Update

Easter 2007, downtown Baghdad:




Easter 2008 in Florida:

What a difference a year makes.

That's Mike on the left and Jon on the right. It was a great weekend.

Mark has been on a fairly rigorous training schedule and hasn't had much time to write. But I expect to see something shortly and will post it.

Meanwhile, I will prattle on in his absence.

I've attached a link in the sidebar to the NY Times story about the 4,000 casualties from the Iraq war. It contains blog posts from six soldiers who died in Iraq. It is heart wrenching but there is a common thread that connects all soldiers who are or have been overseas.

Fifth anniversary

From Airborne Dad:


Virtually every major news outlet has been featuring some sort of look back at America's last five years in Iraq. Lots of would of, could of and should ofs.

The comment that hit the hardest was from NBC's Richard Engel, who said the soldiers in Iraq believe that America has moved on despite the daily sacrifices of the troops.

"The only people who are paying attention right now are their families and friends, not the American people."

My comment: How have we let this happen?

Combat vets, part 3

From SPC Mark. Parts 1 and 2 are below.

We had been sitting in the corner of the field
waiting to get back on the birds. Finally the birds
began cranking up and we were back on our feet getting
ready to re-board the aircraft. As we walked back
slowly to the helicopters word came down the line:
the Air Force would be dropping a couple JDAMs (joint
direct attack munition) on the container yard at 0350
right after our guys flew out. I thought to myself
"Hell yeah." But I soon forgot about it in the noise and
confusion of the in-fill phase of a mission.


Since we were there to bolster Alpha Company’s
numbers, I think we got the short end of the stick as
far as jobs goes. We were to hit a house on the edge
of the village and set up a blocking position there watching
over the main road into the small town. Part
of that blocking position called for us to set up a
road block using concertina wire. So we were given a
couple spools of wire that are really big sharp
circles about four feet across. There was no way to
carry it but by hand. So in classic paratrooper style
we found an old bed frame along the way, broke off a
metal pole, put the wire on it and two at a time took
turns carrying it.

When we finally hit the ground we
found that this system had a couple flaws. One: the
wire is fairly heavy and added to our more than a
hundred pounds of gear, ammo, food and water. . . not
fun. The second problem we found is that not everyone
is the same height. So those of us less than 6 feet
tall really got screwed. Following the laws of
physics and gravity, the wire slid towards the smaller Joe
so that hands, arms and faces were cut. The two or so
miles to the objective ended up being very awkward and
painful for some.

It was time for the next two to take the wire so
my partner and I passed that stupid contraption off,
which literally had to be ripped off of me because the
sharp ends were stuck in the fabric of my uniform. I
passed it off and moved back in to my position in the
formation as we walked through the muddy little
village. Breathing heavy and completely worn out, I
wiped the sweat from my face. Feeling very sorry for
myself, I followed along with heavy footsteps,
SGT Medina yelling at me the whole way, "Pull
security, face out!"

We stopped for a moment on a
short security halt and I went down to a knee. Right
then my ears caught a distant noise: the unmistakable
sound of a friendly fighter jet somewhere above in the
star lit heavens. In spite of everything hearing that
cracked a smile on my face. Knowing that there was
someone up there watching over me was very comforting.

Listening closely, I looked down at my watch and hit
the light button.

0351

"Guess we've got air cover," I
muttered to myself. No sooner had I said that then

I lifted my NODs off my face and saw what I can only
describe as a volcano erupting about two miles away.
A huge ball of yellow and orange leaped into the sky.
It was so bright that we were no longer cloaked in
darkness and I was now casting a shadow. Half a
second later, the shock wave made it to us and shook
the very ground, slapping us on the chests and
rattling all the metal roofs around us. The initial
blast was quickly followed by another and then
another. Each equally powerful as the first. With
hell breaking loose upon the earth in front of us, my
squad leader turned to me and said something I'll never
forget.

"You're goddam combat veterans now."

We soon picked up and moved out to our objective.

Combat vets, part 2

From SPC Mark. Part 1 is below.

I'm not sure when but eventually I had passed out and I
was blinking awake now. Waking up in the Army is the
hardest part of my day. Usually I have a full poopy
face going as I sit collecting my thoughts. Took a
drink of water, strapped on my boots and headed for the
tent door. It's so dark in those tents that you have to
close your eyes before you open the door so as not to
go blind from the piercing sun light of the late
desert morning.

Stepped out, took a look around, stretched a bit, turned
and headed down the row of tents to the latrines. It
was nice with everyone gone. No one in the latrines. . .
hot water in the shower. . . I could get used to this. Yes,
it was going to be a good couple of days.

I finished my morning routine feeling quite good and cleanly shaven.
I stuck my head into my squad leader’s tent to see
what was what. Surprisingly they were up and already
playing video games. We exchanged a couple insults
and I sat down and picked up a controller.

“Hey, uh, where's Sgt. Medina?”

They all sort of moaned at my question. I had developed a bad
reputation for asking too many questions. I couldn't help it but I needed to know what was going on at all times. I blame my father, a former reporter, for that one.

“Uh, someone for the battalion TOC came by and was asking for him. probably some detail or something.”

“Bummer”

I sank into my chair at that news. I had hoped to avoid details while everyone was gone but I
guess I wasn't surprised. Moments later Staff Sergeant Medina flew through the tent door. We all spun around in our chairs. I didn't like his facial expression.

“Start getting your shit together we’re going out
with alpha company in a couple hours.” His voice hada hint of anger or desperation i couldn't tell.We didn't move. We just looked at each other all puzzled.

“What do I have to do ask you please get fucking moving!”

His voice now definitely angry we all jumped to our feet and tripped over each other as we did. I
headed for the door and as I was half out, Sgt. Medina said something that changed everything.

“Someone got killed last night.”

It wasn't until the door closed behind me did it sink
in. My mind flooded with questions. Who? What
company? What the hell happened? Where are we going?

Despite the urging of every bone in my body to turn
around and find the answers, I walked quickly back to
my own tent. There were no answers back through that
door and my questions would only make him angrier.

Within only about an hour, I was ready to go. Two
days food and water. Machine gun clean and oiled.
Ammo belts neatly rolled into pouches. Extra chem
lights, AA batteries, zip ties and a couple
extra pairs of socks and t-shirts.

I couldn't take it anymore. I headed back to my squad tent in search of
some answers and to find when the mission brief would
be. There wasn't much to hear they really didn't know
that much.

The guys had gone into an old container yard near an abandoned power plant and had made
contact with the enemy. As the last hours of daylight
passed, more details came in. They had been out there
and had been in and out of contact with the enemy all
day. News that they had come under “complex” attack
was especially disconcerting. Complex meaning they
used coordinated mortar and small arm attacks. A good
sign that these were not your usual insurgents.

We were the supplement Alpha Company and occupy a
blocking position for them as they cleared a small
village about a mile from the rest of the force.

Nervous and antsy, we moved out to the LZ several hours
early. We propped up against the blast walls and
chain-smoked cigarettes as the sun melted into a sea
of gold and red.

We said nothing really. No real small talk we just sat deep in thought. Sgt. Medina
was the first to break the silence.

“You guys scared?”

No one said anything.

“I'm scared and if your not, I don't want you in my squad.”

We all eventually admitted the same. One of our
Sergeant Majors came out and spoke a few words of
encouragement. It did little but add suspense to the moment.

Hours ticked by as the sky opened and the stars lit
up brightly. The time for the birds to arrive came
and went. But we waited on. Finally two hours late, the
bird showed up in dramatic fashion as always. Thunder
and dust. We boarded, packed into the uncomfortable
cargo net seats.

I had started a little tradition for
that time. When the bird started to lift off and we
headed off to go who knows where. I had developed a little
way to keep my mind level. And to an extent it worked.

Every-time when the helicopter throttled up and the
bird shook its way up, I pushed the light button on my
watch to see what time it was. Did the math and
figured what time it was at home. Right then, at that
moment, I pictured what was happening at my house.

"It's 0100 here. . . that means its. . . it's 1700 back
home. Five o'clock. It's five o’clock. That means that
Mom's sitting on the couch watching the news. Dad
should be home and is probably finishing up the last
of his emails. Jon. . . Jon hopefully is doing his
home work. But no, he's probably surfing. Mike. . .
Mike is at his house, home from work and he's definitely
drinking a beer and thinking about doing his homework.
its five o’clock.”

That usually did the trick. Put me at ease for a
bit. Bridged that gap between opening jitters and
total focus.

Before I knew it we got the six minute
warning. Weapons could be heard clicking as they were
loaded. I followed suit and loaded my SAW. The bird
banked and jostled and without any further warning the
bird slammed into the ground and the ramp opened.

Everyone jumped to their feet and hustled off the
bird. The only problem was that somehow the fact that
we had a two hour layover at another airfield hadn't
made it to most of us. So when we ran off the bird,
we were not greeted by the enemy but a rather portly
and confused staff sergeant holding a glow stick.

Coming soon

My airborne correspondent has commanded me to post part 2 of Combat Vets. I will do the best I can to post it today.

Combat vet, part 1

This is a long post so SPC Mark broke it into three parts:

There was never enough room for the whole company to
go out. Usually one squad was chosen from a platoon
to stay behind.

To be honest I really didn't mind being left behind that week. The rest of the company would
be gone for a couple days and we would sit and watch movies and sleep. Sort of a mini-vacation, no one to bother us.

And so it was that night I caught the camp
bus back from midnight chow, which technically had
become lunch since we were on a reverse schedule. I
got off the bus and walked the short gravel road up to
our little compound. In the clear, crisp desert night
the moon reflected off the windows of a now silent
Chinook helicopter that had appeared while I had been
gone.

My eyes never left it as I crunched by. I could see
several more lined up perfectly one behind the other.
The moon was so bright I could see each separate chalk
line against the 10 cement blast walls lining the LZ.

There was little to be heard but a few stressed NCO's
and officers frantically trying to square everything
away in the little time they had remaining. I kept
walking turned my head and looked toward the ground.
In my heart I wish I were with them. I hated not
being with them. I hated not going out. I'm not a war
junkie and I'm not a super hero either but for some reason I
didn't feel comfortable letting them go without me.
Not that I could do anything more if
something happened but I only trusted myself with my
buddies lives.

I had no sooner looked toward the ground when in
unison the birds made that hair drier noise. Massive
fans kicking on as the powerful engines began to roar.
Kept walking and past through the little gate that
was little more than a hole in the blast wall. I
stopped, Styrofoam to-go-box in hand, and turned back
towards the gate. The giant rotors started to turn
and I found a spot against the wall and crouched down.
the engines now in full swing i could make out lines
of paratroopers shuffling towards the open ramps.
Rotors spinning so hard the bird looked as though
they wanted to leap off the ground. They stayed
faithfully on the ground waiting for the pilots to
release them into the air. Finally the time came, and
when you thought that those things couldn't get any
louder, they wound up more and began to look skyward.
Five of six Blackhawks took off in the distance and
the four or five bus-sized twin rotor Chinooks all
lifted up and turned away. The wind generated from
those fans is enough to blow you over. I may have been
if it weren't for the concrete wall against which I was leaning.
The birds thundered off and left a thick
dust cloud in their wake. even though it was my turn
to stay behindI still felt very low. One of the
lowest points of my Army career was sitting there with
my cheeseburger and French fries in my hands watching my
brothers head off with out me.

I patted the dust out of my uniform as I stood up.
Walked into the tent without saying a word. I laid on
my cot staring at the floor. And somehow I was on
that bird with them. That calm excitement. Wondering
what was going to become of us all.



Combat vet, part 2 will appear shortly.

Tikrit

From SPC Mark. FYI, there is a language alert on this post.

We had some where in the neighborhood of 50 Humvees.
At first, I really had no idea why. Normally, Our mission was to
go in by helicopter where ever we thought the bad guys
were hiding. Not Humvees.

They were rather sad looking Humvees.
Reminded me of old pack mules, broken down by years of
hard labor. It took a crew of about 20 mechanics
working around the clock for two and half months to get
them all mission capable, which wasn't saying much
considering mechanics were adjusting them and
replacing parts when I was mounting the machine gun on
the roof.

So many of the casualties in Iraq after the invasion
were roadside bombs or IEDs. If you were there and
weren't scared of them you were probably a moron or
someone who was blessed with a job that kept you off
the dangerous Iraqi roads.

Until then I had thought I was one of the lucky ones. I had told my family that
I was much safer cause I didn't have to drive anywhere. Helicopters took me where the brass wanted me to be and picked me up when the job was done. I
walked everywhere in between. Later I realized
that telling my family not to worry about IEDs was as
much for my benefit as it was for theirs.

That night when I was given the warning order of the
mission to come, all I could think was, “Crap.” We
were to "ground assault convoy" or GAC to a small
village just outside Tikirt, the city of Sadaam’s
birth. It's been about a year and half since then and
I'm not sure who exactly we were going after or if we
we had caught him.

I can only remember what happened that first night.
I should have known I was in for something interesting
when I was told that I wouldn't be traveling with my
company. Not only that, I was to be separated from my
squad leader and half my squad. You really only can
trust those you know out there.

My team leader and I were attached to Delta company for the initial
movement. Delta company was to stop at a specific
intersection within the village and let us out. We
were then to wait there for the rest of my squad to
link up and hit the house on the intersection . . . hit
and hold that house to control the intersection and
provide watch for our buddies as they went ahead
with the task at hand.

Not only that, I was to be riding in the very first truck in the first of two
convoys. . .the bomb finder.

Before I went to Iraq I had been a smoker for several
years. When I got to Iraq, I decided to quit.
It went pretty well for the most part and it had
been almost a month without a single cigarette. As
the sun set that afternoon, I chain smoked, one after
another. We got the word sometime around midnight to,
“mount up” and so I strapped on all my combat gear and
climbed into the Humvee.

It was about a 45-minute ride from Camp Speicher to that little village. I
breathed low, hunched forward, muscles tensed and ready as
I peered through my night vision goggles, watching and studying
every foot of the dusty road. After a very tense hour
we turned off MSR (main supply route) Tampa and into the village.

I had studied the maps ahead of time and memorized every
turn that would take us to our intersection. We
hadn't gone into the village but ten feet when we
had to turn around because of a road block. From that
point on I had no idea where I was going but I prayed
that Delta company did.

It's not a good feeling being away from your guys and that feeling was growing worse by
the minute. Twenty minutes and six turn-arounds
later, I was sure that we were all completely lost.
Just then and without warning, the Humvee skidded
to a halt and the sergeant in the front passenger seat
said, “This is you, get out.”

I went through the open Humvee door with a little help from the adrenaline
flowing through my veins. Ran over to a wall and picked up
security with my machine gun. My team leader, Murph,
ran over throwing his back into mine and picking up
security the other way down the road. The final member of our team, Jenkins, came up throwing himself between the two of us.

The humvees dropped into drive and drove off kicking up the dusty road and leaving us
in a cloud. Then, quiet. Nothing. No sound, only
helicopters criss-crossing overhead. Jenkins broke
the silence and said exactly what all three of us were
thinking, “Well, this isn't where we’re supposed to
be.”

It was totally obvious seeing as how there wasn't even an intersection in sight.

“Yeah I know, where the hell are we?” Murph said in a
yelled whisper.

“Fuck man, I don't know,”I said in between breaths.

“Middlebrook, did you see our intersection?”

“Fuck me man, I don't know. Everything looks the same.”

“Shit uh... shit.”

“Well we cant just sit here man. We’ve got to mo. . .”

“Goddamit, I know.... Middlebrook, which way do you
think our intersection is?”

“Uhmm. . . . fuck man. . . uhmm. That way I think, man . . . fuck man, I
don't know.”

“All right. All right. Well then, that's the way were going.
We're going to keep bounding (bounding is a movement
where one moves while the other covers you then
covers the other while he moves) until we find where
we’re supposed to be. . .All right... Go Middlebrook,
go!”

I picked up my gun and hoisted myself and took off at
a dead sprint. Wheeling left and right I got about a
hundred meters and dove on the ground just like in
training. Seconds later, the heavy foot steps of an
over-loaded paratrooper came up behind me and gave a
“hughhh” as he hit the ground, lying there huffing and
puffing, sweat pouring and pulling security until the
final member of our little party ran up.

When he did, I instinctively jumped up and took off again. This
continued for nearly a click (1000 meters). It broke down to this: the further we went, the more nervous we became. Towards the end, we were just running . . . running for our lives.
In my mind - I think in all of our minds - we were beginning to panic. But in that situation, fear and panic is what will get you killed. We kept to our training. We stayed together and we kept moving.

By ourselves, it wouldn't have taken much for us to be overrun or even captured. Huffing along those dusty roads and alleys, all that could be heard was heavy
breathing , footsteps, barking dogs and distant helicopters.

I was running low on gas. Picking up and running, dropping then picking up again with a full combat load of an M249 machine gunner is not an easy task. Plus food and water, I was carrying somewhere in the neighborhood of 110 pounds of gear. When we set out, I was in the front. Now, nearly a mile down the road, I was in the rear and trailing. Everyone always
gets angry with SAW gunners for slowing them down. But when things start happening and you let that thing loose, everyone loves you.

When we got to the very end of the road, we turned a
corner and spotted three Americans running across the
street under some sort of make shift street light. A
hundred meters away and through distorted night vision,
I instantly recognized one of them as American.
Not only American but my squad leader.

“It's Sergeant Medina!”

We took off again at a dead sprint giving it everything we had left. Without even saying a word we stacked on the courtyard door and SGT Medina kicked
it in. Within seconds the house was clear and I was on the roof training my gun across the village.

Through my night vision, I could see paratroopers hitting houses and clearing to the roofs. Flash bangs, popping tactical lights searching houses, infrared
strobe lights blinking while Apache helicopters flew lazy figure eights overhead.

A year and half later, I think back to that night and how lucky I was that nothing happened. At the time, I didn't think about it. I just did what I was trained to do. When I thought about it later, it dawned on me just how bad it could have gone.

Just hearing the name Tikrit today . . . my veins open and adrenaline begins to flow.
Remembering that night is a conscious re-occurring nightmare.

Blog updates

I've been on the road a lot lately and I was waiting to update the blog after the local paper, Shorelines, picked up a story about Mark and his blog. I will have an update tomorrow.

Thoughts and Prayers

From SPC Mark:

I consider myself lucky. Lucky to be alive. And
that's it. That's what it boils down to.

If those mortar rounds had landed a little closer. Had those bullets
been aimed just a little bit lower. Had those three
IED kill teams got me instead of me them. In the nearly
16 months I served in Iraq, my unit of about 700 men
lost 13. We came home with 13 fewer men - brothers - than
we had left with. About three times as many wounded. Though I
didn't know any of them personally, it was hard just
the same.

Memorial services. God I hate them. A paratrooper.
A battle hardened veteran is supposed to be almost
numb and without emotion. I think back to standing
there in the desert in a mass battalion formation
surrounded by barbed wire and 10-foot tall concrete
blast walls at one of those damn services.

Always a light desert breeze and fiery golden sunset as a back
drop when we honored our fallen brothers. Every man
there quietly swallows hard pushes those emotions deep
deep inside. Tear ducts screaming for permission to
shed tears, teeth bite down hard and from the outside
little shows the battle waging inside.

It's the end where most lose it. Roll call. A senior NCO begins
calling names. One after the other: “HERE FIRST
SERGEANT!. . . HERE FIRST SERGEANT!’’ until the name
of the deceased is reached. Nothing but silence as
they attempt to call his name three times.

Two days ago was a nice day here. Breezy and cool, great
blue sky overhead with a brilliant sun to warm the
skin. I walked the short distance to my battalion
headquarters running a errand for a platoon sergeant
in my company. Walking inside, by happenstance, I ran
into an old battle buddy. I'd known him from the
beginning of my Army career. Him, me and three other
guys had all gone through basic together, airborne
school and came here to Bragg. Medina, Blaske, Coats,
and Baez, good friends eventually separated by the war.

“What's up man”

“S'up Middlebrook?
”
“Oh you know man, livin' the dream.”

Smiling and continuing on without stopping. Truth is, I didn't really
want to talk to him all that much. I'd only made it five steps past him...

“Hey man, listen.”

“What's up?” Turning to face him.

“Hey, sorry to be the one to tell you dude. You know
those couple guys that got killed in 1/73 (a cavalry
battalion in my brigade) the other day?”

“Yeah. . .”

“One of them, man, was Baez.” Hit me like a punch to
the chest.

“What?”

“Yeah man, Baez is dead.”

I wasn't sure how to react. I was in shock and didn't truly believe it. Safe and
sound in the United States, a thousand of miles from that damn desert, and the war ripped me right back. Hell, I may as well be still in Iraq because that unmistakable feeling took hold of my soul.

Spc. Miguel A. Baez was killed in action in Balad, Iraq by an improvised explosive device as he entered a house. He was set to come home to his wife and four children next month. He died on his last mission outside the wire.

An all around great guy. Hell of a sense of humor. After all the things the Army put us
through, I never heard him utter a word in anger. He was a very devoted family man and if you asked him about his kids his eyes would light up and a smile always followed.

How did I survive and Baez not? He had so much more to live for. If I could change places, I would without hesitation. But that is the way it seems to be. Those lost are always most missed.

I will never forget him. My thoughts and prayers are with his family. His memory will always occupy a place in my heart.

Mark's friend

Miguel Baez and Mark attended basic training together at Ft. Benning, went to airborne school together. There were five of them that went from basic to the 82nd Airborne Division together. Now there are four.

Here's the story from the Fayetteville Observer:

Two Fort Bragg soldiers died this week in Iraq of injuries suffered in a bomb blast.

Cpl. Miguel A. Baez III, 32, of Bonaire, Ga., and Sgt. John C. Osmolski, 23, of Eustis, Fla., died Tuesday in Balad. A third soldier, Sgt. Timothy R. Van Orman, 24, of the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum, N.Y., also was killed.

The explosion hit the three soldiers near Al Muqdadiyah during combat operations, the Defense Department said Thursday. The city is in Diyala province,

Baez and Osmolski were assigned to the 82nd Airborne Division’s 2nd Brigade Combat Team. Baez was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment; Osmolski was assigned to the 2nd Brigade Special Troops Battalion.

Baez, an assistant machine gunner, was on his first deployment.

“Baez was the best kind of soldier,” said 1st Sgt. Kevin Spooner, Baez’s company first sergeant. “He always volunteered and never hesitated to help out a brother.”

Baez joined the Army in May 2005 and arrived at Fort Bragg in October of that year.

“He was a clown, a loving father and a wonderful husband,” Spooner said. “He’ll be greatly missed.”

Baez’s awards and decorations include the Bronze Star Medal and the Purple Heart.

He is survived by his wife, Elena Deer-Baez and his children, Selena, Miguel, Aaliyah and Breanna, all of Fort Bragg; and his parents, Miguel A. Baez Jr. and Ramona Baez of Byron, Georgia.

Ground Hog Day Redux

A bald eagle photographed at Guana Preserve in North Florida

In Bill Murray's "Ground Hog Day," a television weather forecaster wakes up every morning in the same room, to the same radio show and relives the day before's events in the same way, over and over. No matter how hard he tries, he finds it impossible to escape the routine.

That's how we had been living while Mark was deployed to Iraq. Everyday: Get up, fret about the war, go to work, worry about the war, come home, eat dinner, watch the news and fret some more. I thought that cycle would snap instantly after he came back to the States. But it hasn't. After three months since his arrival, we are still living a modified version of the same routine. Ground Hog Day redux.

Yesterday, we decided to try to break the cycle and head to a 9,000 acre marine and coastal hammock preserve called the Guana-Tolomato-Matanzas Natural Estuarine Research Reserve 15 minutes from our house. We had heard that the two eagles were back and had hatched at least one chick in a nest near the education center. It was a balmy day so we abandoned the Internet and the television news for a healthy sun-screened dose of vitamin D. One of the eagles was there but it was too hazy to try for photograph. I went back today and didn't see either bird. The picture above was taken in 2006 before Mark deployed.

We don't know what normal is anymore. Part of it is the war. We have forgotten what we used to do when we were blissful ninety-nine percenters. Part of it is that we are nearing the empty-nester stage. Our youngest will be 17 and he was outgrowing his parents about the time Mark joined the Army. For 26 years, our kids have been the focus of our lives. So we are now entering a new phase. Should be a new adventure.

But the war will always be with us.

Silly Season update

After promising not to answer any phone calls until tomorrow's Florida primary was over, a dear friend and colleague called inviting me to an event for Sen. John McCain this morning. Gayle and I both went along with an associate and we all had a great time.

We thought this was going to be a meet-and-greet with a little sign waving, but it turned out to be a discussion of national security issues. Along with McCain were Sens. Lindsay Graham and Richard Burr, former CIA director Jim Woolsey, former Gov. Frank Keating from Oklahoma and former VA administrator Tony Principi. While there was a lot of talk of national security threats, there was also a discussion about the need to improve benefits for veterans. That was a first for me.

An observation: Candidates sound much better and more thoughtful than their squished sound bites we hear on television.

After the discussion broke up, McCain met with reporters. Did they ask for specifics on improved benefits? Nope.

First question: "Mitt Romney says you are a liberal. Are you a liberal?"

Guess which sound bites will make the 6:30 p.m. news?

Sen. McCain takes questions from the media in Jacksonville, Fla.

The Silly Season arrives in Florida

The Republican candidates have descended upon our fair state of Florida en masse and the Silly Season is junking up our air waves. The Ron Paul signs are everywhere and Mitt Romney is on the TV virtually every other commercial.

This isn't a friendly, coffee-shop affair like you might find in New Hampshire or Iowa. There are 18 million people living here. So we see pre-packaged photo ops and caravans of campaign buses complete with police escorts.

A side effect of the Silly Season is the robotic, computer-driven campaign phone calls in which the candidates say really nasty things about each other. They come at all hours of the day. Romney called us twice last night and John McCain called today and it is still early.

We've turned our Privacy Director back on.

Gayle and I are also swearing off the candidate debates. We found the "You-represented-a-slum-lord, you-served-on-the-board-of-WalMart" Democratic debate Monday disheartening.

The Republicans here are pandering to their base by dividing very complicated issues like Iraq into black and white. The chant of "victory or defeat" somehow rings hollow to me and offensive to Gayle given the complexity of the war.

But here's what I haven't heard:

Better benefits and pay for the military;
Better screening for PTSD;
More educational opportunities for soldiers particularly the combat units whose inflexible schedules make it difficult to take classes;
Better benefits for Vets;
And on and on....

When will that public discussion take place?

Oh, yeah. There is good news. We can turn our Privacy Director off on Wednesday.

From the blogosphere

Here's some interesting Iraq related posts from other blogs:

Charlie The Dog:

For an update on the efforts to bring Charlie The Dog back to the U.S. from Baghdad, see the recent post from Eighty Deuce on the Loose, linked in the sidebar on the right. Charlie Company of the 1-504 Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne has adopted a stray who has been living at its Forward Operating Base in Baghdad (or rather the dog adopted them). Some of the soldiers have gone to great lengths to take care of him and have him vaccinated. Now they are trying to find a way to send him back to the States before they redeploy home.

Vacation and blogging:

Jan Wesner blogs at Standing By, which is also linked on the sidebar. Her husband has recently returned from Iraq so she is taking a seven day sabbatical with her family. But her readers have continued on with out her and there are now 141 comments on her last entry. It's a testament to how a blog can bring together folks with a common interest. In this case, it's the war.

Update on Operation Phantom Phoenix:

See Bill Roggio's The Long War Journal for an update on an offensive under way in Iraq. This operation has received little or no coverage in the media stateside. The story is linked on the right under Recently Read. It's called "Al Qaeda in Iraq's shrink area of operations."

What war?

As primary fever grips the nation, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have disappeared from the front pages of both local and national newspapers. This has been going on for some time now as the economy clunks along and voters are looking in their wallets while heading to the polls. The war in Iraq continues to sink in opinion polls. I don't know if that is a sign of success overseas or that fewer and fewer people care anymore.

Yesterday, USA Today had a page one story on the security in Baghdad, but that has been the exception rather than the rule. My local paper, The Florida Times-Union, managed today to squeeze in a story about the end of a Shiite pilgrimage on page A-15 behind the furniture ads. A promo for "Religion and the hamburger" in the Business section rated a page one presence.

I stunned to read last week that there had been two major offensives under way in Iraq. I receive three newspapers a day and four on Saturday and I generally watch an hour of news every night. How could I miss that?

I heard about one from a friend whose son has been involved in Operation Phantom Phoenix.

It seems that with nearly 200,000 service men and women committed to our overseas wars, they deserve better, and so do we.

Sports anchor fired for helping military families

From the Clarion Ledger in Jackson, Mississippi:

Rick Whitlow, sports director for WJTV-Channel 12, said he was fired from the Jackson TV station Monday after he refused to work an unscheduled weekend.

Whitlow said Monday that he had told station officials he would not be able to work unscheduled weekends so he could devote time to military-family support groups following the deployment of his son, Army Pvt. Eric Whitlow, 23, to Iraq in August.

"I made it very clear that I have to schedule the weekends I work because the families who have sons and daughters serving overseas often meet with each other then for support," Whitlow said. "I had already arranged to meet with military families this past weekend in New Orleans.

"The station told me to come to work this weekend. I didn't. They took that as insubordination, and they fired me."

As of Monday evening, station officials, including the general manager and news director, could not be reached for comment. No one returned calls seeking comment. On Monday, Whitlow's photo and bio no longer appeared on the station's Web site.

"They basically put me in the position of choosing between them and my family," Whitlow said.

"When you have a child in Iraq trying to avoid roadside bombs, you have to plant your feet and make a stand.

"I would do the same thing 100 times over."

Whitlow returned to the CBS affiliate as sports director in May 2006 after making a run for the Jackson mayor's office the previous year.

He was defeated in the general election by Frank Melton, who then hired him to the mayor's staff, a position Whitlow held until returning to WJTV.

Whitlow had worked at WJTV from 1985-94 and at WAPT-Channel 16 from 1995-2003.

In 2003, he became executive director of the newly formed Metro Jackson Safe City Watch, a citizens' crime watchdog group.

On Monday, Whitlow said he isn't sure what his plans are for now.

Back to normal at Ft. Bragg

From our SPC at Ft. Bragg:

It starts over, as if everything that happened, didn’t.

Out of the desert and back from leave:

0500 wake up,

physical training from 0630 to 0745,
breakfast from 0745 to 0845 and a 0900 work call.

Brand new privates have begun to show their faces.
Timid and scared like little kids, they are labeled
cherries.

I look into their faces and see myself some
two years ago. They almost look innocent, and in their
eyes, I can see that their souls carry no weight. Most
are baby faced and can’t be a day over 18-years-old.

I wonder what they see when they look at me. Do they
see a twenty-something veteran who feels like he’s
thirty-five and pities them knowing that one day their
eyes will look like his own.

To be honest personally I am relieved they are here
because it means fewer details for me. The latrine
needs cleaning. “New guys!” The floor needs a sweep
and a mop, or the garbage needs emptying. “New guys!”

Some may call this hazing or just unfair. But
that is the way it has to be. There is a short window
when a cherry arrives to either make them into a good
soldier ready to listen and learn from the veterans or
allow them to become (for lack of a better term)
“shit bags”.

They have to learn their place and earn
the respect of the veterans. The more they take the
quicker they are accepted by the rest of the herd.
But don’t feel bad for them because every day that
goes by it gets easier for them. Little-by-little
they are befriended and absorbed into their platoons.

Not only that, but the old way of the Army, which used
a system of torturing and hazing new soldiers to
integrate them, is gone. As far as my unit goes, the
group of new guys with whom I arrived got the last of
it. Those were tough days and I wish them on no one.

No one talks about the sandbox much anymore. Even
though we were in the middle of combat operations only
a few short months ago, it’s been put to the backs of
minds and swallowed deep inside.

And so the endless rotation begins again. For a combat unit in a time of war, if you are not in combat you are training for it. The day we landed back in the States after almost a
year and a half in Iraq we began to look forward to the next deployment. Rumors spread like wildfire and the initial spike of moral was slowly lost as each day
ends. For those who have been in the know, it’s only a matter of time before orders come down.

Those veterans with several tours under their belt keep
track of the days they have left in the Army trying to
do the math and praying that they will be out by the next
trip to the sandbox.

I am one of those veterans. I put my life on hold to serve my country. I am now certain
that I have done more than my part. I am ready to start
my life and go on to do bigger and better things. But
for now like so many others the Army still owns me and
I am at will the of it, and my civilian leadership.

I have been asked more than once or twice whether I
regret joining the Army. From my heart, I say “No.” I
purposefully volunteered three times to get myself
into a place where I knew I would most certainly see combat. I knew what I was doing unlike most guys who are here with me, who were sold the idea by
recruiters. I say now that you know I
don’t regret joining the Army but ask me if I regret
signing a four-year contract.

We’ll start training again very soon. Bring the new
guys up to speed. Polish the skills of our new
officers and NCOs. Eyes always looking down range
towards the next battlefield. Some quietly praying
to never have to make that journey again.