tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246088382011-07-30T18:40:40.632+02:00Look into my eyes, at the price I pay.Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.comBlogger1631100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-7765133648260014282009-04-13T17:10:00.005+02:002009-04-13T21:29:05.161+02:00

It has been over eight months now.Eight months, I think--nearly a year now since I left the Army. It still doesn't feel completely real. I cleared my post in Germany in late June of 2008. It would have cost the Army too much to move me and my wife to Knox with my unit, when my ETS would have been a month after my report date. So instead, I stayed back, helping the community close itself down

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-37711281418437917682008-07-24T00:38:00.003+02:002008-07-24T06:10:26.909+02:00

My real name is Seth. That is as good as you're going to get.My name is Seth, and I am twenty-five years old. I come from a small town in rural Michigan, on the shores of Lake Huron. I am an aspiring writer. I consider myself a follower of Zen Buddhist philosophy. I have a wife of three years, whom I love very much. We have no children.In the spring of 2004, I enlisted in the United States

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-74594688488625118062008-07-04T16:41:00.003+02:002008-07-04T17:12:43.157+02:00

It's cool today in Hanau, Germany. Partly cloudy, with a stiff breeze from the west.Pioneer Kaserne is nearly empty. The Hanau Community is in the final stages of base closure, and with all but an MP detachment remaining in the area, the Kaserne, maybe the size of my hometown, is strangely empty. I don't even have a unit anymore. They left for the states months ago. For a while, I was

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-11355498823442577482008-06-26T08:19:00.003+02:002008-06-26T08:43:45.656+02:00

It has been over four years since I joined the Army. Three since I moved from Reserve to Active-Duty.It's been a long, strange experience. Who knows why I joined? I had friends who were just coming back from the first phase of the war, and part of me felt guilt at having not shared their burden. I came from a long line of military, and so it only seemed natural that I should join. Sure, I

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-14858929134828822642008-06-16T12:17:00.004+02:002008-06-16T12:50:27.015+02:00

My time with this record is coming to an end soon. You need to know that.I have less than a month left. I have a lot going on. I have to start clearing soon; I need to start updating my resume. I'm getting ready to leave Germany, and when I touch back down in the States it will not be as a soldier, but as a veteran. I'm going to Michigan to see my family for a few days, and then I'm going to

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-19605800703607443072008-05-29T19:03:00.000+02:002008-05-29T19:04:21.308+02:00

"You raised your right hand."If I had a dollar for every time I've heard this phrase, I wouldn't need a regular job. In today's environment, servicemembers who speak out against the war are roundly shouted down with a similar response. Since we volunteered during a time of war, conservatives say, we have no right to complain about the abuses we endure: lengthening deployments, foreshortened

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-80983198960771234172008-05-27T07:43:00.003+02:002008-05-29T20:52:54.404+02:00

War is ugly.I cannot stress this enough. War is cheap, and ugly, and there is not an ounce of beauty to it. Endless days of fear and loneliness, of missing one's family, one's friends. Every meal, the newspaper reflecting Truths you don't see. Every night as you go to sleep, the sound of distant gunfire. That explosion you heard this morning during PT? Car-bomb. BONGO packed with 155s.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-78835666830606592102008-05-16T22:47:00.003+02:002008-05-16T23:14:44.316+02:00

It's over. Just over a year ago, as I suffered away in the heat of Iraq, I turned to writing for comfort. Not this blog, which over time had come to serve as an echo for my own daily miseries. No, I began to write a book, a novel for young adults. It featured a young girl, the daughter of a poor woodworker, and it soon enveloped my life. It started off as a simple escape, and it grew into

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-42383685850053641842008-05-09T18:46:00.004+02:002008-05-09T19:13:31.956+02:00

Colby Buzzell has been called back.Colby Buzzell, author of "My War," was perhaps one of the first well-known milbloggers. His writing is on a par with authors like Anthony Swofford, and I've always admired him enormously. Compared to him, I'm just a child playing with blocks.Three years after leaving active service, Colby has been called back for another tour. This development is made

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-86499292153528591552008-04-19T00:41:00.002+02:002008-04-19T00:48:02.804+02:00

Hey. This is a little insane, but with the end to my book approaching I thought I'd post an excerpt. This is the work that got me through the deployment. This is what helped me get through Iraq. I can't promise that it will stay up forever, but I thought it was time to share.It's a little long, so please be patient.The section you are about to read takes place in Part Two of my young-adults'

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-24665973087459374832008-04-17T10:13:00.002+02:002008-04-17T10:39:48.811+02:00

What is war?War, at least in my limited experience, is supposed to be a protracted military engagement. Front lines, clear objectives, elaborate chessboards and games of terrain and resource. War, at least in my opinion, is supposed to be about something. It may be cruel, and stupid, and heartless, but at least there's supposed to be an end, right?Right?So what is this, then? Join the Army, lured

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-68171899851109842142008-04-11T07:58:00.015+02:002008-04-11T20:47:41.618+02:00

I am the Writer, the Creator,Keeper-Of-Songs, Shaper-Of-Worlds,A stroke, and I set the stars in motionA raise of my hands, and I reap the tides.My fingers spark, blue lightning at their tips,And in them is the spin of a world's particles,The ionic fires of birth and oblivion.Imagine a door, a place, a moment,And seeing it as it will be, as it will become,Imagine seeing it, held in the Inner Eye,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-31359758443346129922008-04-06T11:27:00.001+02:002008-04-06T11:28:20.598+02:00

It wasn't supposed to end this way.For years, I defended him. For years, I tried to argue his virtues, his professionalism, his loyalty as a friend. For years, I covered for him--even went before the commander myself and pleaded with him not to chapter Oz from the Army. Now, with the unit moving to Knox and my ETS date rapidly approaching, I find myself in a place I had hoped never to be. I've

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-10206431448258553292008-04-01T08:31:00.002+02:002008-04-01T08:43:22.813+02:00

Back while I was deployed, there was a bit of a dustup over some rather heated things I said on my other blog. For a while, I had to go dark, owing to large numbers of people in the conservative blogosphere trying to root me out--prove I was a phony, a fraud, or simply a "traitor." I received threats to my career, even threats to my life.Even now, it angers me--for all the talk about "supporting

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-87531665792956735732008-03-27T20:23:00.003+01:002008-03-27T21:30:03.118+01:00

It occurred to me today, that I don't watch war movies anymore.Ever since about 6 months into my Iraq tour, my taste for war films, military history books, even war-themed video games mysteriously dried up. I bought the two-disc box set of "Flags of our Fathers" back in March of last year; it still sits on my shelf in Germany, shrink-wrap intact. I don't even read other soldiers' war blogs.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-2757236295498035022008-03-25T08:17:00.004+01:002008-03-25T08:41:13.185+01:00

Five years.Four thousand people are dead. Four thousand families shattered. People I knew, people I never met, people--maybe--a lot like me. The war on terror continues apace.It was supposed to be "a cakewalk." It was supposed to be a "slam dunk." But it hasn't been. Instead, I've watched marriages crumble, family bonds erode, and human minds slide into decay and instability. Meanwhile,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-76561879584562857692008-02-27T12:32:00.003+01:002008-02-27T12:47:00.130+01:00

I am, by no means, a poor soldier.I have a GT score of 128. I received an ARCOM for my service in Iraq. I have served in a variety of different positions, from engineering reconnaissance specialist to tax advisor, and during that time my counselings have been outstanding. I have no disciplinary actions on my record. So by most counts, though I may be a poor fit for my MOS, I am, for the most

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-18005276304889999632008-02-20T07:57:00.002+01:002008-02-20T08:20:35.737+01:00

Hello again.Yes, I'm back from Iraq. Yes, I'm back safely with Anne. I returned home in December of 2007, and after a well-deserved month of leave stateside, I'm once more back in Germany, though thankfully I've managed to get myself behind a desk, for the time being anyway. Connections are good.I'd like to apologize for my absence. The truth is, I needed the hiatus. I grew tired of living

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-20231940532723991932008-02-14T12:04:00.006+01:002008-02-18T11:05:31.603+01:00

On the morning of December 13, 2007, an Airbuss A330 chartered by the U.S. Government touches down at Ramstein Air Force Base, near Kaiserslautern, Germany. Its undercarriage strikes the rain-slick runway with a wet slap and a screech, and as the plane shudders under the buffet of reversed thrust, 160 soldiers cheer and whoop, or merely sigh with relief.I am among that group.We're greeted on the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-74680993622446942742007-10-14T06:42:00.000+02:002007-10-14T15:39:40.444+02:00

The Ziggurat of Ur.Built on the edges of the al-Hijarah Desert in the early 2100's B.C.E., it once served as both a temple and a royal crypt for the Sumerian city of Urim. For half a millennia, it towered over the banks of the Euphrates River, the highest point in a crowded, walled city. Despite being only four kilometers in width, it housed an estimated 250,000 people.If the historical

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-6575785877338756882007-09-07T18:32:00.000+02:002007-09-07T19:22:09.287+02:00

I don't know how to feel."Riverbend," an Iraqi woman whose blog I have read since the start of the war, years before I joined the Army even, is gone. She is now a refugee in Syria, having chosen to flee her home in Baghdad like millions of others. She can no longer accept the way things are in her homeland, regardless of what we try to tell ourselves. No matter what we say about the good we're

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-19300873108892091682007-08-29T12:44:00.000+02:002007-08-29T12:58:18.769+02:00

Senator Carl Levin269 Russell Office BuildingU.S. SenateWashington,DC 20510-2202Dear Sir,My name is Milo Freeman. I am a Michigan native and longtime supporter of your work in the U.S. Senate. I am also an enlisted U.S. soldier, writing under an assumed name and serving an active-duty tour in Iraq.I am writing today with two concerns regarding your positions on national security as head of the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-82327554354554291642007-08-26T21:38:00.000+02:002007-08-27T18:02:50.081+02:00

Outside the Wire, factions of every stripe are making the rounds. In the last year, all over Iraq, they've begun to systematically target the very elements of infrastructure my unit was put in place to maintain. This is not the work of some rabble, mind you--these are coordinated attacks, often occurring within minutes or hours of each other, at locations at opposite ends of the country. The

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-66516080806391108892007-08-12T17:42:00.000+02:002007-08-12T20:30:53.022+02:00

While Milo's been toiling away in the sand and heat, I spent most of this weekend at a unit family retreat in the mountains. I feel guilty sometimes, having fun while he's away, but I needed this break. I spent the weekend hiking, biking, swimming, getting massaged, and attending mandatory seminars on how to build a healthy marriage. As much fun as I had, I came to dread those seminar sessions.

Anne Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11915394348967281190noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-60461410832969035202007-08-10T13:01:00.000+02:002007-08-10T13:22:11.033+02:00

I've been languishing here for over ten months now.My days are long, my leisure time precious. I try to call my wife every night; my parents when I can spare it. I check the news when I can; try to get a glimpse of what's really happening stateside.What I see there disappoints me.On the one hand, I can't take anything seriously on the cable networks--more time devoted to Paris than Baghdad. On

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-91960290832356448352007-07-30T14:51:00.000+02:002007-07-30T16:05:13.377+02:00

I'm in Tallil again, for the moment.Been a while--still trying to lay low. Started working on a book--a children's story, actually. Things are quiet--haven't been attacked since last I was in Balad, when we took direct fire in our mortar pool, aimed at the guard tower across the road from us. After you hear it once, trust me, the sound of a passing bullet never fails to make your heart seize.I've

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-27244948835812632422007-07-14T12:52:00.000+02:002007-07-14T13:50:09.108+02:00

What is today, is almost never what was.The last Honor Guards lie on the edge of a scrapyard, just off the perimeter road, near the north end of the compound. Their tails throw long shadows in the evening sun, and even after years of dust and neglect, the canopies still shine with the pride of an era forgotten. Before America, before the war, before 9/11, my post was once a sprawling Iraqi

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-61204316866032916662007-07-04T17:32:00.000+02:002007-07-04T19:06:43.229+02:00

I apologize--I've let the guns fall silent for far too long. I received a bit more attention than I was ready for when Doonesbury linked me, and to be honest I felt the need for a break. Now that things have quieted down, one can expect a more regular posting cycle.It's the Fourth of July--Independence Day. Being in Iraq, this day is of special significance for me. However, rather than

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-42654939345357716912007-06-25T19:27:00.000+02:002007-06-25T19:53:28.012+02:00

There are not enough words. Nor will there ever be.When I mourned for another, you held me and dried my tears. When I had to place to live, you fed me and clothed me as best you could. When the myriad cruelties of the world have seemed just too much to bear, you were there, a soft place to fall. Through myriad glories and hardships, you have stood fast, a mighty oak amid the saplings. You

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-88435811267746743392007-06-03T04:11:00.000+02:002007-06-03T05:37:19.843+02:00

It occurs to me, somewhat too late, that stepping into the cable car might have been a bad idea. We're in the Alps, outside of the German city of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, just along the Austrian border. It's cold but snowless day in March, and my third day of leave, and so we've come down to Edelweiss, a mountain resort owned and maintained by the United States military. I've enjoyed my stay so

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-32065751181694438502007-06-02T21:27:00.000+02:002007-06-02T21:32:21.425+02:00

I see that Doonesbury linked me. I can't even check my email now. My Inbox is fifty deep with new messages.I just want to take a moment and state how grateful I am for all the responses I've received. I know I've been busy, and I'm sorry for that. I'm surprised that so many people seem to want to read me. It's overwhelming, the amount of support I've received, and so I want everyone to

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-25267222985650387902007-06-01T05:07:00.000+02:002007-06-01T06:00:29.455+02:00

There's enough info on your blog to ID you. Once it's done I'll forward it to your PAO and let your chain of command take care of this.For the rest of you, if you are in or came out of the military as a liberal, it's a shame you didn't learn anything while enlisted. It would have been better had you died in uniform, because at least people could have looked back at your life and knew it served

Anne Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11915394348967281190noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-80536493596838265292007-05-27T07:13:00.000+02:002007-05-27T07:39:10.286+02:00

Remember Garrett Knoll.Remember Joseph Anzack. Remember Bert Hoyer.Remember, for these men are dead; their families left to face yet another day without their loved ones. These men, and three thousand souls like them, are gone. The grief of those left behind is beyond your understanding.And yet on this day--a day dedicated to the memory of those lives sacrificed--some of you are waiting in line

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-69866380075467475332007-05-26T16:57:00.000+02:002007-05-26T17:49:31.658+02:00

So I go to the Charge of Quarters desk around 0715 this morning. I've got S-4 (supply yard) detail today, and I'm hoping to catch a ride with the duty-runner. Sergeant Schultheiss is manning the desk; tells me that Morales is at chow. I'll have to wait a few. I know Sergeant Schultheiss from back in Germany. Former Guardsman, he lives across the stairwell from me. His wife and mine had

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-45677481821079317072007-05-25T17:56:00.000+02:002007-05-25T18:32:37.303+02:00

25/05/2007Memorandum for Record: Military Spending ConcernsFROM: SPC Freeman, Milo; US Army, IraqTO: Senate Democrats, Republicans, and "American Idol" viewers across the nation.1. You. Punk. Ass. Pantywaisted. Bitches.2. You had a chance. You could have put your money where your mouth is--could have put some ass behind all those claims of "favoring an end to war."3. And you fucking choked.4.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-64865075923487456922007-05-24T19:11:00.000+02:002007-05-24T19:46:07.138+02:00

117. In the shade. That's Fahrenheit, for those of you just tuning in.It's been murderously hot, and getting hotter. The sun casts its hard eye down on everything, and as I walk around post, I swear I can feel the plant life dying. In heat like this, even your skin feels like a bulky sweater; a hot, oppressive thing you can't wait to pull off. And sometimes, you're just crazy enough to

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-64948569568999971872007-05-14T16:40:00.000+02:002007-05-14T16:49:12.022+02:00

Past the 45,Up where the bridgeSlices the sky aboveThe Straits of Mackinac,The soil grows rocky,And the maples give wayTo tamarack and jack pine.The scenery passes,And the people change,The only thingThat stays trueIs the road.Huron is long gone,Getting smallerHere, in the long rear-viewOf memory. The sunGleams hot and liquid,Bright in your sunglasses,And on your lips as you smile.The same

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-19864110851337053292007-05-11T21:34:00.000+02:002007-05-11T22:08:23.639+02:00

It's official.The extension came down about three days ago. We were called to an emergency formation at about 0900, at which point the company XO gave us the news: Extended 90 days. This means I'm stuck in this stinking shithole until possibly December. Another Thanksgiving, another Christmas without my wife, without my friends.Anne took it poorly. Like myself, she had an inkling this would

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-9361702567598367062007-05-07T18:23:00.000+02:002007-05-07T18:59:55.785+02:00

First day, officially, as driver for my platoon leader, Lt. Merrick. First Lieutenant Merrick is the one officer all the soldiers in the company lust for. Young, pert, blonde, and definitely a girly-girl, she's the type who makes this uniform hot. Honestly, I was secretly pleased to have been made her driver, if only for the chance to enjoy a bit of eye candy.But man, oh man.After lunch today,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-75744975435635044702007-04-30T17:54:00.000+02:002007-04-30T18:46:03.791+02:00

Garrett Knoll is dead.Pfc. Garrett C. Knoll, a combat medic, died outside of Baghdad a week ago, after a truck bomb detonated inside the perimeter of his patrol base. He was 23 years old. He was two months into his first deployment.I sat behind him in high-school Algebra.I remember reading the headline in Stripes last week, and I ignored it. Death here is a part of life, and everyone accepts it

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-64655301452156062542007-04-27T18:51:00.000+02:002007-04-27T19:58:04.910+02:00

The time between mortar attacks used to be measured in days, even weeks. Now it's measured in hours.The days have been hot, and long. I've worked 12 to 14 hours a day, at least, for several weeks now. Only recently have I begun to enjoy some downtime, and had time to think about anything but cleaning my weapon or calling my wife.I'm sitting on my bed the other night, in my T-shirt and

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-42712531313444727392007-04-14T16:12:00.000+02:002007-04-15T09:01:43.704+02:00

The problem of perception colors how people view this war.This war, regardless of one's personal feelings, is a complex thing. Its history, people, and factions are as diverse as they are dangerous. There are no easy answers or clear-cut truths in this war, and yet people like to behave--especially on both ends of the media--as though there are. I find this disconcerting.Every day, I read the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-2257214056718550542007-04-13T16:15:00.000+02:002007-04-13T16:39:26.824+02:00

So it's my birthday today--I'm 24. Another year come and gone. Somehow, 24 is hitting me the way most people get hit by 30. I suppose it's the age when one can no longer pin one's indicretions upon the recklessness of youth. It's just a hair off of 25; the quarter-century mark. Needless to say, I didn't tell too many people about it at work--NCOs like to make you do extra PT for your birthday.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-47876103383948925112007-04-08T19:15:00.000+02:002007-04-08T19:51:12.687+02:00

War and faith, it seems to me, must always have had a close relationship. Ironic, since many mainline forms of religion would consider war antithetical to their charters. That being said, for those close to death, there are few more effective salves for the spirit than faith. Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or Pagan--the true diversity of our military is reflected in our

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-89783143763033745862007-04-03T21:42:00.000+02:002007-04-03T23:51:59.950+02:00

Our motor pool is a barren expanse of gravel and sand on the northern perimeter of our FOB. It borders the flightline of the local airbase, and is big enough to accomodate at least thirty football fields. It's easy to get lost amidst the rows of vehicles and equipment; especially if you work at it.It's an unusual contrast: the motor pool and flightline themselves are desolate and sandy, marked

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-29601576846686290902007-03-31T22:34:00.000+02:002007-03-31T22:52:46.270+02:00

I've been really shitty about these posts, haven't I?I'm not sure what it is. Ever since R&R, I've tried to write at least a half-dozen posts, all of which got scrapped. Leave, I suppose, was excusable--after all, I had a wife to catch up with--but with everything going on in Recon, I feel as though I'm letting myself, and readership down.I'm just tired, I guess. When we're not on mission, we

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-40244086367528956442007-03-27T00:48:00.000+02:002007-03-27T16:53:32.082+02:00

Somewhere south of Baghdad, en route to As-Suwayrah, Iraq...It's a balmy morning in southern Iraq, and I'm weighed down by sixty pounds of gear and ammo, getting ready for my first mission as part of Recon. The farmers' fields are shrouded in fog, and a hundred feet below me the countryside whips past the viewports. We're riding in a Polish Mi-8, a type of heavy transport helicopter. It's a

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-76901471869116151372007-03-19T18:48:00.001+01:002008-06-03T08:25:12.486+02:00

Maple, Willow, Pine and Oak,Alder, Ash and Ivy;Withered sisters clutch the sky,Their fingers scraping dryly.Upon the shore, the tufts of grassThat spear up through the snowForm choruses of mournful string,A Jan'ry wind for bow.No singing jays, no cardinals,No gulls to haunt the bay;No sunlight peers through silver cloudsTo light the lonely day.On Maiden's lashes, lace of frost,The sign of

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-86439691817658581002007-03-16T14:14:00.000+01:002007-03-16T14:45:04.843+01:00

And I'm back. Two weeks of leave in Germany behind me. I apologize for the lack of updates, but honestly, I needed the time to focus on the wife.Leave was wonderful. I hiked the Alps, dined in a mountainside Bavarian bistro, tooled around Frankfurt with my honey, caught up with friends, and just generally seized the opportunity to just "civ out." I want to write more about my time back home, but

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-53122299050287061112007-03-15T10:45:00.000+01:002007-03-15T11:41:11.217+01:00

Pain is waking up on the morning you leave, with your wife's back against your chest and the smell of her shampoo on your skin. It's feeling her press back again you as she sleeps, and suddenly feeling you've wasted every other similar moment the both of you have shared. It's the hot swell of tears, and the hitch of breath.Pain is the last breakfast; it's the feverish desire to linger over the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-957540133685858732007-02-25T11:49:00.000+01:002007-02-25T12:36:02.439+01:00

Ali Al Saleem Airbase, KuwaitThe first few hours after I arrive back on the ground are hectic--I sit through a mess of late-night briefings, and struggle to find my bag. Things smooth out a bit after they separate those of us taking leave in Germany, and after a few more quick briefs, I'm able to settle down in a transient housing tent. Still, all told, I don't end up getting to bed until almost

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-49452586492403693942007-02-25T02:18:00.000+01:002007-02-25T02:36:30.888+01:00

Imagine the cargo hold of a C-130 transport plane; maybe 45 feet long by 15 wide. It's narrow and cramped, and the bulkheads are lined with exposed piping and bundles of wire, so you feel like you're sitting inside the belly of a giant metal whale. Think Jonah.Now imagine the hold crammed with you and almost 60 other people. There are no seats; only canvas slings that fold out from the wall.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-40822833916807949012007-02-23T21:52:00.000+01:002007-02-23T22:02:39.985+01:00

Leave.It's finally here--the day I've waited for. I will be in the arms of my wife within days. DAYS. The joy this gives me goes beyond words. My other half, my better half, my best friend, my lover. Anne, the name of a healing saint, and in her a saint I've found. I will fly out from here. I will leave this place, for a time, and though I may only write sporadically, do not fear, for write

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-52214971184852405132007-02-23T21:35:00.000+01:002007-02-25T02:17:31.429+01:00

"The American ideals as set forth by our for[e]fathers have been the rock that has seen us through many a dark hour. The difficulty Americans preceive [sic] isn’t a shakiness of our ideals, but a changing of our popularity (or preceived [sic] popularity) in the world."Comments section, Sgt. Hook, "Hard Is Not Hopeless."I am, if nothing else, a firm believer in the ideals set down in our

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-43155627928176082932007-02-23T11:34:00.000+01:002007-02-23T11:52:05.237+01:00

Oz comes in from work with the usual fanfare--a grunt and the muffled thud of body armor. Brooks is passed out in his bed, and I'm sitting at my laptop, watching "Carnivale." We just came in from a mission the day before, so we're busy enjoying a little comp time."You're going to Recon," says Oz. It's a simple statement, unadorned, but it's weight causes me to start from my chair."What?""

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-62181616340573217602007-02-20T16:36:00.000+01:002007-02-20T17:22:17.286+01:00

And so I found myself thrust onto the back of a patrol boat, something one would think the Army (think ground operations) wouldn't even have use for. I found myself there mere hours before I was supposed to convoy back to Balad, and moreover I found myself there in possession of a weapon that wasn't even mine. Sometimes, I found myself thinking as I climbed aboard, it just doesn't pay to get

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-72318951844260820782007-02-15T14:58:00.000+01:002007-02-15T15:59:30.746+01:00

Like much of eastern Iraq, Taji is beautiful, but also dangerous.The path to get there lies along a stretch of road that soldiers here call "IED Alley." It's a thirty-mile stretch of flat pavement, which passes through several towns and serves as a massive shooting gallery for Coalition forces attempting to traverse it. We can't drive it during the day; we have to move at night. Coming down to

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-79789969008527460372007-02-13T14:44:00.000+01:002007-02-11T05:53:14.705+01:00

I was finally situated in SFC Jameson's Humvee, when he informed Meiers and I that he wanted us "full-auto." I heard Meiers sigh. We looked over at each other. She knew what this meant as well as I did. Gunners. Problem is, Meiers only carry M-16s. This meant we would have to wrestle our way back out of the Humvee and try to track down someone to trade with us. Far be it from us, however, to

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-82285816850821386352007-02-09T11:48:00.000+01:002007-02-09T12:22:53.457+01:00

On a sunny afternoonI can step out for a smokeAnd watch a throng of soldiersBarely younger than myselfPaw a girlie calendar.Their manner is jovial,Their lusts are reasonable,But today I turn away.Leave my vice in silenceAnd solitude.The daylight is pale and sweetAnd from the West, a slight breezeWhispers between the palm fronds.When I close my eyes and breathe,I can notice how the airSmells

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-57959244831023153722007-02-08T17:47:00.000+01:002007-02-08T18:38:19.653+01:00

The last few days have been hectic--it seems that as soon as we get back from one mission, we're preparing for another. It's for this reason that I haven't posted as much recently as I would like. Also, I've been caught up in a conflict of creative interest. I want to avoid the impression that my military service sums up my identity, though at the same time, I am a warblogger, and thus I do feel

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1170653722826531702007-02-05T06:08:00.000+01:002007-02-05T06:46:46.916+01:00

The Super Bowl kickoff was at 0225 local time, so our chain of command gave us the morning off. I didn't watch the game--I was in bed by 10--so I got up about an hour ago. The company area is deserted, and for once I took the rare opportunity to enjoy a cup of strong coffee with my breakfast at the DFAC. I slept well, but fitfully last night.I dreamt again. The dreams came to me as flashbacks,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1170569752599613292007-02-04T06:07:00.000+01:002007-02-04T07:15:53.606+01:00

Another mission come and gone. I'm thankfully intact, as are all my friends. I've been back for a few days, but honestly with the lack of sleep I've been getting I've been less than inclined to write. It's Sunday, and the Diyala farmland has been slashed by rain these last few days. The cold has abated somewhat, and there's a sweet, warm breeze coming in from the North. I got up early today--

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1170169369210855542007-01-30T15:14:00.000+01:002007-01-30T16:02:49.340+01:00

I had another dream last night.I dreamt that I was in my late thirties, still married to Anne, with a mortgage and a young daughter. We were living in Charlevoix, the quiet, pretty harbor town where Anne and I were married. We had gone into business for ourselves, and when we weren't attending Rowan's school functions, we were spending our time managing a small used bookstore/cafe on Charlevoix's

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1169833337583337412007-01-26T17:56:00.000+01:002007-01-26T18:42:17.730+01:00

"And you, who were already conquered in your victories, what you will you be in the approaching defeat?" Albert Camus, "Letters to a German Friend," July 1943A friend sent me a copy of "Resistance, Rebellion, and Death," by Albert Camus. It arrived today. She'd been threatening to do so for a while, but nevertheless I was shocked when

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1169483841621533882007-01-22T17:21:00.000+01:002007-01-22T17:37:21.650+01:00

There are times when I feel like I don't have a friend in the world.We've waited so longEvery day the same mindless procession. Every day the same people, every day waking up expecting to feel her next to me, only to find an empty bed and the cruel tones of the alarm clock. I never know when another mission is going to come down the line; never sure how much time I'm going to get to talk to her

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1169397220860882872007-01-21T17:05:00.000+01:002007-01-21T18:07:10.440+01:00

On the lonely nights, the dead waitIn the Tall Grass, painted facesShining in the pale lightOf the Coahuila moon.They stand, line by line,Singing their quiet song,Singing, until even the coyotesTuck tail and cower in silence.The world moves onWithout them,But it will return one day.It always returns.And so on lonely nights,In the Tall Grass,The dead hide, and sing, and wait.The dead wait

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1169325048476007332007-01-20T20:40:00.000+01:002007-01-21T16:34:42.403+01:00

The last few nights have been long. I've been up until at least one in the morning, without fail, and every day I've woken up for PT feeling starved for sleep. I've felt exhausted by lunchtime, and ultimately I have only myself to blame. I've been exploring career options over the past week, as I mentioned before, and I have a lot on my plate.As I've expressed in the past, I don't really like my

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1169046284685910262007-01-17T14:14:00.000+01:002007-01-17T16:04:44.843+01:00

When I faced a choice with the last woman I loved--the possible versus the simple--it showed itself.When I faced not having a home; not having a place to go or a meal to eat, it showed itself.When I stood face-to-face with a drill sergeant convinced I was guilty of serious wrongs, in spite of my innocence, it showed itself.When I was told the road to bring my wife to Germany was too steep, too

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1168973318621453182007-01-16T18:54:00.000+01:002007-01-23T20:15:05.640+01:00

There are times when I would giveAlmost anythingTo be eighteen again, andStand barefoot on theSands of the Port Austin shoreAs aquamarineBroke and glittered beneath theLate afternoon sun.To feel the late July breezeKiss my neck and leaveThe scent of sand and lilac;Feel the lips of GodPoised mere inches from my own--That, and that alone,Could flood my empty basins,Could quench these dry reeds.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1168509166515375662007-01-11T10:32:00.000+01:002007-01-11T15:51:39.496+01:00

So.President Bush, I am told, has announced a "surge" of American troops deploying into Iraq. Ostensibly, the idea is to flood the streets of Baghdad with enough security forces to overwhelm those who would attempt to undermine progress in Iraq. Democrats are tiptoeing around the subject, pandering opportunists like McCain and Malkin are celebrating, and most of the soldiers I know are, well,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1168283287427357432007-01-08T18:43:00.000+01:002007-01-08T21:58:52.013+01:00

It's January in central Iraq, and the rainy season is upon us.The downpour has been cold and hard; coming down in bulbous, icy droplets. The wind has varied on occasion, but never in the past two days has the sky grown lighter; not once has the sun or a hint of blue shown itself. Our motor pool is flooded. Up the road from our trailers, the camo nets hanging from the guard towers blow and shake

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1168150234057605882007-01-07T06:35:00.000+01:002007-01-07T07:10:34.086+01:00

We'd be back at Third Street Bagel, on a Sunday morning in January just like this, with Counting Crows on the stereo. We'd have our window seats, staring out at downtown Marquette through frost-laced windows, and we'd be sipping at strong coffee while we talked and laughed. You'd be making fun of me for how much cream-cheese I ask for on my bagel, and I'd be blowing you off, relishing the feel

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1168021656105204982007-01-05T17:16:00.000+01:002007-01-05T19:41:16.326+01:00

There are times, in this line of work, when I feel a bit like Prince Mishkin in Dostoevsky's The Idiot.Sitting in the back of the five-ton this afternoon, a debate is raging on the way to work. It starts over a copy of Stars and Stripes, and the recommendation of a former Chief of Staff that gays and lesbians be allowed to serve in the Armed Forces openly. Voices are shouting to be heard over the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167942783365369212007-01-04T21:30:00.000+01:002007-01-04T21:33:03.390+01:00

My pale and yellowed parchmentYour ink has stained with eleganceIn words indelible.--M.D.F., July 2005

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167763477948426132007-01-02T19:34:00.000+01:002007-01-03T18:08:48.870+01:00

In the soft oblivion of sleep,I pulled back the layers todayAnd found us dancingBack in Marquette,In our old living room, withThe lights turned offAnd Annie Lennox playing.Don't let it bring you down, she said,And as I smelled your hair,And your perfume on my skinI resolved that I could never,For there was no need to.The snowstorms roared outsideAnd you were warm.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167628842981087092007-01-01T06:04:00.000+01:002007-01-01T06:24:40.643+01:00

It's just after eight a.m. here, which means that midnight just hit across the East Coast. As is to be expected, the projection TVs in the chow hall are blasting news coverage of the Times Square celebration.Waiting in line for my omelete, I turn to stare blankly at the screens. It's Fox News--typical--and between the split-screen images of Manhattan revelry are interspersed the usual

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167593519053942022006-12-31T19:12:00.000+01:002006-12-31T20:31:59.160+01:00

The papers here still set Saddam Hussein's execution for three days ago. The man has been dead for a weekend already, and still the most recent copy of Stars and Stripes writes about him as if he were present tense.Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti is dead, and yet the people of the United States, an ocean away, knew about it before I did. Already, people have messaged me, asking about the local

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167327895352567672006-12-28T18:29:00.001+01:002006-12-29T11:29:50.133+01:00

We're on guard-tower duty this afternoon, me and Specialist Timms. Timms is a cook, and thus part of a different platoon, but our wives are friends back in garrison. We know each other well enough. The day has been cold, but bright, and fairly uneventful.In the tower forty feet up, a stiff breeze blows intermittently, and both of us are dressed in heavy layers underneath our helmets and body

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167204401077309322006-12-27T08:08:00.000+01:002006-12-27T11:31:24.373+01:00

How many soldiers and civilians have to die to avenge the victims of September 11?And what percentage of that loss can my own death--or that of any of my friends--be expected to redeem?Can anyone tell me?Does anyone even know?

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1167071326095432892006-12-25T18:09:00.000+01:002006-12-25T20:11:03.913+01:00

Another day in the ruins of Eden, and a rare two-day respite from work.Christmas has come and gone with little fanfare. The unit received holiday care packages from stateside well-wishers, and in the morning I opened presents over webcam with my wife. Nice, until the generator cut out. By the time the power was back up, she had gone. Christmas brunch date with some friends of ours in the JAG.My

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1166877653483166042006-12-23T13:08:00.000+01:002006-12-23T14:02:04.370+01:00

I haven't written in a little while, and I apologize for that. I have been in something of a creative rut. I am also fairly limited for the moment, in terms of what I can afford to write about, but hopefully this condition will resolve itself within the next month or so. More will follow.Oz is leaving. He's on R&R for the moment; after which he'll be reassigned to another platoon. This saddens me

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1165949968997876172006-12-12T19:45:00.000+01:002006-12-12T22:20:18.733+01:00

When I squint my eyes,I can see the sunlight playAcross the tattered beigeOf the camouflage netsAnd imagine frost-etchedLeaves of oak,Clinging to branches unshed.So if I close my eyes, thenMaybe I can imagine thisAs nothing more than a walkThrough the forests of Hiawatha,December stinging my skinSweetly.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1165864164516931632006-12-11T18:12:00.000+01:002006-12-27T19:25:43.196+01:00

I dreamt last night that I was back in Germany, walking with my wife.We were in Heidelberg for the holidays, crowded and baroque, with its cobbled streets and alleyways lined with shops. We were bundled up against the cold, and as we walked down the snow-dusted sidewalks our breaths formed mist in the evening air. We talked gaily of art and music and politics, detouring at one point into a coffee

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1165658233604769922006-12-09T10:49:00.000+01:002006-12-11T15:42:24.546+01:00

We're standing outside the smoke shack this morning, before work. The day is bright and chill, and as we huddle together under the camo-net gazebo as a crew of civilian contractors pulls up in white pickup trucks.There are a couple of Americans in the group, of varying ages and ethnicities, as well as a long-haired Filipino. The rest-- about half a dozen--are dark-skinned men of Hindustani origin

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1165596997555357182006-12-08T17:48:00.000+01:002006-12-08T17:56:37.586+01:00

I got shot at for the first time today.We were in the motor pool, Oz and I, working to service his vehicle, when the disturbing whine of a passing bullet rang in my ears, maybe a dozen yards away. A second later, the air was filled with the songs of multiple live rounds in flight.Most people who've never been to war expect that when something actually happens, one run the risk of just slipping

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1165130447395948452006-12-03T07:26:00.000+01:002006-12-03T20:35:27.813+01:00

Pfc. Hedley tells me that her fiance is dead.We're in the motor pool, hauling sandbags for the First Sergeant detail, when she makes this statement. I stop in my tracks and halt my conversation with one of the other soldiers. I look at her, not sure how to react."Wait... what did you just say?"She looks at me evenly, brow furrowed, and shrugs. "You heard me."I shake my head. " I don't know what

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1164483821365988872006-11-25T19:47:00.000+01:002006-11-26T08:35:47.613+01:00

A new klaxon stared to blare last night, just as Oz, Brooks, and myself were walking over to the laundry point.There are two types of alarms here on on-post, the first of course being the Alert Status Siren, which I've mentioned before. This indicates some kind of imminent security threat, and is the most commonly-heard alarm in theater. The second, much more rare, only sounds in the moments

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1164138552018240132006-11-21T18:32:00.000+01:002006-11-23T05:28:06.123+01:00

Consider the poor man.You know the one. He's probably a minority; possibly an immigrant. You've probably seen him sleeping on the train going to work, or maybe you've seen him standing on the side of the freeway in traffic, trying to wash your windows. Maybe he's begged you for bus fare on a street corner, or tried to sell you some chintzy knicknacks as you walked out of your favorite cafe.

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1163917004309656232006-11-19T07:16:00.000+01:002006-11-19T17:00:11.503+01:00

"Once we roll out the wire," our section sergeant oftenreminds us, "this shit be real." We all know to what he refers.When the mission comes down, the following days become a long blur, filledwith packing and lists of pre-combat checks. Gear has to be loaded, andconvoy orders established. Downtime becomes a rarity, and as crunch timeapproaches, tensions begin to run high. As the date draws closer

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1163098954370636232006-11-09T19:12:00.000+01:002006-11-09T20:02:34.983+01:00

I was relaxing in my quarters when the first siren split the afternoon sky.I was laying in bed, reading Stars and Stripes, when an eerie wail roared across the base. I sat up, listening for other activity outside my trailer--explosions, shouts, footsteps--but heard nothing. Then the siren ramped up again. Over it I heard a male voice, prerecorded:"Attention in the compound. Attention in the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1162579641388073542006-11-03T19:47:00.000+01:002006-11-03T19:47:22.003+01:00

Islam: (n) Arabic. 1. Judeo-Christian faith founded in 7th century CE. See Muhammad. 2. An act of submission.Our first mission took us to a remote patrol base south of Baghdad. We were there to collaborate with a small infantry element, who've been providing security to outlying farming communities. Though Engineers are not the same as Infantry, we often find ourselves in the same situations,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1161510400511127582006-10-22T11:46:00.000+02:002006-10-22T11:46:40.720+02:00

I'm in Iraq.This is the first thought that greets me when I wake every morning. Surprisingly, I'm content in the knowledge.Stepping out of my trailer for a smoke this Sunday morning, I find myself greeted with a cool breeze and the sounds of finches bickering. The sun has yet to rise over the Jersey barriers, but the tops of the second-tier trailers are already bathed in auburn light. To the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1161271586325116652006-10-19T17:26:00.000+02:002006-10-19T17:26:26.420+02:00

We came in on a two-hour flight, in full combat gear; crammed into the narrow sling seats of a C-130 transport. The ride was uncomfortable, and the landing was performed in a steep corkscrew drive, topping out at around 4 g's. I clutched the buttstock of my weapon and breathed deeply.Stepping off the plane, I was amazed. We're stationed in north-central Iraq, and this part of the country lies

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1161077376000299012006-10-17T11:29:00.000+02:002006-10-17T11:29:36.173+02:00

Yesterday, I found an empty tent next to the one where I've been living.I took a laundry bag for a prayer mat, and for an hour I sat, legs folded, hands clasped in my lap, meditating in the Zen tradition.I chanted from the Sutras and, kneeling, bowed three times with my weapon, holding it ejection-port up as I prostrated myself toward that part of the Universe we call "Buddha Nature."I prayed for

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1160307680713536962006-10-08T13:35:00.000+02:002006-10-08T13:41:20.736+02:00

The Kuwaiti base on which I am temporarily stationed is rife with consumer distractions--a Taco Bell, a Pizza Hut, a Subway, and of course the requisite Post Exchange. Though all are technically run by AAFES--The Army/Air Force Exchange Service--all the employees who staff these institutions are predictably Middle Eastern.They come from diverse backgrounds--Kuwaiti, Indian, Yemeni, Pakistani,

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1160057868747535812006-10-05T16:17:00.000+02:002006-10-05T16:17:49.013+02:00

The past few days have been hot, predictably, and bright; marked by periodic dust storms. Several evenings ago, while playing frisbee football with my squadmates, one such storm kicked up. Most of the squad just laughed and struggled to keep the disc from sailing violently out of bounds, but I had to take a minute and examine my surroundings.It was about 430, and the sky was fading toward an

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1159783259462763622006-10-02T12:00:00.000+02:002006-10-02T12:00:59.496+02:00

From the air at night, Kuwait City looks like a carpet of topaz against the black veil of the Persian Gulf. Looking closely, one can see palm trees lining every street and highway, and with office towers spearing the nighttime horizon with their light, it's clear to see that this is a bustling city, home to many successful people.The first thing that most people talk about when describing the

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1159430856568934612006-09-28T09:51:00.001+02:002006-09-28T10:07:36.606+02:00

The moment is finally upon me. A day I never thought would come, and whose arrival I have dreaded for years. My feet are heavy, as is my spirit. I go to support my friends, and to grow in my own experiences, but the fear never truly goes away.I console myself with reminders of my training, and with the distant promise of seeing my wife again. Still, the boots suddenly look heavier than I

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1159430782356766602006-09-28T09:51:00.000+02:002006-09-28T10:06:22.396+02:00

The moment is finally upon me. A day I never thought would come, and whose arrival I have dreaded for years. My feet are heavy, as is my spirit. I go to support my friends, and to grow in my own experiences, but the fear never truly goes away. I console myself with reminders of my training, and with the distant promise of seeing my wife again. Still, the boots suddenly look heavier than I

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24608838.post-1159371660245956452006-09-27T16:47:00.000+02:002006-09-27T18:48:13.783+02:00

"Now, this is not the end. This is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." --Winston ChurchillAfter two years in the Army, the time is finally upon me. I'm preparing to deploy to Iraq. I've known for over six months now, and I've been thinking about it every day. I've had to spend a lot of time taking stock of my life, evaluating my choices and

Milohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05402063641547151464noreply@blogger.com5