Living on the FOB

BOOM! I feel the concussion through the ground, and my walls shimmer a bit. This one feels different than the explosive reports I’ve been hearing almost every night since my arrival. Was it outgoing or incoming? I still haven’t had enough exposure to incoming (i.e. insurgent mortar and rocket fire hitting inside the base perimeter) to tell for sure.

I stop what I’m doing, and listen. BOOM! Another one, throatier than the first. Are they walking rounds onto us, trying to zero in? The radio at bedside crackles. “Lancer 4, confirm that was outgoing” says a female voice with a down-home Georgia accent. “Roger, that’s ours”, comes the laconic response followed by a sense of collective tension released across the airwaves.

About 10 days ago I rode in aboard a CH-47 Chinook helicopter, clattering through the night to my new home for awhile, one of the Coalition FOBs (forward operating bases) south of Baghdad. A FOB (pronounced like “watch fob”) can be anything from the giant “super FOB” near Balad with over 20,000 personnel, down to diminutive outposts with just a few hundred. The term is now inextricably part of the war’s lexicon.

The companion term, reserved for those who live on FOBs but never or rarely get outside the wire, is “fobbit” and I have to admit I’m in that category. On bigger bases, us fobbits outnumber the fighters, but here I’m in the minority. Every morning and evening, I see soldiers all kitted up either going out or returning from missions. And parked all around are the up-armored HumVees and other armored vehicles, bristling with weapons and antennae. BOOM! Oh, yeah, and then there’s the artillery.

Most everyone lives in containerized housing units, known as CHUs or “cans”. About 8 feet across, by 18 feet long, with one small window (almost always shuttered) they sure make you feel like a sardine sometimes. Each section of cans is surrounded by tall, concrete T-barriers, to minimize the danger of a shell falling amongst them. So, basically, we’re surrounded by a maze of concrete. Just finding your way to the showers can be a challenge.

We’re situated near the ‘southern belt’ outside Baghdad proper, and our location puts us right along the ethnic seam between Sunni areas and the Shia strongholds further south. To our north and west, there are Sunni districts where AQIZ (Al-Qaida in Iraq) still has a grip, but the countryside around our FOB is JAM country, and they let us know it.

The Mahdi Army (Jaish al-Mahdi in Arabic, or JAM) is the outgrowth of Moqtada al-Sadr and his organization, and is probably the most well-armed and radicalized of the Shiite militias. They’re also the most anti-U.S., and frequently stage attacks on Coalition troops and bases in this part of Iraq. They plant IEDs, including the all-too-deadly explosively formed penetrators (EFPs) that tellingly are called “Iranian bombs”.

The JAM also launches indirect fire attacks at our bases in this area, normally at night. Some FOBs have received a lot of fire – almost daily -- and this one got its fair share this spring. It’s been light recently, but everyone is saying we’re due for some more incoming. So, whenever our own guns open up, there’s a bit of nervousness as everyone wonders who’s shooting at who and if any rounds will hit nearby. Recently, I was sitting in the tent-and-plywood base chapel (protected by concrete walls mind you) when a large boom sounded outside. The chaplain stopped his sermon mid-sentence, shifted his eyes left and right, then resumed with a bit of a grin.

BOOM! There they go again.

Making magic with Dan

Let me tell you about an amazing young American I met a few days ago, and a unique opportunity he gave me. After in-processing to MNF-I (Multi National Force-Iraq), I was stuck for several days waiting for airlift to my final destination. The delay was frustrating but it did lead me to Dan Ogden.

Dan’s a young guy from Provo, Utah, with red hair and an Opie-from-Mayberry face.
You’d never guess by looking at him, but he’s an accomplished Arabic linguist. After getting bored with college, he joined the Utah National Guard and was sent to DLI (Defense Language Institute) in Monterrey, CA, one of the world’s leading language schools, to learn Arabic. Soon after, he volunteered for a year-long tour in Iraq, where he put his language skills to the test in the field.

After returning stateside it only took a few weeks to get so bored he decided to go back. He took a job as a contract linguist, and was soon back in Baghdad, where he’s been working now for close to two years. His interpretation and translation work has had many customers, from general officers and politicians to special operations forces.

But perhaps the most important work he’s done has been in a small clinic set up just inside the perimeter of one of our bases in the Baghdad area. Several times a week, Iraqi families and their kids come there to get simple medical and dental care, basic medications and a few other items to make life a little more pleasant.

Helping gather and distribute those few other items is where Dan comes in. When he saw the needs of people coming to the clinic – especially those of the children – he didn’t wait around for an official solution, he reached out and took action. On his own time and dime, he started collecting clothes, simple toys, toiletries, school supplies and other niceties to pass out at the clinic. Pretty soon, word got around and troops were joining him to help carry things and hand them out.

This has been going on for a couple of years now, and when the kids see him coming there’s at outburst of glee. They call him “Sheikh Dan”, and he knows many of them by name. He passes out the donated goodies, but also reads to them and talks to their moms and dads.

While the place is officially run by Army civil affairs soldiers, Dan’s work has helped turn it into a special haven where Iraqis and Americans meet and interact in a peaceful, happy setting. “I realized that of all the things I have done in Iraq to combat terrorism and help the Iraqi people, this was at the top of the list”, he says. “These wonderful children, mothers, and fathers get to see American muscle being used in a different way.”

I had the privilege of going out with Dan on a clinic run, and saw first-hand what magic he has wrought. It was a fantastic experience relating one-on-one with Iraqis and sharing smiles and laughter with them. What a great way to start off my tour over here this time.

And there’s a way for you to help directly. Dan has set up a website, www.sheikhdan.com, where you can see what things they need most at the clinic and how to send them over. This is exactly the kind of connection that needs to be built between the American and Iraqi people. This type of effort can slowly build a peaceful Iraq, and change hearts on both sides. You want to make a difference? Here’s a golden opportunity.

Descent Into Baghdad

Its 0300 and I’m inbound for Baghdad. Finally. It’s been over 60 hours of nonstop travel, on multiple aircraft, through multiple airports and bases. From Ft. Dix, NJ by car to Baltimore-Washington International, where I boarded a transatlantic flight to Germany, then to one of the large U.S. "mega bases" in the Gulf.

The outfit I'm reporting to wants me there ASAP so immediately after landing I tried to catch a hop on anything going to Baghdad International (BIAP) and the cluster of bases surrounding it. Then hours of frustration and waiting in yet another pax terminal (milspeak for passenger terminal, which in this case is an industrial-sized, air conditioned tent). At least I caught some good "rack time" by setting up a makeshift sleep shelter under glaring neon lights. About 0230 I boarded this bird, a C-130 Hercules cargo plane.

Now, as I sit here on the canvas-webbed bench seats, I’ve got time and inclination to reflect. Strangely, the rough droning from four big turbo-prop engines on a C-130 has always had a calming effect on me. I feel that again now, even with parachutes and gear swaying next to me and bumping me in the shoulder as we climb out of Kuwait. Most everyone is catching Zs, and I scan their faces in the ethereal blue light bathing the cargo hold.

A young troop dozes, chin resting on his body armor. Next to me a sergeant from an Army reserve unit in Kansas is cradling his M-4 carbine, staring at rivets in the floor. He’s told me he’s been mobilized for 15 months and this is his first trip to Iraq. I wonder what he’s thinking. A fair-faced female soldier, decked out in Kevlar and digital cammo, rests her head on a fluffy pillow. Next to her a bearded, beefy civilian (possibly with a private security firm, judging by his kit) silently rocks out with his iPod.

Then there’s the foreign contractor directly across, probably from the Philippines or Nepal, based on facial features and sketchy English. I helped him strap in as we took off, and he looks nervous. Now the crew chief stands up in the back and signals us all to put on our helmets and individual ballistic armor (IBA), the sure sign we're entering a combat zone. We begin our descent.

In 2004, my first flight into Iraq was also at night on a C-130, and as the plane came in the crew punched off a couple of decoy flares, which I saw flash by the little porthole windows. Popping flares means there’s some kind of perceived threat, so that got my attention.

This time, we feel the aircraft bank into a few random turns and altitude changes – which means the pilot is taking basic evasive maneuvers. But there aren’t any flares, which is good. Craning my neck, I glimpse the lights of Baghdad as we set up on final approach.

I run through a mental checklist to make sure I'm ready to unload, but its a short list. I've gone over everything so many times now, there's not much more to check. I feel pretty squared away. I could be sent to any one of a dozen or so FOBs (Forward Operating Bases) across Iraq, but I've consciously decided to let that process unfold as it may, without stressing or attempting to steer it. Whatever happens, happens. I'll try to be ready for anything.

I say a little prayer as runway lights flash by underneath us, and the Herc's wheels touch down with a bump.

I'm here.