Back in the Sand Box

So, here I am, back in Iraq.  Nothing's changed much to say.  Ramadi is still the dusty hell-hole it was when I left.  Naturally, it has begun to heat up a bit over here, so I suppose we have that going for us (though it confirms my belief that not all change is good change!).  Anyway, I know everyone wants to know about my return trip...

I knew my trip would be interesting when I couldn't find my boots the morning of my departure.  This certainly had disaster written all over it.  It seems as though SOMEONE had carted off my military footwear to the Goodwill in a case of mistaken identity.  Being the reasonable man I am, I won't disclose the name of the person responsible for such actions, but suffice to say that those of you who know my family well will no doubt realize that there is only one of us who would ever through stuff out with no notice given.

Fortunately, there was a reserve pair of boots hanging around the garage, so I didn't have to report in my tennies.  That would have been awkward.  They are a size or two larger than my old pair, but I only have to deal with it for another few months, so I’ll live.

The plane rides were long and uneventful; a little too long perhaps.  I guess you can tell you have been sitting on a cramped airplane seat for to long when your tailbone starts to give you pain.  Yes, the good old DOD, sparing no expense for its loyal employees.

The Kuwait to Ramadi leg of the trip was slightly more eventful.  The original flight plan called for us to take a C130 from Ali Al Salim, Kuwait, to Al Taqaddum, Iraq, from which we would convoy back to Ramadi.  Of course, dust storms being what they are, our plane couldn’t land at TQ, so we continued on to Al Asad.  We got dropped off while the flight continued on to Balad.  After the turnaround, we re-boarded and finally got to our original destination.  As always, we had to stay overnight in TQ, which really wasn’t too bad, as the amenities at that base are far greater than our meager existence in Ramadi.  I mean, they have actual plates and silverware at their dining hall (the amount of plasticware we use here can only be described as an impoverished bachelor’s dream). 

Our journey concluded with a trip on a Marine helicopter.  Two things always come to my mind when flying in these kinds of helo’s.  The first is the “Apocalypse Now” scene, and the other is the Monk episode when Adrian, when confronted with flying, can only speculate that, “It isn’t really possible, is it?”.  Naturally, being someone with a great deal of faith in science and technology, I am fairly confident in practical and theoretical flight.  I know all about the Bernuli effect; I’ve “logged” countless hours in computer flight simulaters in all kinds of imaginable craft from WWI bi-planes to the space fighters of the 23rd century’s Terran Confederation; also, having been raised at the very end of the pre-video game generation, I’ve spent many a Summer afternoon playing with those wooden “hand spin” flying propellers and playing with the natural maple seed propellers; goodness knows I’ve had all kinds experience flying in actual planes too.  All of that doesn’t prevent me from saying the passenger’s prayer every take-off and landing (“Please God, don’t let this metal monstrosity crash!”).  Now I’m not one some kind of deluded Luddite, and the fact of the matter is I actually enjoy air travel (well, the non-military kind, anyway).  I must say that I’m not really to apprehensive of commercial airliners; military transport and charter, on the other hand, do tend to put me on edge, at least a little.  The companies that the military uses as charter craft really give off that “cut-rate” vibe, from the way they pack everyone in to the fact that a lot of their equipment consists of surplus from “real” airlines.  Naturally, actual military craft are even more disconcerting, given that military equipment, on average, tend to be well past their prime (I’ve driven trucks manufactured in the 60’s!).  Compounding these issues is the fact that military flights are not planned for comfort, but rather efficiency and passenger safety (most commercial flights don’t have the need to factor in small arms fire or RPG’s).  In any event, I would say that such situations increase my flying concerns, but still not to upset my phobia rankings (for those of you keeping score at home: 3. Flying, 2. Sharks, 1. Heights).  None of these, mind you, are “Monk”-like debilitating-I fly all the time, I swim in the ocean whenever possible, and as far as heights go, it’s pretty specific to Olympic-style diving boards.  While I suppose the flying one is fairly rational (plans do sometimes crash), the others are somewhat less based in logic.  Yes, there are shark attacks from time to time, but mostly in shark infested waters, and there certainly haven’t been any in public swimming pools, to my knowledge.

Anyway, the helo trip was as uneventful as it could be, though with all the openings, it was a little chilly.  It was more scenic than a road trip, but then again, there isn’t much scenic about this part of the world, in my view.  The Marines got me back safe and sound, though I can’t say I’m ecstatic to be here again.  At least we are counting our time remaining here in days instead of months…