A Few Words From Not Quite The Front

[Bolty]

If you're not aware, Lounge reader/poster/somewhat-admin Occhidiangela is currently serving the Air Force in the theater of war. He does not have access to the Lurker Lounge from his position, and emailed me to ask that I post this. There's no way on earth I'd refuse.

The full moon is out and nearly straight above me as I walk through the break in the barbed wire that is the entrance to our living area.  Facing me is an empty pillbox reminiscent of Omaha or Utah Beach, a reminder that I am in "The Land of Not Quite Right."  The opening of the pillbox through which a gun should protrude, but does not, faces our gate as if to guard against us getting out; I am assured that this appearance is the byproduct of an expansion to the Air Base.  Apparently, the gate was once at the extreme border of "protected terrain" and guarded against the rocks, sand fleas, scorpions and the sea of dust that surrounds our manmade oasis of stone, steel, plastic, rock, and imported water.

I look up in search of the stars -- there are no clouds out tonight -- but between the moon's brilliance, and the light pollution created by the various white and orange street and aircraft ramp lights reflecting against the ever present pall of dust that hangs in the night sky, only a few of the brightest stars, and perhaps the planet Venus, are visible.

Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I see a comet streaking left to right at ground level.  No, that's no comet, but rather a long blue/orange/white isosceles triangle of flame, its apex to the left and its base to the right, marking the tail of an F-16 Falcon whose body is completely obscured by the darkness and haze as it screams down the runway a mile or two away.  Faster and faster the flaming triangle moves to my right, still low to the ground.  I hear nothing, but I should, given the stupendous volume a jet in full afterburner usually emits.  Perhaps the wind is blowing the sound away from me. 

Knowing what comes next, I pause, watching as what I know to be a warplane reaches the end of the pavement and pitches up, now pointing its nose just below the moon in a maximum performance takeoff, now receding to turn the triangle into a single, circular glow of afterburner exhaust that eventually shrinks from a circle to a spot, and then to a bright point.  Quickly it winks and shrinks again as the plane turns left, still climbing.  Only by the faint glow's movement (and my 20/20 vision) can I follow him visually.  A distant rumble reaches my ears, finally, the noise of his passing.  The air and wind combined to blow most of the screaming roar of the powerful jet that created this remarkable visual spectacle away from me.  Now he is gone, invisible, high in the dark night sky above Qatar.

Another comet catches my eye as the first disappears, another invisible jet leaves the flaming triangle for his signature, another pitch up and climb - the first plane's wingman repeats the light show, identical in detail but separated by some seconds in time.  Dash Two scurries up and away to catch his flight lead.  Quite the beginning to my nightly stroll, I muse, this light show of deadly beauty.  Now that the moment of wonder has passed, I start my trek across two miles of road and desert to my appointed place of work.

Where are those two jets going?  Somewhere a few hundred miles north of here, to patrol the night skies and offer airborne help to the Marines and Soldiers up there as they get about the business, on the ground, of a nasty piece of MOUT - Military Operations in Urban Terrain - in either Fallujah, Bagdad, Mosul, Tikrit, or any number of other addresses postmarked "Iraq."

I wonder if tonight, in the wake of those photographs on SkyNews, CNN, and doubtless Al Jaziera, the photographs of those complete and thrice-be-damned fools of prison guards and their utterly unprofessional conduct, the hate and discontent that the troops will have to deal with will be more intense than usual.  (Aside:  I think it is high time flogging was rejuvenated in the Uniform Code of Military Justice -- these idiots are just the folks for a few dozen with "The Cat" for starters, then a hanging from the highest yardarm in Norfolk, but I imagine some jagov of a psychologist and some enterprising lawyer will try and prove that it was not their fault that they abused their charges).  I wonder if the planes I just saw take off will be called on to drop the warm regards of America, in the shape of 500 or 1000 pound bombs, on the malcontents who won't be happy until Iraq is plunged into a civil war, a war whose like will make Yugoslavia's break up seem a picnic.  There were foreign agitators there as well, Iranians and malcontent Muslims among them.  Or will the two Falcons, like most of their comrades, come back in a few hours with the bombs still under the wings, low on gas, and ready to sleep a few hours, eat a bit, and do it all over again.     

I ponder all of this as I walk to work, the whole while hearing and seeing, off to my right, the activities of various and sundry support aircraft -- transports, refueling planes, recconaisance surveillance planes, and others -- doing their nightly ballet as they too are launched and recovered, refueled and refitted, all accompanied by somewhat less stirring visual effects.  And now to work, coffee cup in hand. (Of course, this is Occhi!)

I spend my hours on watch, which amounts to working on coordinating parts of today's and tomorrow's flight operations, and then it is time to be relieved, walk back in the bright sun, grab a spot of breakfast, and wander on back to my cell . . . or was that, my room?  I could have taken the bus, but walking is better for my digestion and my constitution. 

Living behind fences, concrete walls, and barbed wire, with that oddball pillbox out front, guard towers (you can see the resemblance to the Orc structures in Warcraft II) and armed guards gives me an appreciation, albeit minute, of how inmates live in a low security prison.  Granted, there is no lockdown and we are free to wander about the base when not on duty, but I can't shake the analogy, however unfair it is in truth.  (Which it is -- unfair, that is.)

I actually am quite lucky.  I am in The Rear.  Day in and day out, some of my friends, some newly met as I was processed through Fort Bliss, some whom I have known for years, are doing their thing in Iraq, and some in Afghanistan.  They don't get a shower every day, which I do.  They can't have a beer, it is forbidden in Iraq to the forces there.  (I can have one each evening, unless they run out.)  They live in tents without air conditioning, sleep under mosquito netting, and eat a thing called MRE's.  (The subject of another post someday . . . )  They also dodge lead with some frequency on a daily basis, or at least some of them do.  I am spared that, thank goodness, or my wife would be worried sick.  She worries enough as it is, though I suggested to her that she not watch too much nightly news as an aggravating influence on her life.

CNN and Sky, and other news organs, give plenty of coverage to what is going on up there, and a lot of it smells to high heaven.  I read in various on line versions of Newspapers the commentary of all and sundry.  You really can tell who has been there, who hasn't, and who "gets it."  The idiot who wrote the article in the Boston paper about Pat Tillman of course missed the point, and forgot that the man's family, under a national media microscope when their pride and joy was lost to them, have feelings too.  No surprise, really, the author is from Generation Whine, the generation whose fundamental philosophy is "it's all about me."  The generation who the Army tries to recruit with its campaign of "An Army of One" because a true  understanding of teamwork is foreign to so many in that demographic.  Having trained any number of them to fly, I am all too familiar with the breed.  Enough on that, I am somewhat biased in my views on such matters.

Ironically, one thing the Air Force does really well at present is make firewalls: I am completely unable to access my favorite internet forums, Lounge and RBD.  The appellation/category "games" makes them "unworthy" even though I have to laugh through my frustration.  Starcraft is still used as a training tool at the USAF Academy, to teach fundamentals of military theory such as mass, economy of force, agility, surprise, decision cycle management, and tempo.  I can't get to Blizzard's web site, the company who made that game.  Irony drips from my keyboard, but it is a crushing irony.  I had hoped that I might find this Air Force facility to be modern, with a pay as you go internet café.  The Air Force has the rep for being quite morale friendly, and progressive.  Sadly, that is not yet a priority.  Fair enough, there is a war going on, Occhi, some things of slightly higher importance come first.  *Remembers why he's here*

With that vain hope in mind, I had brought a copy of Starcraft with me, hoping that my son and I could, now and again, play against one another over the net in my odd snatches of off time.  Maybe if I am lucky, I will get a day or two off the base and find a hotel, or an internet café "out in town" and try my luck there.  Prospects are dim, and I am loathe to write the email to my son that tells him that my bright idea came a cropper when it ran into reality.  So it goes.  While my daily life is simplified - eat, work, sleep, read a bit or check email - I miss the complications in life: my wife, my children, my dog, the drive to work, fixing leaky pipes and roofs, not having to walk 120 yards or more to use the restroom, cooking my own food -- but I have been in worse conditions, so it is just something to be dealt with.  Again, I have it pretty good, comparatively.

In closing, I will say that I am as close to the middle of nowhere as I have been in a while, and I must say, this parcel of desert has no beauty whatsoever to recommend it.  It is not "really hot season" yet but it gets up over 100 each day -- but it's a dry heat.  We are close enough to the Arabian Gulf that I suspect the summer will be rather humid and hot.  The meteorologist on staff concurs with my prediction.  Oh joy, 115+ degrees F, no shade, and humid.  Small wonder few people live out here, its approximation to Act IV is overcome only by importing water and shade.  And electricity: let's here it for the industrial revolution.

To my friends on the Lounge: I miss the give and take, the silly and the profound, and the ability to drop in and see what crazy links or funny clips one of you has found on the net and shares for the communal hilarity.  Keep doing that, keep Bolty's little corner of the net alive and warm and laughing, and keep picking apart those silly games we all love so well. 

Hoping to be back in time for WoW's release, and hoping this post finds you all as happy and healthy as life and reason allows . . .

Occhi

If you want to drop him a word, just respond here and I'll forward the responses on to Occhi.

-Bolty