection SGT Smiths group was called out on a mission.  Someone had been spotted digging a hole near the Camp.  As a side note, if you are a treasure hunter and decide to dig in the cradle of civilization for some of the oldest treasures on Earth, I would recommend doing it somewhere far away from the watchful eyes of a US Military installation as it will quickly summon a large group of well-armed Soldiers hopped up on caffeine and a little disgruntled at having been called away from their Spice Chai Lattes.  Anyway, when they reached the location no one was in sight and they proceeded to do a dismounted reconnaissance of the area.  Just then from some unseen location our aforementioned treasure hunter detonated his buried IED.
     A few hours later SGT Smiths wife received a phone call on the Anniversary of her son's death in Iraq...  It was from her husband telling her that he loved her.  Due to some miscalculation, or perhaps hasty plant, not a single Soldier or vehicle was harmed by the detonation. The Spice Chai Latte sat forgotten on the counter as SPC Nelson, CPT Murragurah, SGT Smith and myself huddled in a circle in the middle of Green Beans on a rainy day in Iraq and thanked God for a Fathers protection. 

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.