18 August 2006
RIP/TOA
In the countdown of things to happen, this one has been long anticipated: the RIP/TOA, which stands for the Relief In Place/Transfer of Authority. A RIP/TOA occurs when one unit replaces another unit that is forward deployed. Ours occured in the mid-morning hours a few days ago.
As I mentioned in a previous post, we have been training our replacements for weeks. I was pleased at how committed our guys were to the training and transition process. I didn't see any of our NCOs or officers develop "short-timer" attitudes or take short cuts in the process. All were eager to train their counterparts in the incoming battalion (also from Wisconsin) and share their experiences. They knew the importance to the in-coming unit of that knowledge and experience and they knew the stakes. By the time of the RIP/TOA, the incoming unit was ready to take the mission and show their mettle.
The last of our men to cross the wire came back the day prior to the RIP/TOA. Because of space issues at Navistar, most of the battalion had already shuttled off Navistar to a camp in south-central Kuwait. Our RIP/TOA ceremony consisted of commanders, first sergeants, the command sergeant major, guide-on barrers, color guard, and certain staff officers from both battalions. It was a relatively short and simple ceremony. In his speech, our battalion commander reflected on the successes of our tour as well as our losses and sacrificies. The incoming commander thanked us for our training and transition time and challenged his unit to meet and hopefully exceed the milestones and goals that we set as a battalion.
This last year has been a long one that has gone quickly.
As I mentioned in a previous post, we have been training our replacements for weeks. I was pleased at how committed our guys were to the training and transition process. I didn't see any of our NCOs or officers develop "short-timer" attitudes or take short cuts in the process. All were eager to train their counterparts in the incoming battalion (also from Wisconsin) and share their experiences. They knew the importance to the in-coming unit of that knowledge and experience and they knew the stakes. By the time of the RIP/TOA, the incoming unit was ready to take the mission and show their mettle.
The last of our men to cross the wire came back the day prior to the RIP/TOA. Because of space issues at Navistar, most of the battalion had already shuttled off Navistar to a camp in south-central Kuwait. Our RIP/TOA ceremony consisted of commanders, first sergeants, the command sergeant major, guide-on barrers, color guard, and certain staff officers from both battalions. It was a relatively short and simple ceremony. In his speech, our battalion commander reflected on the successes of our tour as well as our losses and sacrificies. The incoming commander thanked us for our training and transition time and challenged his unit to meet and hopefully exceed the milestones and goals that we set as a battalion.
This last year has been a long one that has gone quickly.
13 August 2006
Memorial Service
We walked over there at 1830. There it was. The familiar display of the two desert boots of a soldier with his M4 pointed down toward the ground between them. The soldier’s dog tags dangling from the M4 and swaying in the hot breeze. A picture of the soldier there, quietly depicting a happy moment in his life. The battalion’s colors on one side of the display and the United States Flag on the other. This display was different though from the others. This display was for a cavalry scout. Instead of a helmet resting on the butt of the M4, there was a ceremonial black Stetson with gold braids. And, around the boots were a set of spurs. These are items that select cavalry soldiers wear.
By the time I arrived, there were already about 200 soldiers there. We stood around for about fifteen minutes prior to the battalion formation. We engaged in somewhat awkward small talk, glancing at the soldier’s memorial display at every pause in the conversation.
This was the second memorial service in the last two weeks for us. Unlike the other ceremonies that were in the morning, this one was in the evening, which had an affect on the atmosphere. I think it was probably because there was more time during the day to think about the ceremony that evening. That particular evening was also different because of the humidity level in the air. The wind had changed direction for the first time in weeks if not months and was blowing moist air in from the Gulf coast.
We formed up, and the Generals and other dignitaries arrived. The familiar sequence started—the Star Spangled Banner, the invocation, followed by remarks from various people. The company commander spoke, the squad leader spoke and one of the soldier’s buddies spoke. Each talked of the uniqueness of the soldier, his selfless service, his commitment, his competence, and his virtually patented smile. Each of them shared personal experiences that they had with the soldier. Many of the experiences were funny or made me smile. The smiles were followed by sudden heavy and sharp feeling of hurt that I and others there felt from the loss of one of our own.
After the remarks and the recitation of the Fiddler’s Green (a Cav ritual), the NCO in charge of the 7-man firing squad belted out his commands to the firing squad. On his command of “Ready, Fire,” the squad fired in unison. A single loud “crack” echoed through the dense, humid air. There was a pause, then “Ready, Fire!” Again, the single loud crack. And finally once more, “Ready, Fire!” I can feel at will the tenseness in my neck and shoulders hearing those shots. Upon hearing the first volley, I anticipate the next, but yet for some reason I am still surprised when I hear them. The shots remind me of the abrupt, suddenness and finality of death.
After a silent moment, the bugler started playing a slow, mournful Taps. He was about 10 meters from me. I was there with my men behind me. I stood there rigidly; steady drips of sweat were falling down my back, my chest, my arms, my legs, and my patrol cap. I then heard about 100 meters away another bugler who also started playing Taps. They echoed one another. I was soon lost in thought about the soldier and his family . . . his youth, the finality of his death, the loss of the family.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, a recording of bagpipes played. As is customary, each soldier present paid his respects individually to the soldier who has given his life. A single file military line was formed. The over 700 soldiers present individually saluted the picture of the soldier, silently said something to or in remembrance of the soldier before saluting again and moving away.
These ceremonies are very well done, professional, and well-rehearsed. They are far from cold and impersonal. Many a soldier is seen shedding tears. There is no shame in it. They are tears of respect and caring. They are symbols of the brotherhood that has been established with others who you’ve shared common experiences with and with whom you share many values and beliefs.
These ceremonies are hard. I hope this one was my last one.
By the time I arrived, there were already about 200 soldiers there. We stood around for about fifteen minutes prior to the battalion formation. We engaged in somewhat awkward small talk, glancing at the soldier’s memorial display at every pause in the conversation.
This was the second memorial service in the last two weeks for us. Unlike the other ceremonies that were in the morning, this one was in the evening, which had an affect on the atmosphere. I think it was probably because there was more time during the day to think about the ceremony that evening. That particular evening was also different because of the humidity level in the air. The wind had changed direction for the first time in weeks if not months and was blowing moist air in from the Gulf coast.
We formed up, and the Generals and other dignitaries arrived. The familiar sequence started—the Star Spangled Banner, the invocation, followed by remarks from various people. The company commander spoke, the squad leader spoke and one of the soldier’s buddies spoke. Each talked of the uniqueness of the soldier, his selfless service, his commitment, his competence, and his virtually patented smile. Each of them shared personal experiences that they had with the soldier. Many of the experiences were funny or made me smile. The smiles were followed by sudden heavy and sharp feeling of hurt that I and others there felt from the loss of one of our own.
After the remarks and the recitation of the Fiddler’s Green (a Cav ritual), the NCO in charge of the 7-man firing squad belted out his commands to the firing squad. On his command of “Ready, Fire,” the squad fired in unison. A single loud “crack” echoed through the dense, humid air. There was a pause, then “Ready, Fire!” Again, the single loud crack. And finally once more, “Ready, Fire!” I can feel at will the tenseness in my neck and shoulders hearing those shots. Upon hearing the first volley, I anticipate the next, but yet for some reason I am still surprised when I hear them. The shots remind me of the abrupt, suddenness and finality of death.
After a silent moment, the bugler started playing a slow, mournful Taps. He was about 10 meters from me. I was there with my men behind me. I stood there rigidly; steady drips of sweat were falling down my back, my chest, my arms, my legs, and my patrol cap. I then heard about 100 meters away another bugler who also started playing Taps. They echoed one another. I was soon lost in thought about the soldier and his family . . . his youth, the finality of his death, the loss of the family.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, a recording of bagpipes played. As is customary, each soldier present paid his respects individually to the soldier who has given his life. A single file military line was formed. The over 700 soldiers present individually saluted the picture of the soldier, silently said something to or in remembrance of the soldier before saluting again and moving away.
These ceremonies are very well done, professional, and well-rehearsed. They are far from cold and impersonal. Many a soldier is seen shedding tears. There is no shame in it. They are tears of respect and caring. They are symbols of the brotherhood that has been established with others who you’ve shared common experiences with and with whom you share many values and beliefs.
These ceremonies are hard. I hope this one was my last one.
07 August 2006
Their First Mission
They rolled in on their buses. Rucks on their backs and duffle and computer bags hanging from their fronts and sides. It’s a familiar picture for anyone in the army/marines who has had to move his or her stuff from one location to another. The difference here was that it was 130 degrees in the shade (no, I’m not exaggerating) and these guys were our replacements.
The looks on their faces were familiar. I recall the feelings that we had coming off those buses for the first time almost a year ago. A strange mix of excitement and caution and one of relief that “finally, finally, after all that training, we’re here.”
We started our cross-training of these soldiers right away; we gave them initial training on all the specialized and newly fielded equipment that we had not even heard of a year ago that we had become experts on during our deployment. We shared with them the stories of our successes, challenges, and some of our close calls and yes, our losses.
An integral part of the training of our replacements is taking them out on the road with us. It was on the first day of this training that it happened. An IED took the life of one of the soldiers we were training. It also seriously injured two of their other soldiers and one of our NCOs who was training them. It was their first mission. First mission. I don’t even know if these guys had their stuff unpacked yet.
The cross-training at my level went from how to defeat enemy actions using the latest tactics, techniques and procedures to how to notify next of kin, how to enforce a communications blackout, and how to keep soldiers motivated and mission focused after a fatality or serious injury.
Any soldier seeing combat over here who came with a preconceived notion that “life is fair” will get a rude awakening. Death and injury can come to the young and the old, the naïve and the experienced. It can come to those who do everything right and yet miss those who do most everything wrong. It isn’t fair. This notion wasn’t news to me, but I was reminded of it too frequently this last year and it has been hard for some of my soldiers to swallow and comprehend.
The realities of this war have not shaken my resolve though. They have not affected my love of my country nor my belief in the principles for which it stands. They have not diminished my belief that the Iraqis have been given a great opportunity that may positively affect several generations to come. I still believe that ultimately democracy will prevail over here, regardless of whether a painful civil war is to occur as our own nation had to endure for four long years. It will likely take time and unfortunately, it may come at a dear price. Perhaps at a price yet to be paid.
The looks on their faces were familiar. I recall the feelings that we had coming off those buses for the first time almost a year ago. A strange mix of excitement and caution and one of relief that “finally, finally, after all that training, we’re here.”
We started our cross-training of these soldiers right away; we gave them initial training on all the specialized and newly fielded equipment that we had not even heard of a year ago that we had become experts on during our deployment. We shared with them the stories of our successes, challenges, and some of our close calls and yes, our losses.
An integral part of the training of our replacements is taking them out on the road with us. It was on the first day of this training that it happened. An IED took the life of one of the soldiers we were training. It also seriously injured two of their other soldiers and one of our NCOs who was training them. It was their first mission. First mission. I don’t even know if these guys had their stuff unpacked yet.
The cross-training at my level went from how to defeat enemy actions using the latest tactics, techniques and procedures to how to notify next of kin, how to enforce a communications blackout, and how to keep soldiers motivated and mission focused after a fatality or serious injury.
Any soldier seeing combat over here who came with a preconceived notion that “life is fair” will get a rude awakening. Death and injury can come to the young and the old, the naïve and the experienced. It can come to those who do everything right and yet miss those who do most everything wrong. It isn’t fair. This notion wasn’t news to me, but I was reminded of it too frequently this last year and it has been hard for some of my soldiers to swallow and comprehend.
The realities of this war have not shaken my resolve though. They have not affected my love of my country nor my belief in the principles for which it stands. They have not diminished my belief that the Iraqis have been given a great opportunity that may positively affect several generations to come. I still believe that ultimately democracy will prevail over here, regardless of whether a painful civil war is to occur as our own nation had to endure for four long years. It will likely take time and unfortunately, it may come at a dear price. Perhaps at a price yet to be paid.
01 August 2006
Now That's Hot
In a recent post, I mentioned the wonders of the cooling vests that some of my guys have had the opportunity to try out. On a recent mission, I got to experience the other extreme.
We had an SP time of about 0800 in the morning for a mission that was anticipated to have two, three hour segments. We were going to try to start the second segment in the late afternoon in order to miss some of the hottest weather of the day. We did our maintenance checks before we left and everything looked fine.
We headed out on time and everything seemed to be working OK. The inside of the HMMWV gets rather hot from a combination of the engine temperature and the sun beating down on the roof of the vehicle. When the air conditioner is doing its job during the day of the summer months, the inside temperature of the HMMWV is about 100 degrees or so, which isn’t too bad. When the crews arrive at their destination, they are quick to shed their body armor, goggles, gloves, helmet, etc. Typically, they’ll sweat a lot but the air conditioned temperature is just a mild irritation. When the air conditioner doesn’t work . . . well, that’s an entirely different story.
About 20 minutes into our mission, the air conditioner in our vehicle stopped working (or as my driver put, “hey, the a/c crapped out on us sir”). It quickly got very hot. Because of IED and sniper threats, we have to keep the windows all the way up. There were a number of vehicle issues with the trucks on this mission. What was suppose to be a three hour leg of a mission, turned into 4 ½ hours. With the temperatures soaring as the day wore on, sweat was just pouring out of us. Our eyes were stinging. We had each gone through about 2 gallons of water and Gatorade in just under three hours. The outside temperature at the beginning of the mission was about 105, but by midday it was somewhere between 120-130. I don’t know what the temperature inside of the vehicle was by then, but it was much hotter in the vehicle than it was outside of the vehicle.
To keep things light, I started a top 10 list with my crew members. It went something like this: “You know the air conditioning in your vehicle in Iraq has gone out when . . . .” I can’t remember all the ones we came up with, but here are a few of them (all of which are true):
We had an SP time of about 0800 in the morning for a mission that was anticipated to have two, three hour segments. We were going to try to start the second segment in the late afternoon in order to miss some of the hottest weather of the day. We did our maintenance checks before we left and everything looked fine.
We headed out on time and everything seemed to be working OK. The inside of the HMMWV gets rather hot from a combination of the engine temperature and the sun beating down on the roof of the vehicle. When the air conditioner is doing its job during the day of the summer months, the inside temperature of the HMMWV is about 100 degrees or so, which isn’t too bad. When the crews arrive at their destination, they are quick to shed their body armor, goggles, gloves, helmet, etc. Typically, they’ll sweat a lot but the air conditioned temperature is just a mild irritation. When the air conditioner doesn’t work . . . well, that’s an entirely different story.
About 20 minutes into our mission, the air conditioner in our vehicle stopped working (or as my driver put, “hey, the a/c crapped out on us sir”). It quickly got very hot. Because of IED and sniper threats, we have to keep the windows all the way up. There were a number of vehicle issues with the trucks on this mission. What was suppose to be a three hour leg of a mission, turned into 4 ½ hours. With the temperatures soaring as the day wore on, sweat was just pouring out of us. Our eyes were stinging. We had each gone through about 2 gallons of water and Gatorade in just under three hours. The outside temperature at the beginning of the mission was about 105, but by midday it was somewhere between 120-130. I don’t know what the temperature inside of the vehicle was by then, but it was much hotter in the vehicle than it was outside of the vehicle.
To keep things light, I started a top 10 list with my crew members. It went something like this: “You know the air conditioning in your vehicle in Iraq has gone out when . . . .” I can’t remember all the ones we came up with, but here are a few of them (all of which are true):
- When the gunner complains that the top half of his body is substantially cooler in 125 degree heat than the bottom half of his body that is in the vehicle.
- When you can’t rest your covered elbows, forearms or hands on any internal HMMWV component (other than the steering wheel, thankfully!) for more than 15 seconds because they are all too hot.
- When the three bags of ice in your cooler have all melted within a short time frame.
- When you get up out of your seat, the canvas seat cover is as soaked as if you had left the vehicle window open during a rain storm.
- When you take off one of your nomex gloves and your fingers are as wrinkled as if you had been swimming for the last hour.
- When you can’t hold your 9 mm with your bare hand more than three seconds because it’s too hot.
- And finally, you know the air conditioning in your vehicle in Iraq has gone out when you open the door and first step out into the 125+ degree heat, it feels like a spring breeze that is only surpassed by the feeling you get after taking off your body armor and getting a little chill down your wet spine.
