Fob Brassfield Mora was named after two soldiers who were killed in a mortar attack north of Samara in 2003. Built on the site of an Iraqi grain storage facility, it was immediately off of a major highway - a grid of huge, long rectangular warehouse buildings. At its peak it housed, fed, trained, maintained and entertained over one thousand soldiers. Like almost all FOBs, it was surrounded by high walls (stacked 7 foot wire cubes filled with dirt and topped with razor wire) and guard towers.
I got there just before it started to get dark, a time of day solemnly commemorated by soldiers across Iraq by the switching of eye protection lenses, from dark to clear. Brassfield Mora lacked paved or gravel roads and everything threw up a plume of dust as it moved. The sun, low on the horizon, was invisible through a tan haze. A backhoe with a giant claw was grabbing piles of sand bags and dumping them in the back of a dip truck, destroying half of them in the process. The FOB TOC building was a one story Iraqi building, yellow brick with a large patio covered by a newer wooden awning. American soldiers in PT uniforms and Iraqis soldiers in the standard IA hodgepodge uniform sat talking in the shade outside.
Perhaps it had always been a sparcely decorated, utilitrian building, but the interior of the TOC had a feeling of emptiness. Hard cases were stacked against the walls, tables looked empty despite being cluttered with dust and small objects and the walls of the TOC proper had already been stripped of maps and posters. It felt like the last week of school or a going out of business sale.
I came prepared with a list of DFAC equipment, mostly tables, chairs, refrigerators and buffet serving lines, that Brigade and Division had said we were allocated. After introductios, the NCO in charge of giving away all the excess equipment told me to take anything we wanted from the entire FOB. Anything that was not presently in use was up for grabs.
The DFAC occupied about a third of long warehouse, perhaps 200 meters long, that had acted as Dining facility, gym, Internet and phone center, game room, and chapel all subdivided with plywood walls. All the expensive lightweight equipment - computers, voip phones, tvs and books - had already been removed, but the building still maintained a feeling of only having been abandoned for a couple of days. It was a ghost ship or a summer camp from some cheesey horror film, the traces of it's previous occupants hinted at and just out of sight. Though, not so frightening if only because there were twenty-five of us, all armed.
The gym and the DFAC went first. A knowledgable guy was put in charge of each, figuring out what to grab and organizing the guys to load the equipment, whether it be weight benches or deep fryers, into to 20 foot shipping containers we brought with us. We grabbed everything that we could, anything that seemed like it might be useful. Some things were left behind only because we couldn't fit them through the door.
As I looked further into the small maze of rooms and closets that had been built into the building, the signs of an army presence, of soldiers become more and more evident. Doodles and graffiti on the tables in the now emptied phone center. Closets full paper towels and old trophies for some forgotten event, already ransacked for more valuable things. Small, personal spaces - webcam booths, small reading rooms, even a confessional booth made from plywood in the chapel - remained largely untouched. They retained a feeling of privacy, that though long gone, it felt that I was invading.
This place was always a bit sad, a bit off from the norm. From its begining, the whole facility was not quite home. Soldiers ate good food, but a DFAC is never the same as home or a restaurant. Soldiers came here to call their loved ones, not be with them. You're no farther from god in Iraq, but you are farther from his familiar trappings. The men and women who made this place theirs, who made me the intruder, were gone, almost all rreturned to their homes, families, friends. They won't be back - at least not here.
It seemed only natural when I returned to FOB Warhorse, two years later, for this deployment. Despite the temporary, transient nature of everything we build in this country, it still feels as if it all should be here forever. Everyone who has deployed more than once has been back to a FOB or a city they had been in previously, and it feels normal, familiar, like going back to your college town, or the house you grew up in. A captain I know found an empty an inventory sheet he'd signed as a lieutenant, in a shipping container, on a FOB he'd never been to before. We like to say, "It's a small Army." It's a small war.
But that's changing. The security agreement, our changing mission, and the overall goals of Operation GTFH have led to "Responsible Drawdown." It's a decent buzzword for the idea of retrograding all the equipment, buildings, vehicles, ammunition, and stuff that we've poured into this country. In most places, most times, operations lead logistics. Right now, in most units, it seems that operations are justifying the time we need to complete the logistical work of finding all of our stuff and taking it home with us.
Iraq is building itself. Literally and figuratively, Iraq is winding up, finding it self. And our presence, our war, is winding down as we find the door. And try to fit all of this stuff through it.
The obligatory post apologizing for not posting. I've been traveling around the province, trying to take a couple classes. My internet is spotty - especially for Blogging. I will keep adding more words on the left hand side. My new favorite - "predecisional."
Sorry I have not been able to call or email much. When I return from Warhorse, and move into my permanent home, I'll have much better connectivity.
I have arrived at my more or less permanent FOB, FOB Caldwell, my home for the next 8 months. Though I had any number of concerns about the quality of this place prior to coming here, I have to say, it's not bad at all.
I have a very large office/supply room, well designed and well furnished. It, like the rest of the Squadron headquarters, is a real, hard-stand building, with indoor plumbing. We have a small dining facility with a good variety of tasty food. I'll live within 100 meters of a gym with more than enough room and equipment. I will soon have my own room, with internet, sparsely furnished, which Alsmasi likens to my Freshman dorm room. Combine all of this with the fact that this place is small (less than 2 sq km) that it takes five minutes to get from any one place to any other, and I can certainly say that I have lived in worse places.
There will be much more to follow as I get more and more access to the tubes. I am alive and relatively well. Anyone who wishes to send anything to me can find me at
CPT David Von Bargen 1-14 Cavalry, 3-2 SBCT FOB Caldwell, Iraq APO AE 09324
That said, I'm, sitting fairly well right now, so feel no obligation.
Cidy has turned me on to and helped me establish a Google Voice account. I have a web-based voicemail account that anyone can call to leave me a message. The great thing is that it then emails me the voicemail and a transcript. The number is below, and if you click on the widget below, it will connect you to the voicemail for free.
There is a quality of living in a video game here. The dust drops the visible horizon to a couple hundred meters, and everything just gets fainter the farther you are from it. Even before this storm, everything was coated in a layer of dust so that nothing looks as it did when it was new. Everything blends together - there are sand drifts that lead into the concrete barriers, the dust sticks to any and everything, lending everything a mottled tan hue. Essentially, there are a limited number of textures that get repeated throughout the world.
More than just visually, though it seems the analogy holds. There are no windows in our tents and buildings, so when you exit buildings there are often dramatic light changes as the sun has set or risen. The map here is fixed - we stay within the limits of the camp, being stopped by fences and berms. Finally, is the voice of God. A massive speaker system/siren is mounted throughout the camp. It sounds taps and the Third Corps Song (the theme from the movie Patton) twice daily, and conducts a weekly test, running through its various alarms and warnings.
This is the weirdest part, as they very nearly use the same semi-robotic voice used the Half-Life game sequels. The disembodied voice that seems to come from every direction warns you of fire, artillery attack, ground attack or air attack, preceded by unique sirens and alarms. During this test, the constant discordant sound, the quality of the light, the visibility, and the difference of this place from normal life sends my mind to the closest parallel. As I walked though the din, I felt disappointed there weren't helicopters overhead, nor Combine soldiers firing at me.
And then there is the mildly surreal act of walking into a Starbucks with a gun.
Kuwait. Yeah. Really, I don't know a good way to describe this place. It's flat, insanely hot and bright in the day; though night isn't so bad. The wind blows, but the dust isn't too bad.
The amenities aren't bad... there's a good size store, two dining facilities, once of which is much nicer than expected. I'm typing on inexpensive wifi from my cot. There are some mediocre pay food options (Pizza Inn, Panda knock-off, a coffee place) and a bazaar of local random vendors. We have a tiny movie theater, a couple of tents with TVs, books and XBoxes, a good sized gym, and an aerobics tent.
Let me take a moment to talk about the Starbucks. Imagine a triple-wide prefab building. One side is all windows. Inside, its is all but identical to every Starbucks you have ever been to. The floor tile, the light fixtures, the straws, and the little table they sit on - all the same. The only difference is that this Starbucks has the menu in Arabic and English. Sadly, they don't have the Date Frapaccino anymore.
Here, anytime we leave the Brigade tent area we must, on our person, have a weapon, water source, eye protection, and another person equally equipped. We are like little children - we use the buddy system. Of course, though we are required to carry our weapon, we are not allowed any ammunition.
As for the doing - well not much of that yet. In theory, we should only be here long enough to do some very limited training, get all our people and get our equipment off some ships. Through the vagaries of Big Army... things... we will be here for a while.
Welcome to Kuwait, or Limbo, the first circle of Hell in Dante's inferno. Limbo is the land of the virtuous non-believers, and is filled with ennui. Its inhabitants lie around in its endless sand and heat, sighing. At its center is a castle in which Socrates and Plato reign. So far, i think, in this metaphor, that is the water tower.
I have some many weeks here in Kuwait as I await the arrival of the rest of my unit, and the arrival of our things. The two appear to be having a competition to see who will arrive later. it is dull here, and will likely remain so, intermittently interrupted by moments of insane busywork and movement. I will likely call some of soon, as there are phones here, and, as you can see, internet. This is actually wifi in my tent, using my computer, so hurrah!
Finally, I have been instructed by my love to catch and bottle the soul of an unbaptized baby so that she might flavor cookies with them.
I have learned a good deal - but I don't feel it. I feel as if I've been muddling along, occasionally getting things right, but mostly not doing my job. This also comes from the fact that I largely don't understand my job.
I spent 2 weeks on the FOB. I was surrounded by beautifully stark desert terrain, but I couldn't go anywhere but walk back and forth across the dust from sleep to work to food and back. This place would be interesting if I could drive or walk it on my own - have some training or time to learn what the hell my new job entails. Instead I was driven out of the box inside of a Stryker - unable to even see the terrain one last time.
Perhaps I need a some time to breathe and think about this place and the job I'm to do.
- - -
The above was written as I was leaving NTC in the back of that Stryker. I could see little more than slits of sky passing by - there are no windows. I was able to turn on a B/W thermal video image from a camera fixed on the front of the Stryker so I didn't get motion sick, but it was a far cry from satisfying, and intensely different from being a Platoon Leader in that hatch - in charge.
The following posts were all written at NTC, but as I lacked the ability to access blogger, I couldn't post them. They are, as I say often of this blog, an airing of grievances, not an objective review of the Army, NTC, or my new job.
