I know this post is about a month late in coming, but I owe you all a huge thank you for the support you gave me when I announced my impending separation from active duty and unemployment, and then again when I announced this exciting new opportunity I have at TRAX. Many of you e-mailed me privately to express your sympathy and understanding with the disappointment I expressed a month ago, and I very much appreciated every single one of those e-mails, something I should have but did not express by replying to your e-mails. So if I disappointed you by failing to respond, I sincerely apologize, and do know that your e-mails did not go unfelt.
I started my blog almost two years ago now as an easy way to let everyone know how I was doing while deployed. It has clearly out-lived that purpose, and yet because I enjoy writing so much and believe that I will have additional adventures that are worth telling, either in the Marine Corps or in my new job, I do not plan on ending my blogging any time soon.
So, again, thank you, and I look forward the new exciting stories I'll have to share with you all.
19 August 2011
11 August 2011
Left at the Cannons, Right at the Cobra
It was definitely not the interview question I was expecting. "So what do you look for when you look for a place to live?" the hiring manager asked me to kick off my first interview of the day. I did what I normally do when I have no clue how to answer a question: I said nothing. I know she could tell from my facial expressions that I was trying to think of an answer to the question, but as normal, it took a while to assemble my thoughts. She beat me to the punch, and started talking before I could answer the question, but fortunately it was probably my worst answer of the day.
Two weeks prior, I had learned that the orders I had been hoping for were unlikely. This was, in fact, my last blog post, and I appreciated the support I received from you all. My second-to-last day at TTECG, I had walked over to another building to discuss the situation with Maj B, who had been responsible for trying to my orders worked out. I am quite grateful for his help, even though it hadn't worked out in the end, and as I told him about what I was interested in doing next, he suddenly pushed his chair back from his desk. "I have the perfect job for you. Let me talk to someone..."
The company was TRAX International, and the job was a test engineer for military equipment. It sounded like a neat opportunity--a chance to use my technical background, something I have really missed since joining the Marine Corps, while still having the opportunity to make a difference for the Marine on the ground. Most of my friends from school are involved in the tech world, developing all the cool products and technologies that Americans consume at an ever-increasing rate. I very much enjoy the fruits of their efforts, but it's not for me. But tell me you've got something that'll help a squad leader see around the next corner, and you want to make sure it works right? I'm all over it.
The next morning I had an e-mail from Maj B asking for my resume. (Fortunately, someone else had prompted me to re-do my resume nearly two months before, so it was ready, even though I wasn't off orders yet.) Later that morning, as I was trying to wrap up everything I was doing and get my turn-over materials put together, I received a call from him. He had spoken with his contact, and had said so many nice things about me that they were already more or less convinced that they wanted to interview me. They wanted to talk to me for a few minutes that afternoon. "It'll probably be one-sided, but I mean that in a good way. They're probably going to want to talk to you about living in Yuma."
Sure enough, when I spoke with the HR rep a couple hours later, her two main questions for me were: "What do you know about Yuma?" and, "What is it about Yuma that would make you not want to live there?" Most of what I knew about Yuma I had learned at OCS. We were getting ready for family day, and our platoon commander was warning us not to be surprised when we saw her marksmanship badges on her service uniform, because she hadn't qualified as an expert rifleman the last time she'd shot. She had been stationed in Yuma, she told us, then said, "It was 110 that day...no, that's an excuse." I learned two things from her comment that day: first, that Marine officers expected themselves to qualify as experts on the range, and second, that it was hot in Yuma.
So when the HR rep called, I didn't know much about Yuma, but given that it was a small town in the desert (I had googled it the night before), I had some concerns that we discussed. When we were done talking about Yuma she asked me if I had any questions for her. Since Maj B's warning a couple hours before, I had taken five minutes to do a quick google search on "questions to ask during an interview" and had come up with a couple intelligent questions. I asked away, and when I was done, the HR rep told me that I had probably asked more questions than anyone else she had recruited, and that she had been at her job for a while. I assumed this was a good thing. Before we hung up, she had one more question for me: based on our discussion, did I think I might be able to live in Yuma? I told her that I wasn't totally sold, but I hadn't ruled out the possibility. Unsurprisingly, a couple hours later I received an e-mail from her telling me that they wanted to bring me out to the Yuma Proving Grounds for an on-site interview. Among other coordinating instructions, she gave me directions to the test facilities. I was to drive out of town; after about 20 minutes out I would left at the big cannons, and then a mile later turn right at the Cobra helicopter that marked the entrance to the test facilities. The gate guards would probably search my car. (I showed them my military ID. They didn't.)
A couple weeks later I drove down the night before the interview and had dinner with a former TRAX employee and a couple of his friends that are very active in the Yuma community. They, more than anyone else, convinced me that Yuma might actually be a fun place to live. Yes, it's hot during the summer, about like 29 Palms. The winters are very mild (average high 70, anyone?), and I'm told that most (>90%; I heard a couple different numbers) of the lettuce sold in the US during the winter is grown in Yuma. It's surprisingly green from all the agriculture, and it's definitely a small-town feel. There will not be enough rain or snow for me, but it will not have SoCal traffic, which is essential.
So when the hiring manager kicked off my interview the next morning by asking what I was looking for in a place to live, I wasn't sure whether to talk about the traffic, rain, housing prices, or the presence of coffee shops that did not bear the Starbucks logo. We actually hit it off pretty well. She is a Mudd grad as well and retired Army officer, so our backgrounds are very similar. I spoke with other test engineers, visited test facilities, saw a giant parachute hanging from their silo (the department tests air delivery systems), saw an MRAP with training wheels and was told it was undergoing rollover testing, told them about the time my MRAP decided it would be most comfortable lying in a ditch without consulting me.
I think the question I got most often that day was, "what questions do you have?" and it was a constant struggle throughout the day to think of something intelligent to ask, but I'll take that over grilling about the details of what I worked on five years ago. The hiring manager made it a point throughout the day to ask the people I met about the outdoors and athletic activities in Yuma, which I appreciated. After lunch I met with a group that asked me about my experience doing data analysis and used the magic word "matlab" (shiny!). By the end of the day, I was convinced that Maj B hadn't known how right he had been two weeks prior when he'd said he had the perfect job for me.
I knew when I walked out the door late in the afternoon that they were going to offer me the job, and I was reasonably sure I was going to take it. The one hitch? When I got back to my car after the interview I checked my phone for messages before I drove back into town. Two e-mails, one voice message, one text message. TTECG had finally figured out a way to get funding for me to stay there for a year--two weeks after I had checked out of the unit. I took a minute to beat my head against the dashboard of my car in frustration.
I spent the next day hanging out in the city, went to the historic quartermaster's depot and learned about the 10 miles of wooden road that used to cross the dunes east of Yuma, visited a local coffee shop, and had dinner at a really yummy hibachi restaurant. (Yes, they have a Cold Stone's, and yes, I tested it. It passed inspection.) When I received the offer letter a week later, the terms were quite agreeable.
So tonight I am excited to announce that I have accepted a position as a test officer with TRAX International at the Yuma Proving Grounds in Arizona. This was definitely not where I saw myself when I joined the Marine Corps, and it's definitely not the long-term goal I've been working towards during my last few months at TTECG. But over the past couple months, I've come realize and accept that what I have wanted to do has just not been practical under the contract I signed. I've come to terms with the fact that even if I do eventually make it on to active duty, I'm going to have to return to civilian life before that happens. Like it or not, that's how it works. And if that's the case, then I'm really just doing myself a disservice by postponing the inevitable, continuing to try to remain on active duty, wasting my time and others' time fighting the system.
That's the Marine Corps. So now I'm a civilian.
That's not entirely true. I'm still a member of the Selected Marine Corps Reserve, and as I write this I have just returned from a weekend of my first paid drill as a Reservist. Friday we qualified on the pistol, and I spent the rest of the weekend figuring out how I fit into the unit. My position is the Headquarters & Service Company Executive Officer and Training Officer, something that I think will be fun and that I will be good at. I suspect it will take a couple months to figure out how to split duties with the Company Commanding Officer and take things off his plate, but I enjoyed meeting the Marines this weekend and figuring out where everything was.
At this point I don't know what's going to happen with my Marine Corps career. I may drill out my obligation and then get out. I could drill out my contract and apply for an active commission. I could stay in the Reserves for 20 years--the retirement benefits are still pretty nice. But at this point...? I really don't know.
Two weeks prior, I had learned that the orders I had been hoping for were unlikely. This was, in fact, my last blog post, and I appreciated the support I received from you all. My second-to-last day at TTECG, I had walked over to another building to discuss the situation with Maj B, who had been responsible for trying to my orders worked out. I am quite grateful for his help, even though it hadn't worked out in the end, and as I told him about what I was interested in doing next, he suddenly pushed his chair back from his desk. "I have the perfect job for you. Let me talk to someone..."
The company was TRAX International, and the job was a test engineer for military equipment. It sounded like a neat opportunity--a chance to use my technical background, something I have really missed since joining the Marine Corps, while still having the opportunity to make a difference for the Marine on the ground. Most of my friends from school are involved in the tech world, developing all the cool products and technologies that Americans consume at an ever-increasing rate. I very much enjoy the fruits of their efforts, but it's not for me. But tell me you've got something that'll help a squad leader see around the next corner, and you want to make sure it works right? I'm all over it.
The next morning I had an e-mail from Maj B asking for my resume. (Fortunately, someone else had prompted me to re-do my resume nearly two months before, so it was ready, even though I wasn't off orders yet.) Later that morning, as I was trying to wrap up everything I was doing and get my turn-over materials put together, I received a call from him. He had spoken with his contact, and had said so many nice things about me that they were already more or less convinced that they wanted to interview me. They wanted to talk to me for a few minutes that afternoon. "It'll probably be one-sided, but I mean that in a good way. They're probably going to want to talk to you about living in Yuma."
Sure enough, when I spoke with the HR rep a couple hours later, her two main questions for me were: "What do you know about Yuma?" and, "What is it about Yuma that would make you not want to live there?" Most of what I knew about Yuma I had learned at OCS. We were getting ready for family day, and our platoon commander was warning us not to be surprised when we saw her marksmanship badges on her service uniform, because she hadn't qualified as an expert rifleman the last time she'd shot. She had been stationed in Yuma, she told us, then said, "It was 110 that day...no, that's an excuse." I learned two things from her comment that day: first, that Marine officers expected themselves to qualify as experts on the range, and second, that it was hot in Yuma.
So when the HR rep called, I didn't know much about Yuma, but given that it was a small town in the desert (I had googled it the night before), I had some concerns that we discussed. When we were done talking about Yuma she asked me if I had any questions for her. Since Maj B's warning a couple hours before, I had taken five minutes to do a quick google search on "questions to ask during an interview" and had come up with a couple intelligent questions. I asked away, and when I was done, the HR rep told me that I had probably asked more questions than anyone else she had recruited, and that she had been at her job for a while. I assumed this was a good thing. Before we hung up, she had one more question for me: based on our discussion, did I think I might be able to live in Yuma? I told her that I wasn't totally sold, but I hadn't ruled out the possibility. Unsurprisingly, a couple hours later I received an e-mail from her telling me that they wanted to bring me out to the Yuma Proving Grounds for an on-site interview. Among other coordinating instructions, she gave me directions to the test facilities. I was to drive out of town; after about 20 minutes out I would left at the big cannons, and then a mile later turn right at the Cobra helicopter that marked the entrance to the test facilities. The gate guards would probably search my car. (I showed them my military ID. They didn't.)
A couple weeks later I drove down the night before the interview and had dinner with a former TRAX employee and a couple of his friends that are very active in the Yuma community. They, more than anyone else, convinced me that Yuma might actually be a fun place to live. Yes, it's hot during the summer, about like 29 Palms. The winters are very mild (average high 70, anyone?), and I'm told that most (>90%; I heard a couple different numbers) of the lettuce sold in the US during the winter is grown in Yuma. It's surprisingly green from all the agriculture, and it's definitely a small-town feel. There will not be enough rain or snow for me, but it will not have SoCal traffic, which is essential.
So when the hiring manager kicked off my interview the next morning by asking what I was looking for in a place to live, I wasn't sure whether to talk about the traffic, rain, housing prices, or the presence of coffee shops that did not bear the Starbucks logo. We actually hit it off pretty well. She is a Mudd grad as well and retired Army officer, so our backgrounds are very similar. I spoke with other test engineers, visited test facilities, saw a giant parachute hanging from their silo (the department tests air delivery systems), saw an MRAP with training wheels and was told it was undergoing rollover testing, told them about the time my MRAP decided it would be most comfortable lying in a ditch without consulting me.
I think the question I got most often that day was, "what questions do you have?" and it was a constant struggle throughout the day to think of something intelligent to ask, but I'll take that over grilling about the details of what I worked on five years ago. The hiring manager made it a point throughout the day to ask the people I met about the outdoors and athletic activities in Yuma, which I appreciated. After lunch I met with a group that asked me about my experience doing data analysis and used the magic word "matlab" (shiny!). By the end of the day, I was convinced that Maj B hadn't known how right he had been two weeks prior when he'd said he had the perfect job for me.
I knew when I walked out the door late in the afternoon that they were going to offer me the job, and I was reasonably sure I was going to take it. The one hitch? When I got back to my car after the interview I checked my phone for messages before I drove back into town. Two e-mails, one voice message, one text message. TTECG had finally figured out a way to get funding for me to stay there for a year--two weeks after I had checked out of the unit. I took a minute to beat my head against the dashboard of my car in frustration.
I spent the next day hanging out in the city, went to the historic quartermaster's depot and learned about the 10 miles of wooden road that used to cross the dunes east of Yuma, visited a local coffee shop, and had dinner at a really yummy hibachi restaurant. (Yes, they have a Cold Stone's, and yes, I tested it. It passed inspection.) When I received the offer letter a week later, the terms were quite agreeable.
So tonight I am excited to announce that I have accepted a position as a test officer with TRAX International at the Yuma Proving Grounds in Arizona. This was definitely not where I saw myself when I joined the Marine Corps, and it's definitely not the long-term goal I've been working towards during my last few months at TTECG. But over the past couple months, I've come realize and accept that what I have wanted to do has just not been practical under the contract I signed. I've come to terms with the fact that even if I do eventually make it on to active duty, I'm going to have to return to civilian life before that happens. Like it or not, that's how it works. And if that's the case, then I'm really just doing myself a disservice by postponing the inevitable, continuing to try to remain on active duty, wasting my time and others' time fighting the system.
That's the Marine Corps. So now I'm a civilian.
That's not entirely true. I'm still a member of the Selected Marine Corps Reserve, and as I write this I have just returned from a weekend of my first paid drill as a Reservist. Friday we qualified on the pistol, and I spent the rest of the weekend figuring out how I fit into the unit. My position is the Headquarters & Service Company Executive Officer and Training Officer, something that I think will be fun and that I will be good at. I suspect it will take a couple months to figure out how to split duties with the Company Commanding Officer and take things off his plate, but I enjoyed meeting the Marines this weekend and figuring out where everything was.
At this point I don't know what's going to happen with my Marine Corps career. I may drill out my obligation and then get out. I could drill out my contract and apply for an active commission. I could stay in the Reserves for 20 years--the retirement benefits are still pretty nice. But at this point...? I really don't know.
13 July 2011
And the Experiment Comes to a Close
Since I returned from Afghanistan last year, I have been running an experiment with my life, trying to see if I could stay on active duty long enough to get on another deployment. I have no desire to bounce back and forth between the engineering world and the Marine Corps world. The engineering world is tough enough to keep up with without unnecessary year-long breaks in the middle. So the solution to deploy again was stay on active duty in the Marine Corps long enough to get some down time, then get my second deployment in.
That was my motivation for coming down to 29 Palms. They had a place for me, said they had everything worked out. I would have a year to figure out where my next deployment was coming from, or if I needed to revert to civilian life. Shortly after I arrived, we discovered it would be a significant battle to keep me on. And we've fought that battle for the past four going on five months now. But the battle appears to be over, and we've lost.
This Friday is my last day in my current position with the Tactical Training and Exercise Control Group, the crazy Marines I've been hanging out with that refer to each other with numbers and letters rather than names. The Marines who motivated me throw myself back into the job when I was more than burnt out after my deployment. The Marines who made 14-hour days in 90-degree temperatures wearing a flak jacket and kevlar helmet bearable. The Marines who've taken care of me, who've fought to keep me, who've welcomed me into their lives and homes, who've modeled leadership for me.
It's a matter of money. The people who want to keep me are not the people who control the purse strings. My job is not important enough to pay me to do it. Once the money runs out at the end of the week, that's it. As of Sunday, I am looking for a new job.
I'm not about to starve or go homeless any time soon. A different unit has mentioned the possibility of bringing me on for a month of two--that would give me a little breathing room to get a job search going. I'm going to approach this very carefully; consider my options; try to figure out a long-term career path. One that involves me staying in one place for more than a few months.
At this point, I'm really not sure if I'll ever return to regular active duty with the Marine Corps. I love being a Marine, but after doing this for almost three years now, I easily see the problems in the system that make young officers and young Marines decide to seek a life elsewhere.
What's next for me? No clue.
That was my motivation for coming down to 29 Palms. They had a place for me, said they had everything worked out. I would have a year to figure out where my next deployment was coming from, or if I needed to revert to civilian life. Shortly after I arrived, we discovered it would be a significant battle to keep me on. And we've fought that battle for the past four going on five months now. But the battle appears to be over, and we've lost.
This Friday is my last day in my current position with the Tactical Training and Exercise Control Group, the crazy Marines I've been hanging out with that refer to each other with numbers and letters rather than names. The Marines who motivated me throw myself back into the job when I was more than burnt out after my deployment. The Marines who made 14-hour days in 90-degree temperatures wearing a flak jacket and kevlar helmet bearable. The Marines who've taken care of me, who've fought to keep me, who've welcomed me into their lives and homes, who've modeled leadership for me.
It's a matter of money. The people who want to keep me are not the people who control the purse strings. My job is not important enough to pay me to do it. Once the money runs out at the end of the week, that's it. As of Sunday, I am looking for a new job.
I'm not about to starve or go homeless any time soon. A different unit has mentioned the possibility of bringing me on for a month of two--that would give me a little breathing room to get a job search going. I'm going to approach this very carefully; consider my options; try to figure out a long-term career path. One that involves me staying in one place for more than a few months.
At this point, I'm really not sure if I'll ever return to regular active duty with the Marine Corps. I love being a Marine, but after doing this for almost three years now, I easily see the problems in the system that make young officers and young Marines decide to seek a life elsewhere.
What's next for me? No clue.
06 July 2011
Desert Rain
We've been having some pretty crazy weather here for the past couple of days. Yesterday, a thunderstorm rolled through Yucca Valley and 29 Palms, but managed to miss the main portion of the base entirely. Yes, there was lightening! As I drove home, I encountered highway construction signs that said "flooded" and water running across the road 2"-3" deep. To top it off, I awoke this morning at 0430 to the sound of rain. Yes, for the first time since I arrived in late February, it has rained here in Yucca Valley! I drove to work dodging sand on the road, puddles spanning two lanes, and a dog who decided my car was a deer and jumped into my front passenger door as I drove by. Fortunately, he was standing tall and healthy after his encounter with what was decidedly not a deer.
One of the reasons I hated living in LA was the concrete covering everything. Here, everything is covered with sand. When it rains, or even when the wind blows too hard, the sand covers the road, creating a hazard for motorists. This photo was taken from my driveway and shows sand blocking a nearby road.
What this means is that the day after a rain, all the city's heavy equipment comes out.
I have NO CLUE where the sand dump is, but there's a lot of it. I don't even want to think about how much money the city spends on road maintenance. It's not just the rains, too. At least once every couple of weeks I come home to find water running down the street (taking sand with it, of course) and a utilities truck putting out signs on the road so they can repair the latest damage. The quickest way to get down to Palm Springs is not infrequently closed off because high winds blow sand across the road.The desert is an inhospitable place. I was marveling over this National Geographic special a few days ago, showing animals battling it out over the last few drops of water in a pond:
We're not quite that bad here in southeastern California, but it takes a lot of work to live in the desert.
21 June 2011
Direct Fire
Just over a year ago, I write about my experience on a training exercise where I dismounted and moved up to a vehicle that just had a simulated IED hit. For the past four months, I have been working with the Marine run this exercise, known as Combat Logistics Patrol Exercise, or CLPEX ("clip-ex") for short. Sunday we had a special treat--we got to watch direct fire by an artillery battery. Typically, the Marines in the training (we call the the Exercise Force, or EXFOR--"ex-fore") are from a Combat Logistics Battalion, or CLB ("see-el-bee"). However, one day of each Mojave Viper is dedicated to the Artillery Battery.
On that day, their mission is to move to a patrol base and set up a support position with their Howitzers. Along the way (this is part of the exercise), they are attacked by an entire platoon of insurgents that they cannot suppress with the weapons they have in the patrol. Typically the CLB will stop and request artillery fire. Today, since the patrol had heavy guns with them, they dropped their guns, or took them off their wheels, and shot directly at the targets. Howitzers are designed to fire from a long way off--a Howitzer can be located up 24km away from the target it is shooting at. Today, the targets were in sight just off to our left, less than 3km away.
As the patrol rolled towards the end of its exercise, the call came over my coyote radio--one coyote would detonate the explosives he had set on the side of the road, and the rest of us would tell our EXFOR that they were taking fire from the pre-designated target. I heard the explosion and picked up my radio to the EXFOR truck in front of me. They pulled off the road so they could start engaging the enemy I had just told them about with the heavy weapon on their truck. All through the rest of the patrol, the rest of the trucks were doing the same, and the trucks hauling the Howitzers were dropping the guns.
The live fire events go fast and furious--some times the radio traffic is so busy that it is difficult to get the correct calls in over the radio to the coyote running the exercise. We all heard the call over the radio from the coyote next to the Howitzers that they had fired a shot, but his next call was something no coyote wants to hear: "Emergency, stop exercise! We have a casualty!" Throughout our exercises, we very carefully avoid using the word "casualty". When we simulate injuries to Marines so they can practice their first and and medevac procedures, we call those Marines "cherrypickers". If a coyote accidentally calls a "cherrypicker" a "casualty", he owes every coyote on the range that day a beer. This wasn't a simulated injury. I couldn't see what was going on at the guns, so I had no idea how serious the situation was.
Seconds later, the lead coyote was calling over the radio "hold exercise force in place and go clear, cold, condition four on all weapons systems"--everybody stay where you are, and make sure there is no live ammunition in any of the weapons. A few seconds later, we all breathed a sigh of relief when we heard the primary injury was a broken foot. We waited to resume the exercise as corpsmen assessed the injury and arranged a ground medevac to the hospital on mainside.
We resumed the exercise about half an hour later, once the injured Marine was safely on his way to the hospital. The Howitzers resumed firing at the targets with two different types of rounds. The first type detonated as soon as the round hit the ground. They created a brown poof as they hit the deck and were easy to see once they were down range, but the explosion was contained and not that exciting. The second type of round is designed to explode above the ground and send shrapnel down on troops not under cover. When they exploded, they created a small black mushroom cloud and a gigantic circular brown cloud beneath them as the pressure wave hit the ground.
We watched as the battery shot off all the rounds it was carrying and then told our EXFOR that the target had been destroyed and the exercise was over. We waited as they double-checked that all their weapons were unloaded, then gathered back at the rally point to debrief and get ready for the next run.
On that day, their mission is to move to a patrol base and set up a support position with their Howitzers. Along the way (this is part of the exercise), they are attacked by an entire platoon of insurgents that they cannot suppress with the weapons they have in the patrol. Typically the CLB will stop and request artillery fire. Today, since the patrol had heavy guns with them, they dropped their guns, or took them off their wheels, and shot directly at the targets. Howitzers are designed to fire from a long way off--a Howitzer can be located up 24km away from the target it is shooting at. Today, the targets were in sight just off to our left, less than 3km away.
As the patrol rolled towards the end of its exercise, the call came over my coyote radio--one coyote would detonate the explosives he had set on the side of the road, and the rest of us would tell our EXFOR that they were taking fire from the pre-designated target. I heard the explosion and picked up my radio to the EXFOR truck in front of me. They pulled off the road so they could start engaging the enemy I had just told them about with the heavy weapon on their truck. All through the rest of the patrol, the rest of the trucks were doing the same, and the trucks hauling the Howitzers were dropping the guns.
The live fire events go fast and furious--some times the radio traffic is so busy that it is difficult to get the correct calls in over the radio to the coyote running the exercise. We all heard the call over the radio from the coyote next to the Howitzers that they had fired a shot, but his next call was something no coyote wants to hear: "Emergency, stop exercise! We have a casualty!" Throughout our exercises, we very carefully avoid using the word "casualty". When we simulate injuries to Marines so they can practice their first and and medevac procedures, we call those Marines "cherrypickers". If a coyote accidentally calls a "cherrypicker" a "casualty", he owes every coyote on the range that day a beer. This wasn't a simulated injury. I couldn't see what was going on at the guns, so I had no idea how serious the situation was.
Seconds later, the lead coyote was calling over the radio "hold exercise force in place and go clear, cold, condition four on all weapons systems"--everybody stay where you are, and make sure there is no live ammunition in any of the weapons. A few seconds later, we all breathed a sigh of relief when we heard the primary injury was a broken foot. We waited to resume the exercise as corpsmen assessed the injury and arranged a ground medevac to the hospital on mainside.
We resumed the exercise about half an hour later, once the injured Marine was safely on his way to the hospital. The Howitzers resumed firing at the targets with two different types of rounds. The first type detonated as soon as the round hit the ground. They created a brown poof as they hit the deck and were easy to see once they were down range, but the explosion was contained and not that exciting. The second type of round is designed to explode above the ground and send shrapnel down on troops not under cover. When they exploded, they created a small black mushroom cloud and a gigantic circular brown cloud beneath them as the pressure wave hit the ground.
We watched as the battery shot off all the rounds it was carrying and then told our EXFOR that the target had been destroyed and the exercise was over. We waited as they double-checked that all their weapons were unloaded, then gathered back at the rally point to debrief and get ready for the next run.
21 May 2011
Angel
I wrote this one night while I was in Marjeh, but held off on posting it while I was in country. Then, obviously, my priority on my blog has been just about zero since I got back, but I've finally decided maybe some of you would appreciate these thoughts (and have decided to be Not Lazy enough to actually post).
I drifted out of sleep the first time, the buzz of the chopper seeping into my consciousness and slowly waking me to the point where I realized what I was listening to. The buzz faded: the chopper had left. I checked my watch. 0330. Earlier in the day I had been sitting at a conference table, getting some work done, while a squad briefing was held around me. When it was done, the Lt asked if anyone had seen the warning order for what was happening tonight. One Marine had—a cordon and search.
What that means is that the Marines had reasonable intelligence that someone they were looking for was going to be in a particular house that night. In order to nab the guy they were looking for, they would set up a cordon around the compound, then search every room of the house until they’d found someone. The cordon would prevent him from escaping. Right before I went to bed, that same Lt had stuck his head in the female billeting room to talk to the FET team about the operation. He’d mentioned that they’d be assembling at 0130.
That had been two hours ago, and I hadn’t heard them leave. If they’d stepped off at 0130, probably more like 0200, they would be well into their operation by now. And you don’t call in choppers to evacuate bad guys in the middle of the night; you hold them, question them, and then take them in the next day. A chopper landing in the middle of the night meant one thing, and one thing only. Medevac.
I lay there, and before too long I heard a second chopper coming in. I wanted to go into the COC, the Combat Operations Center, where they would be coordinating the medevac birds. Assure myself that it was just a flesh wound. That the young men I had seen sitting around the table earlier that day would still live long, healthy lives with their families. But you don’t need extraneous people milling around in your COC when you’re trying to get Marines medevaced. Instead I got up to go outside and use the head.
The main room right outside our door was filled with dust, which was not unexpected. This COP is covered with moon dust, and the buildings around here aren’t even close to air tight. I got outside to find it even dustier, the hum of the chopper even louder. The dust in the air reminded me of the dust storms we had right after we got here. It blows everywhere, and the chunks are large enough that you can feel the dirt hitting your arms and your face. I stood on a stool underneath the pull-up bars, hoping it would let me see into the LZ that is set up out back. It was too dusty to see anything, so I gave up and walked to the head.
When I was done, the dust had mostly settled, and I could see the stars again. I realized that because the LZ was covered in gravel, the dust I had initially seen was just from the landing. I stood on the stool again and looked down into the LZ. The bird was a CH-53, a pretty standard piece of gear the Marine Corps uses for combat support. The buzz grew louder, signifying that the bird was about to take off. I closed my eyes and covered my nose and mouth, hoping to avoid breathing the dust in, even though I could feel it on my arms and face again.
I made my way back inside and lay down again.
The third bird came in. Three in a matter of about twenty minutes, and you can fit multiple casualties on a bird. Something had gone very wrong in their operation that night. Or maybe it hadn’t gone wrong, and their operation had been a success. Hopefully they had gotten the guy they were looking for. The operation was just following Hawkeye’s Rule #1: In war, young men die. I fervently hoped that the medevac birds meant that Hawkeye was wrong about Rule #2: Doctors can’t change rule #1.
I lay there for a few more minutes, then got up to write. As I wrote the first few paragraphs, the fourth bird came in. But right now we’re still at four.
We periodically get messages sent out to all hands aboard Camp Leatherneck. They are usually short, only two lines, and read something like this:
At [time] ([date]), there will be a Ramp Ceremony for an Angel from [unit]. The ceremony will be conducted at the FW ADACG Loop* at Bastion Airfield. Please ensure widest dissemination of this information. All available personnel are encouraged to attend. Arrive early for the ceremony.
Unfortunately we usually only get a couple hours’ notice, and the ceremony is a couple miles across base. I haven’t attended a Ramp Ceremony yet, but I have seen pictures. Two long lines of Marines, sailors, soldiers, airmen and civilians standing at attention, facing each other. At the end is the transport plane that will take the casket from here to Dover Air Force Base. I’m sure you’ve heard of the controversy surrounding whether pictures taken at those ceremonies are released to the press. Maybe you’ve seen some of the pictures. (Pictures of President Obama attending a ceremony were released last year; google Obama and Dover and you’ll find it pretty quickly.)
A couple thoughts. I feel somewhat conflicted about the policy against releasing the pictures. Not that I think that the families should be identified, but I think regularly seeing pictures of our fallen Marines and soldiers would make the war much more real to the American public. I remember the first few years of the war (OIF) before I had decided to join the Marine Corps, feeling disconnected from the war. Reading about it, learning about what was going on, but not having a personal connection to it. Seeing the pictures would change that.
But I think there would also be two other (somewhat conflicting) effects. One, the public would grow desensitized to seeing the pictures. Two, they would quickly lose their tolerance for casualties, and thus for the war. Pressure would build to end it, now, and we would leave, probably sooner rather than later.
Let me say again: the things we do here matter.
In the last week I have had more interaction with Afghans than in the previous four and a half months that I’ve been here. The dirt we have been using to fortify the COP we are building was brought in from another part of the city by a civilian contractors, with 82 trucks coming in over a span of three days. The narrow ECP, or entry control point, and deep moon dust created a logistical nightmare--the heavy vehicles would beat up the surface of the ECP, and following vehicles would get stuck. We used our heavy equipment to smooth out the ECP and scrape away some of the moon dust, but it took several hours to offload the fill each day.
The second day, while we were waiting for the last trucks to offload, I stood around talking to some of the drivers. They knew only a couple words of English, and I didn’t know any of their language. But we managed to communicate. One of them told me he was 25; I told them I was 28, and the two others fessed up to being 28 and 22. (The one thought it was cool that we were the same age. I was amused.) One of them joked with pantomime and very broken English that his friend was chubby because he ate a lot and didn’t spend much time working out. He explained that he was skinny because he did a lot of running, and we talked about what we liked to do at the gym. One of them asked me if I wanted to trade my watch for his ring (no!).
These young men are particularly brave. The Taliban likes to target civilian convoys that provide support for Americans because they aren’t as well guarded as convoys solely made of American logistical vehicles. They are just as likely to hit an IED as we are, and their trucks don’t have the armor that saves American lives. They frequently own their own trucks, so if the truck is damaged the money to repair it comes out of their pocket. If they or their families live in the area, they likely receive death threats from the Taliban.
These men and all of the children that crowded around me a few nights ago after dinner deserve a better life than what the Taliban offers to them. They will not have that if we leave now. We, working with Afghan forces, can and will defeat the Taliban. But they still need our help.
When I return from this mission, I know I will have many e-mails piled up. The one I hope not to see: a Ramp Ceremony invitation sent out some time tomorrow for an Angel from G 2/6. Our Doctors are very, very good, and if a Marine can make it to a medevac bird, he has an excellent chance of living. Here’s hoping.
*The airport here on base.
My Marines told me the next day that only one chopper ever landed, but they also told me that it only passed over the COP three times. I don't know for a fact that the chopper landed because of a medevac, but that's the most probable thing.
I drifted out of sleep the first time, the buzz of the chopper seeping into my consciousness and slowly waking me to the point where I realized what I was listening to. The buzz faded: the chopper had left. I checked my watch. 0330. Earlier in the day I had been sitting at a conference table, getting some work done, while a squad briefing was held around me. When it was done, the Lt asked if anyone had seen the warning order for what was happening tonight. One Marine had—a cordon and search.
What that means is that the Marines had reasonable intelligence that someone they were looking for was going to be in a particular house that night. In order to nab the guy they were looking for, they would set up a cordon around the compound, then search every room of the house until they’d found someone. The cordon would prevent him from escaping. Right before I went to bed, that same Lt had stuck his head in the female billeting room to talk to the FET team about the operation. He’d mentioned that they’d be assembling at 0130.
That had been two hours ago, and I hadn’t heard them leave. If they’d stepped off at 0130, probably more like 0200, they would be well into their operation by now. And you don’t call in choppers to evacuate bad guys in the middle of the night; you hold them, question them, and then take them in the next day. A chopper landing in the middle of the night meant one thing, and one thing only. Medevac.
I lay there, and before too long I heard a second chopper coming in. I wanted to go into the COC, the Combat Operations Center, where they would be coordinating the medevac birds. Assure myself that it was just a flesh wound. That the young men I had seen sitting around the table earlier that day would still live long, healthy lives with their families. But you don’t need extraneous people milling around in your COC when you’re trying to get Marines medevaced. Instead I got up to go outside and use the head.
The main room right outside our door was filled with dust, which was not unexpected. This COP is covered with moon dust, and the buildings around here aren’t even close to air tight. I got outside to find it even dustier, the hum of the chopper even louder. The dust in the air reminded me of the dust storms we had right after we got here. It blows everywhere, and the chunks are large enough that you can feel the dirt hitting your arms and your face. I stood on a stool underneath the pull-up bars, hoping it would let me see into the LZ that is set up out back. It was too dusty to see anything, so I gave up and walked to the head.
When I was done, the dust had mostly settled, and I could see the stars again. I realized that because the LZ was covered in gravel, the dust I had initially seen was just from the landing. I stood on the stool again and looked down into the LZ. The bird was a CH-53, a pretty standard piece of gear the Marine Corps uses for combat support. The buzz grew louder, signifying that the bird was about to take off. I closed my eyes and covered my nose and mouth, hoping to avoid breathing the dust in, even though I could feel it on my arms and face again.
I made my way back inside and lay down again.
The third bird came in. Three in a matter of about twenty minutes, and you can fit multiple casualties on a bird. Something had gone very wrong in their operation that night. Or maybe it hadn’t gone wrong, and their operation had been a success. Hopefully they had gotten the guy they were looking for. The operation was just following Hawkeye’s Rule #1: In war, young men die. I fervently hoped that the medevac birds meant that Hawkeye was wrong about Rule #2: Doctors can’t change rule #1.
I lay there for a few more minutes, then got up to write. As I wrote the first few paragraphs, the fourth bird came in. But right now we’re still at four.
We periodically get messages sent out to all hands aboard Camp Leatherneck. They are usually short, only two lines, and read something like this:
At [time] ([date]), there will be a Ramp Ceremony for an Angel from [unit]. The ceremony will be conducted at the FW ADACG Loop* at Bastion Airfield. Please ensure widest dissemination of this information. All available personnel are encouraged to attend. Arrive early for the ceremony.
Unfortunately we usually only get a couple hours’ notice, and the ceremony is a couple miles across base. I haven’t attended a Ramp Ceremony yet, but I have seen pictures. Two long lines of Marines, sailors, soldiers, airmen and civilians standing at attention, facing each other. At the end is the transport plane that will take the casket from here to Dover Air Force Base. I’m sure you’ve heard of the controversy surrounding whether pictures taken at those ceremonies are released to the press. Maybe you’ve seen some of the pictures. (Pictures of President Obama attending a ceremony were released last year; google Obama and Dover and you’ll find it pretty quickly.)
A couple thoughts. I feel somewhat conflicted about the policy against releasing the pictures. Not that I think that the families should be identified, but I think regularly seeing pictures of our fallen Marines and soldiers would make the war much more real to the American public. I remember the first few years of the war (OIF) before I had decided to join the Marine Corps, feeling disconnected from the war. Reading about it, learning about what was going on, but not having a personal connection to it. Seeing the pictures would change that.
But I think there would also be two other (somewhat conflicting) effects. One, the public would grow desensitized to seeing the pictures. Two, they would quickly lose their tolerance for casualties, and thus for the war. Pressure would build to end it, now, and we would leave, probably sooner rather than later.
Let me say again: the things we do here matter.
In the last week I have had more interaction with Afghans than in the previous four and a half months that I’ve been here. The dirt we have been using to fortify the COP we are building was brought in from another part of the city by a civilian contractors, with 82 trucks coming in over a span of three days. The narrow ECP, or entry control point, and deep moon dust created a logistical nightmare--the heavy vehicles would beat up the surface of the ECP, and following vehicles would get stuck. We used our heavy equipment to smooth out the ECP and scrape away some of the moon dust, but it took several hours to offload the fill each day.
The second day, while we were waiting for the last trucks to offload, I stood around talking to some of the drivers. They knew only a couple words of English, and I didn’t know any of their language. But we managed to communicate. One of them told me he was 25; I told them I was 28, and the two others fessed up to being 28 and 22. (The one thought it was cool that we were the same age. I was amused.) One of them joked with pantomime and very broken English that his friend was chubby because he ate a lot and didn’t spend much time working out. He explained that he was skinny because he did a lot of running, and we talked about what we liked to do at the gym. One of them asked me if I wanted to trade my watch for his ring (no!).
These young men are particularly brave. The Taliban likes to target civilian convoys that provide support for Americans because they aren’t as well guarded as convoys solely made of American logistical vehicles. They are just as likely to hit an IED as we are, and their trucks don’t have the armor that saves American lives. They frequently own their own trucks, so if the truck is damaged the money to repair it comes out of their pocket. If they or their families live in the area, they likely receive death threats from the Taliban.
These men and all of the children that crowded around me a few nights ago after dinner deserve a better life than what the Taliban offers to them. They will not have that if we leave now. We, working with Afghan forces, can and will defeat the Taliban. But they still need our help.
When I return from this mission, I know I will have many e-mails piled up. The one I hope not to see: a Ramp Ceremony invitation sent out some time tomorrow for an Angel from G 2/6. Our Doctors are very, very good, and if a Marine can make it to a medevac bird, he has an excellent chance of living. Here’s hoping.
*The airport here on base.
My Marines told me the next day that only one chopper ever landed, but they also told me that it only passed over the COP three times. I don't know for a fact that the chopper landed because of a medevac, but that's the most probable thing.
08 April 2011
On Cauliflower Curry and the Government Shutdown
Two great topics that go great together? Maybe not, but that's what's on the agenda for today. I guess we'll start with cauliflower curry since that's what I named first.
A little while ago, I asked if anyone minded if I blogged about the cooking I do, and I got a couple "yes, please do" responses, and no "I'll stop reading and purge your blog from my mind forever" responses, so the ayes have it. I've been trying recently to make a good cauliflower curry, with a good texture and a taste more interesting than "I dumped some generic curry spice in it". The first time I used my new food processor to cut up the onion and cauliflower and ended up more or less unintentionally decimating both vegetables. Then, when I went to add the coconut milk, I (a) neglected to shake the can to mix the cream with the milk, and then (b) just opened the can and started dumping it into the pan. Before I knew it, I'd dumped the majority of the cream in, and most of what was left that I intended to use for the next batch was pure milk, which was less creamy.
My last mistakes were to use a pan that was too small, so the dish was difficult to stir, and become too impatient, which means the cauliflower didn't cook all the way. The only spices I put in it were whatever is in the generic curry powder I got from the store, so the seasoning was boring. I liked the texture--somewhat pudding-like, with little crunchy bits for the uncooked cauliflower. I decided the next time, I was going to (a) not decimate the vegetables, (b) cook the cauliflower, (c) add better spices, and (d) add pecans on top to add the crunch back in. I succeeded on (a) in that I cut the onions into larger slices, and I failed again on (b) and have since bought a larger pan (most of my pans are still in storage...hopefully that will change in the next couple months). I found some better spices and think I have that dialed in, and the pecans are a good addition, although the ones I have are raw, and I think toasted/salted ones would probably be better.
Next time I'll use the big pan, decimate the vegetables, and use the right spices. Then, I might have an interesting recipe to put on the blog. Until then, it's still an experiment. In other news, today I discovered that homemade spaghetti sauce is better by itself than it is on spaghetti squash. So now I have a decent portion of spaghetti squash left over and nothing to do with it, but I'm sure I can figure something out with butter and some spices. I can also say with confidence that half an avocado mashed with greek yogurt, unsweetened cocoa, and a packet of truvia makes a pretty yummy dessert, although not as good as ice cream.
Don't worry, this will not become a cooking blog.
On to more serious matters. And before I even start, I should say that the discussion that follows is entirely my own point of view, and in no way represents the Marine Corps or DoD.
I am a federal employee. Right now, Congress is debating whether or not they're going to send out the full paychecks that normally appear in Marines', Sailor's, Soldiers', and Airmens' bank accounts in the middle of the month. Honestly, I don't really care about if I am paid on time. Do I like getting paid on time? Of course. But I've been living off my personal savings for the past month and a half due to other pay problems, and I can continue doing so for a while. I know I'll get all the back pay eventually. What bothers me is that because I'm an officer, because I'm single, and because I came into the Marine Corps later in life with significant personal assets, I'm much better off financially and more able to handle a delay in my pay than your average junior Marine or NCO.
What I think is that it's unconscionable is to tell a Corporal: hey, your wife might run up the credit cards this month or bounce a couple checks trying to feed your kids, but we need you to go on patrol and risk life and limb in service to your country. Yeah, they'll eventually get paid, but that doesn't help with this month's water bill. Fortunately, the picture is not entirely bleak. At least two credit unions popular with Marines, Navy Federal Credit Union, and Marine Federal Credit Union, have said they'll cover Marines' regular paychecks for the middle of the month. And then the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society makes loans to service members that need immediate financial assistance and don't want to run up the credit card bills.
When I got in this morning, one of my co-workers was talking about the comment he'd made on Facebook, about how we're professionals, that what we do we do in service to our country, and that selfless service is part of our Marine Corps values. He actually said it with more swear words than that, and was laughing about the number of comments he'd gotten overnight, but he is entirely correct. We don't do what we do for the money. But it's hard to support a family when your normal paycheck isn't in the mail.
There are other annoyances to the shutdown. Joshua Tree might be closed tomorrow, and I had a day off so I wanted to go hiking, but I might have to find somewhere else to go. A message came out either yesterday or early this morning that Reservists won't be allowed to begin certain types of training during the shutdown. This was forwarded in an e-mail to me explaining that because of the way my orders were written, I might be on an unpaid vacation starting on 16 April. The issue was corrected this afternoon (now I'm almost sad that I won't have some time off to go see my nephew, who is almost 9 months old and apparently growing up very quickly), but it was certainly an interesting day.
I have no tidy summary to tonight's post, except to say that a friend of mine has recently started up a blog, and that she has some very interesting and thought-provoking things to share. You can check her out at Leaning In.
A little while ago, I asked if anyone minded if I blogged about the cooking I do, and I got a couple "yes, please do" responses, and no "I'll stop reading and purge your blog from my mind forever" responses, so the ayes have it. I've been trying recently to make a good cauliflower curry, with a good texture and a taste more interesting than "I dumped some generic curry spice in it". The first time I used my new food processor to cut up the onion and cauliflower and ended up more or less unintentionally decimating both vegetables. Then, when I went to add the coconut milk, I (a) neglected to shake the can to mix the cream with the milk, and then (b) just opened the can and started dumping it into the pan. Before I knew it, I'd dumped the majority of the cream in, and most of what was left that I intended to use for the next batch was pure milk, which was less creamy.
My last mistakes were to use a pan that was too small, so the dish was difficult to stir, and become too impatient, which means the cauliflower didn't cook all the way. The only spices I put in it were whatever is in the generic curry powder I got from the store, so the seasoning was boring. I liked the texture--somewhat pudding-like, with little crunchy bits for the uncooked cauliflower. I decided the next time, I was going to (a) not decimate the vegetables, (b) cook the cauliflower, (c) add better spices, and (d) add pecans on top to add the crunch back in. I succeeded on (a) in that I cut the onions into larger slices, and I failed again on (b) and have since bought a larger pan (most of my pans are still in storage...hopefully that will change in the next couple months). I found some better spices and think I have that dialed in, and the pecans are a good addition, although the ones I have are raw, and I think toasted/salted ones would probably be better.
Next time I'll use the big pan, decimate the vegetables, and use the right spices. Then, I might have an interesting recipe to put on the blog. Until then, it's still an experiment. In other news, today I discovered that homemade spaghetti sauce is better by itself than it is on spaghetti squash. So now I have a decent portion of spaghetti squash left over and nothing to do with it, but I'm sure I can figure something out with butter and some spices. I can also say with confidence that half an avocado mashed with greek yogurt, unsweetened cocoa, and a packet of truvia makes a pretty yummy dessert, although not as good as ice cream.
Don't worry, this will not become a cooking blog.
On to more serious matters. And before I even start, I should say that the discussion that follows is entirely my own point of view, and in no way represents the Marine Corps or DoD.
I am a federal employee. Right now, Congress is debating whether or not they're going to send out the full paychecks that normally appear in Marines', Sailor's, Soldiers', and Airmens' bank accounts in the middle of the month. Honestly, I don't really care about if I am paid on time. Do I like getting paid on time? Of course. But I've been living off my personal savings for the past month and a half due to other pay problems, and I can continue doing so for a while. I know I'll get all the back pay eventually. What bothers me is that because I'm an officer, because I'm single, and because I came into the Marine Corps later in life with significant personal assets, I'm much better off financially and more able to handle a delay in my pay than your average junior Marine or NCO.
What I think is that it's unconscionable is to tell a Corporal: hey, your wife might run up the credit cards this month or bounce a couple checks trying to feed your kids, but we need you to go on patrol and risk life and limb in service to your country. Yeah, they'll eventually get paid, but that doesn't help with this month's water bill. Fortunately, the picture is not entirely bleak. At least two credit unions popular with Marines, Navy Federal Credit Union, and Marine Federal Credit Union, have said they'll cover Marines' regular paychecks for the middle of the month. And then the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society makes loans to service members that need immediate financial assistance and don't want to run up the credit card bills.
When I got in this morning, one of my co-workers was talking about the comment he'd made on Facebook, about how we're professionals, that what we do we do in service to our country, and that selfless service is part of our Marine Corps values. He actually said it with more swear words than that, and was laughing about the number of comments he'd gotten overnight, but he is entirely correct. We don't do what we do for the money. But it's hard to support a family when your normal paycheck isn't in the mail.
There are other annoyances to the shutdown. Joshua Tree might be closed tomorrow, and I had a day off so I wanted to go hiking, but I might have to find somewhere else to go. A message came out either yesterday or early this morning that Reservists won't be allowed to begin certain types of training during the shutdown. This was forwarded in an e-mail to me explaining that because of the way my orders were written, I might be on an unpaid vacation starting on 16 April. The issue was corrected this afternoon (now I'm almost sad that I won't have some time off to go see my nephew, who is almost 9 months old and apparently growing up very quickly), but it was certainly an interesting day.
I have no tidy summary to tonight's post, except to say that a friend of mine has recently started up a blog, and that she has some very interesting and thought-provoking things to share. You can check her out at Leaning In.
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