LSA Anaconda and JSS UR, Iraq
October 2006 and July 2008
I am going to make a confession here . . . I used to get a little mad having to wear in mask in public sometimes, especially outdoors. I guess you could even say, I was 30 or 40% “anti-masker.” Sure, I understood the health reasonings behind the masking measures, knew that it was most certainly a good thing and medically would limit exposure to and the transmission of COVID-19, at least to some degree. In short, I knew logically that wearing a mask was a small inconvenience and indignity that would save lives. Kind of a no-brainer.
And yet . . .there was something inside me, something primordial, something undeniably male, something, dare I say, “American” that made me fume in anger and frustration about “masking up.”
It was hard to pin down the rationale behind these feelings. It was amorphous, a combination of statistical arguments, libertarian values, my general good health and youth, and resentment at having to assume strangers were sick (and treating them disrespectfully and discourteously as a result). But more than anything else, the feelings came from thinking back on my formative years, remembering how nonchalantly, almost fatalistically me and Bob and Balanon and Titus and many others redlined our Humvees down Route Vanessa, practically daring the enemy to blow us to pieces, sometimes even laughing when he did.
“We didn’t fear death then, why should I wear a pansy-a%* face diaper now?” The rational side of me knows this argument makes absolutely no sense, but deep down, it has a certain raw, emotional logic.
It takes me back to October 2006, when Diyala province was really starting to tear itself apart, after “the fires” in KBS had been lit, and every day brought new and interesting sights and sounds and explosions. For whatever reason, the powers that be decided that me, Durk, Chewie, and Nealuscious were to go on immediate and mandatory R+R, or “rest and relaxation.” See, unlike everyone else in the platoon, we had all declined mid-tour leave, we wanted to stay in the action, with our squads and platoon, but the colonels and generals weren’t having it. “Everyone has to take leave or R+R, this is not an option.” So, we grabbed our day packs, bid our squads adieu and good luck, and rolled out the gate of KBS Firebase on the next vehicle convoy heading back to FOB Warhorse.
A day later we were in LSA Anaconda, one of the largest American bases in Iraq, living the good life for a few days while we awaited transit to Qatar, our ultimate R+R destination.
For the first time in ten months, I had nothing to do and no one to report to. I could let my guard down completely, freedom was mine. I was excited to pal around with three of the hardest hitters in the platoon, some of my best friends in the world, while we slept well and feasted and ogled the lone, hot female air force girl at the pool, in a mega-base as safe and distant from any actual “war” as any suburb in America.
Daily we swam in one of Saddam’s Olympic pools, lifted heavy weights at one of several fully equipped gyms, slept for ten hours straight, and laughed contemptuously at mortar alarms which sent the pogs scurrying for cover while, with dignified composure and haughty bearing, we continued to chew our rich meats and slurp our sweet tea. Best of all, we utilized our freedom and lack of accountability to anyone but ourselves to flagrantly violate the mandatory uniform policies put out by the base chain of command.
See, every time you “leave the wire” and leave the protected base, on top of your weapons and ammo, you are in full uniform and kit, meaning fatigues, body armor, load-bearing equipment and/or pouches, Kevlar helmet, gloves, “eye-pro” (eye protection or, quite simply, glasses), and a whole lot else besides. Even on base, even somewhere as large, well-guarded, and safe as LSA Anaconda, military servicemembers must wear the proscribed daily uniform, which at a minimum, consists of fatigues, eye pro, and gloves and sometimes “full battle rattle,” or body armor and helmet, usually because of some vague threat of mortars or rockets.
But us four, “hardened” line infantrymen, back from the “boonies” and dwelling temporarily in “the land of the pogs,” surely we didn’t need to comply with the uniform standards, do we? No of course not. Who is going to call us on it, anyway? Who is brave enough? So, we don our boonie caps, roll up our sleeves, shove our gloves and glasses deep in our cargo pockets, clutch our sleek weapons with high-speed optics and out-of-reg modifications, and swagger all over the base like we own the place.
Days go by waiting for our flight to Qatar and no one calls us on our bulls&*t. We fail to salute officers and blatantly walk past senior NCOs, first sergeants and sergeant majors, out of uniform, unshaven, and looking “ate-up,” and unbelievably no one corrects us. Apparently, four cock-sure gruff young infantrymen can do whatever the hell they want here. At first I feel guilty, but then I start liking the feeling of power and untouchability.
That is until some passing saint finally shames us. On day four a gruff, crusty-old major walks past us on our way to the chow hall and does a double-take, shocked.
“Hey, you f*&%king dirtbags,” he barks at us and stops us in our tracks, “Have some pride and wear the proper uniform. You aren’t special.”
And that’s all it took. We weren’t special, and we knew it. Just four crusty, dirty infantrymen doing the job we signed up for. Sheepishly, we grabbed our gloves and eye-pro from our pockets and quickly placed them on our hands and faces. “Surely,” we now reasoned, “we can curtail our freedom just a little bit to down our Subway sandwiches, drink fancy coffees, and shop at the PX in peace and tranquility. Hell, we’re just a short helicopter ride away from the suck in KBS, where the Boys are wearing full armor and sleeping on Humvee hoods, let’s just enjoy this break and luxury while we can, even if we do look like pogs.”
See, soldiers like to bitch and moan about a great many things, but one of the top contenders is having to wear the specified uniform, the required daily “protective posture,” which can be variously “stupid” or “pointless” or “hot” or “uncomfortable,” depending on who you ask. At the time, as a low-level grunt, it always felt particularly stupid to have to wear body armor everywhere you went on base, usually because of some vague threat of mortars, which, like the TV weatherman, was sometimes accurate, usually not.
Eighteen months later, back in Iraq again, having to wear protective equipment would undoubtedly save the lives of several men in Alpha Company. It is a blessed thing and fortunate that we can never know how many.
On July 8, 2008, during the hottest part of a miserably hot day, IRAM rockets launched by a Shia militia linked to Iran, “flying refrigerators of death,” as the previous unit called them, rained down on JSS Ur, the home of the hundred-odd infantry soldiers of Alpha Company. Fortunately, when the Mad-Max rockets came down, destroying our generators, several vehicles, phone and computer center, toilets, and troop housing units, the vast majority of the men who were on base were inside their housing units, safely ensconced behind concrete blast barriers.
Miraculously, while a few men sustained comparatively minor injuries (notably the interpreter Max who was literally blown out of the shitters, but that’s its own story) no one was killed. I say this was a miracle because if it had been just any other typical day, many men would have been using the phones and computers, walking to the showers, walking around in the open without cover, and generally “smoking and joking,” away from their fortified living areas and in the direct impact zone of the lethal rockets. Had they been there, they would have been killed, maimed, and/or crippled.
But they weren’t. Almost to a man, the infantrymen of Alpha Company (who were not on mission or guard at the time) were in their housing units and safe behind concrete blast walls when the rocket volleys landed. Why? Because as collective punishment for a negligent shooting of one of our own the previous day, we were only allowed to venture out into the open to go anywhere if we wore full battle rattle – uniform, gloves, eye pro, weapon, body armor, and helmet. So naturally, daytime temperatures being in excess of 115 degrees and us being a bunch of tired, shiftless infantry grunts, only when we had to go on mission, guard, eat, defecate or piss (and sometimes not even then) did any of us venture outside, away from the concrete blast bunkers, into the path of death.
Our extreme reluctance to don our protective gear kept us safely stuck, “self-quarantined,” in the safest spots on base. When the enemy’s hellfire rained down on us, he destroyed our base’s infrastructure and made life abjectly miserable for weeks, but none of us was killed.
Hallelujah.
It was completely coincidental (and of course, unrelated to COVID-19) that our protective equipment (inadvertently) saved our lives that day by discouraging us from leaving our protected housing units. I don’t know what the main lesson is here, maybe it is just that you never know what will or will not save your life. It might be something as stupid and inconsequential as putting a piece of cloth over your face. Life is funny that way.
And those are just a few reasons why I know now, upon reflection, that my infantile rage and frustration about donning a mask for sixty seconds while I pick up my cheeseburger or even for ten seconds while I pass a stranger in the street is completely unjustified. If I really want to “man” up, maybe I should just bury my pride and vanity, listen to my wife, help others feel comfortable around me, and wear the proper uniform. After all, I am no one special.
When I feel the resentment arise, now I have a mantra. “Just wear the damn mask, Goldsmith.” I tell myself, “It’s better than body armor.”