Never Bring a Flashlight to a Knife Fight

On a recent dark and stormy afternoon in mil-contracting Cubistan, the electricity started going on the fritz. The few operable overhead lights suddenly flicked out, and everyone's Uninterruptible Power Supplies (U.P.S.) chirped on. Someone yelled: "Save early, save often!" After a couple of minutes, the power came back up.

Five minutes later, we ran through the same cycle. Then again. "My dad used to say that the third time the power goes off, it goes off for a long time," another co-worker said, out there in the darkness. Dad turned out to be right.

Once again, my cushy stateside office job echoes working in a Tactical Operations Center ("TOC") downrange. The comparison is particularly appropriate, given the number of fellow 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division veterans with whom I now work daily. The only difference now is, we don't play rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to fuel up the generators.

I took the opportunity to take a powder, finding my way using small L.E.D. flashlight I carry in my satchel of tricks. A fellow Red Bull veteran was conducting a similar operation, illuminated in his task using a similar device. "Why is it that only the Army guys bring headlamps to work," one of us asked.

Out of the darkness came the disembodied voice of another Red Bull, a current member of 1st Battalion, 194th Field Artillery (1-194th F.A.): "I only have a knife," he said, "but I'm pretty sure I could use it to get at least two flashlights pretty quick ..."

Point taken!

Book Review: 'Fobbit'

'Fobbit' by David Abrams

David Abrams has written a reasonable chronicle of his time as a public affairs soldier in 2005 Iraq, a novel that reads like a scrapbook full of daily indignities and deployment realities. Like all good war stories, some of it might even be true: Hording care packages. Messing around in chemical toilets. Avoiding work and danger and steely gazes at the local Post Exchange. All the while, the rockets-red glare of memoranda exploding overhead, regarding such reality-distorting topics as whether or not bad guys should be officially labelled "insurgents" or "terrorists."

No doubt, if you've deployed to Iraq, Afghanistan, or elsewhere, you've heard and seen this all before. It took Abrams, however, to pack 10 pounds of it into the proverbial 5-pound bag.

This is labelled as a work of fiction, but Abrams obviously has recycled much of his real-world experiences into his work. The names, no doubt, had to be changed to protect the innocent and the incompetent. Sometimes, you have to burn the truth in order to tell it.

The book takes both title and setting after the American practice of salting foreign soil with Forward Operating Bases ("FOB"). Fobbits are akin to the halflings found in J.R.R. Tolkein's tales, who would much rather surround themselves in the comforts of home, than to seek out glory or adventure. Where hobbits live in holes that feature circular doors, however, Fobbits live in dark, air-conditioned shipping containers and office cubes. They hide away in headquarters buildings, far away from combat, surrounded by e-mail and espresso machines.

Veterans of earlier conflicts might use other pejoratives: "REMF," which stands for "Rear Echelon Mother-F'er," is probably the closest analogue. Wars no longer have front lines and rear echelons, course. Instead, we dot the landscapes of other peoples' countries with the tactical equivalents of military suburbs and gated communities.

"We has met the Fobbit, and he is us."

The narrative weaves together the stories of a handful of do-nothing officers, soldiers, policies, and memoranda. Each chapter brings fresh perspective on the problems festering at FOB Triumph. There is a hardworking staff sergeant, for example, worn down by the grind of rewriting and revising news releases past the point of timeliness and relevance. A ne'er-do-right company commander, who finds himself reassigned to morale-support activities after one too many mishaps in the field. A Sad Sack public affairs officer (P.A.O.), prone to nosebleeds, whose one moment of greatness is more an act of cover-up than covering the Army story.

The pace is deliberate, and builds slowly toward its conclusion. It feels, in short, a bit like a deployment itself: Partly flabby and cloudy, with a chance of Groundhog Day.

It is not a perfect work, but it's close enough for government work. Among a few downsides: There are few competent or sympathetic characters in Abrams' universe, and only one of these is an officer. In 'Fobbit,' the NCO is not only the backbone of the Army, he is the center of it.

Also, there are occasional terminological tripwires that might distract readers familiar with military lingo or protocol. One example: A character refers to another's "Classified clearance." This is an incorrect term. A soldier might say "security clearance," or "Secret clearance." Instead, the line lands like a dud.

The overarching themes, on the other hand, land with great effect.

If anything, Abrams might have pushed the envelope a little further. By aiming center-mass and being so matter-of-fact, he runs the risk that some readers might come to regard his words as straight reportage, rather than as satire. By the end, however, he hits his targets—lobbing mortar shells of absurdity into his narrative—and achieves a certain level of laugh-out-loud hilarity. One merely wishes that he would have delivered more such gut-clenching guffaws, along with the chuckles of recognition he already supplies in abundance.

Bottom line: Abrams may not have fully captured the insanity of war, but he has done an admirable job of capturing the inanity of it. This should be required reading for every self-respecting (-loathing?) TOC-rat, Fobbit, and headquarters soldier. And those who love them.

Disclosure: The Red Bull Rising blog received a review copy of this book.

Gift Ideas: Buy Military Writers, For Military Writers

Still wondering what to requisition from Santa for Christmas? You have only 14 days and a wake-up left. Here are some ideas:

A decade of war has finally delivered a few noble attempts at capturing Iraq Freedom in fiction. Last year's "Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk" was published in paperback earlier this fall. Think of it as a modern update to the themes of military sacrifice and media celebrity you saw in the movie version of "Flags of Our Fathers" (2006).

Iraq veteran Kevin Powers wrote "The Yellow Birds," a fictional tale of two buddies struggling to survive the distance between Basic Training and Al Tafar. The book takes its title from the cadence you probably learned at Boot Camp. Finally, Iraq veteran David Abrams wrote "Fobbit," which is purported to be in the absurdist vein of Catch-22 and M*A*S*H. (A Red Bull Rising review of the latter is forthcoming, but unfortunately not in time for Christmas.)

As noted previously in the Red Bull Rising blog, 2012 was also a great year for anthologies of military fiction, non-fiction, poetry and essay. In addition to mainstays such as The Journal of Military Experience, there was "Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors", "Remembrances of Wars Past: A War Veterans Anthology", and "How to Not Tell a War Story." The latter, much like memoirist Dale Keuter's chapter on peacetime service, explores what it means to be a veteran who did not go to war. Or, at least, went to war but returned without stories to tell.

The Veterans Writing Project published its inaugural issue of "O-Dark-Thirty," a literary journal of military fiction, non-fiction, and more. Individual issues are $10; give a year's subscription (5 issues) for $30. Click here for details.

If you want to expand someone's desert-sand horizons beyond the dusty and prosaic, give them "Red Fields," Iraq veteran Jason Poudrier's collection of poetry. Given his occasional cartoon allusions, I'll leave it at that. 'Nuff said.

Speaking of cartoons, a few military-themed comic series are now available as trade paperbacks, including Top Cow's "Think Tank" Vol. 1; Image Comics' "The Activity" Vol. 1; and the now-defunct series "Men of War" Vol. 1 from DC Comics.

Red Bull Rising readers will remember my penchant for pithy and punchy military epigrams. I'm pleased to report that Howard Tayler has delivered a second set of his "70 Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries" in the form of a 2013 calendar featuring characters from his Schlock Mercenary universe. The calendar comes with a download code, so that you can plaster each month's maxim on your computer. You can also order PDFs alone, so that you can wallpaper your work cubicle, sleeping bay, or Tactical Operations Center. For the 2012 set of maxims Nos. 1-12, click here. For the 2013 set of Nos. 13-24, click here. Remember Maxim No. 13 and the Golden Rule of Firepower: "Do unto others ..."

There's even a Schlock Mercenary board game called "Capital Offensive." Order on or before Dec. 31, 2012, and receive free a $10 set of Tagon's Toughs and Partnership Collective dice! (Click here for details.)

Finally, looking for some stocking stuffers? How about a Doctrine Man!! mug, calendar, coin, or matching Reflective Safety Belt and shower shoes?

Or a CD-ROM full of PowerPoint Ranger goodness that's sure to shake up your next briefing marathon?

A Post-Mortem on Two Comic Book Series

Editor's note: The following is Part IV of this week's Red Bull Rising mini-series "Comic Book Re: Insurgency." For more insights and information about telling war stories using graphic-novel techniques, see also Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part V.

After a incomplete study of DC Comics' 21st century "Men of War" and "G.I. Combat" updates—each of which was cancelled after runs of less than 12 monthly issues—I'm prepared to make a few "lessons learned" diagnoses.

Each title featured one serialized story and one standalone story in each issue. The writers of "Men of War" sought to update the World War II character of Sgt. Rock by recruiting his nephew into a modern-day suicide squad. Despite the clandestine nature of its missions, the squad was still clearly in the military. Modern-day uniforms and real-world weapons. Not a ray gun or killer robot in sight.

That's not to say that strange things were not afoot. Sgt. Rock and his team would occasionally encounter mysterious people on the battlefield. They might have been friendlies, allies, or potential targets. Also, one of the members may have had superpowers. The figuring it all out was the fun part. Or, it would've been, had the series not been cancelled.

Much of the writing was notably internal monologue. In other words, readers were inside Sgt. Rock's head. In real-time. This is an important technique in war comics. Otherwise, war-comic characters would have to spout running commentaries on their intentions and actions. Imagine: "I'm firing my weapon!" or "I'm shooting at you!" It just sounds a little silly, when the rest of your action seems based in reality.

Whether or not the new Sgt. Rock existed in the same storied universe as Superman, Batman, and the like is uncertain. The inclusion of superhuman or mystical entities actually could've worked. Television programs such as "Heroes" (2006-2010) and "Alphas" (2011-present) have successfully built on this question: What would happen if select "normal" humans started exhibiting strange powers?

Put that in the context of a small military unit, such as a U.S. Army squad, and I'm already popping the popcorn.

Still, "Men at War" apparently generated little heat on comics store racks.

Its replacement title, "G.I. Combat," also sought to reinvent, resurrect, or rejuvenate some long-established DC properties, including "The War that Time Forgot" and "The Unknown Solider."

The former storyline involved a group of U.S. soldiers who parachute into an electrical storm on the Korean Peninsula, only to find themselves in a land zoning hot with Great Lizard madness. Dinosaurs make for a lot of sizzle, but little steak. Once you've seen one knife fight with a Tyrannosaurus Rex, or a machine-gun ambush of stampeding Brontosauruses, you've pretty much seen everything. There's also not a lot of ink or pages left over for character development.

I kept looking for some old guy to say: "Welcome, to Jurassic FOB!"

Having remembered the character from my comic-book collecting adolescence, I really wanted to like "The Unknown Soldier." The narrative follows the attempts of a soldier without identity, facially disfigured and psychologically shaky, to wreak havoc and revenge on his country's enemies. The 2012 title updated the character's ability to disguise himself using realistic but temporary mask technology, and gave him super strength, endurance, stamina, night vision, and healing ability. The Unknown Soldier, in other words, is Captain America, Wolverine, and Darkman, all wrapped up in the same bandages. Toss in some Mission: Impossible and Bourne-again memory loss for good measure.

Then, it got downright unrealistic.

In one mission, he is issued a Barrett .50-cal. sniper rifle with "silencer, computer software, and time-bomb rounds." In another, he digitally downloads the memories of a high-level terrorist. At one point, someone back at the TOC wants to push the self-destruct button on the "nuke" that has apparently been medically placed upon The Unknown Soldier's person.

The bottom line: Even if "Men of War" was perhaps too subtle for its own good—there is, after all, a fine line between building a slow reveal, and losing the reader to shiny objects—perhaps The Unknown Soldier was a bit too over-the-top.

I'm secretly glad that "Men of War" and "G.I. Combat" are finite. My recent research expedition into the local comic book shop triggered my old collector's obsessive-compulsive need to own every issue of something. Having a few holes in the stacks will give me something for which to search in passing, but not make the relationship among my resurgent hobby, my local retailer, and my wallet an open-ended and potentially abusive one.

That said, I picked up two issues of the new "Think Tank" series from Top Cow. It started out as a 4-issue limited series, but the company has announced that it will expand to 12 issues. The story involves a snarky young weapons designer who decides that he's tired of indirectly killing people. Imagine Tony Stark without the Iron Man suit, with a good dose of Dr. Gregory House, Doctor Who, or maybe the Benedict Cumberbatch version of Sherlock Holmes. There are drones and thought-readers and smart munitions. For people who like their mil-fiction with a little science, or their mil-science with a little fiction, this one is worth a trip to the comics store.

That, however, is another story, for another day.

Tomorrow: Our final (?) discussion of writers and artists who are successfully telling war stories through their own super projects. Stay tuned, True Believers!

Top Secret Bumper Stickers, Ad Campaigns

A couple of sharp-eyed travelers recently encountered this less-than-clandestine advertisement for ClearenceJobs.com, a job-search site for holders of U.S. security clearances: "Real Analysts do it in a SCIF." The slogan refers to a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility ("SCIF"), a facility in which classified materials may be handled securely.

Inspired by the placard, here's a list of more SCIFfy slogans, inspired by classic bumper stickers, movie and music quotes, and advertising campaigns:

• "What goes on in the SCIF, stays in the SCIF."

• "If this SCIF is a rockin', don't come a-knockin'"?

• "Keep on SCIFfin'!"

• "My other tent is a SCIF."

• "Got SCIF?"

• "Keep SCIF and carry on."

• "We do more in the SCIF before 9 a.m. than most people do all day."

• "The SCIF: We could tell you about it, but then we'd have to kill you."

• "Party rock! (Everyday I'm SCIFfulin')"

• "The SCIF? You can't handle the SCIF!"

• "First rule of SCIF: Don't talk about SCIF. Second rule of SCIF: Don't talk about SCIF!"

• "Choosy HUMINTers choose SCIF."

• "Charlie don't SCIF!"

• "SCIF you!"

And, of course, our current favorite:

• "SCIF happens."

'Summer Camp' vs. Summer Camping

National Guard soldiers often say "Summer Camp" when they mean "Annual Training."

When I recently posted pictures of my kids' first backyard camping experience, a number of Facebook friends and Red Bull Rising blog-readers compared the new Sherpa-family "King-Dome" to a U.S. Army brigade's Tactical Operations Center ("TOC").

Can't tell the difference between camping for pleasure, and Summer Camp for Uncle Sam? Here are some rules of thumb to help you find your way:

• If you're carrying a weapon with no bullets, but wearing a bullet-proof vest, you're at Annual Training.

• If you're locked, loaded, and practically bear-proof, you're camping.

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• If you're wearing a reflective safety belt over camouflage clothing, you're at Annual Training.

• If you're wearing a mix of bright colors and camouflage clothing, you're hunting.

• If you're wearing bright colors and mismatched clothing, you're camping.

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• If you're "humping a pack," you're at Annual Training.

• If you're "backpacking," you're camping.

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• If you're walking with others in a single file, you're camping.

• If you're walking with others in "Ranger File," you're at Annual Training.

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• If a guy wearing a reflective safety belt is talking to you about safety, you're at Annual Training.

• If a guy in a Smokey-the-Bear hat is talking to you about safety, you're camping.

• If a guy in a Smokey-the-Bear hat is yelling at you and calling you names, you're at Basic Training.

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• If you're sleeping in a building but working in a tent, you're at Annual Training.

• If you're showering in a building but sleeping in a tent, you're camping.

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• If your tent is air-conditioned but your vehicle is not, you're at Annual Training.

• If your vehicle is air-conditioned but your tent is not, you're camping.

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• If your camp stove burns "mogas," you're at Annual Training.

• If your camp stove burns white gas, kerosene, diesel, automotive gas, aviation gas, Stoddard solvent and/or Naphtha, you're camping.

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• If the camp store is "back on cantonment," you're at Annual Training.

• If you're allowed to purchase beer at the camp store, you're camping.

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• If you're chewing coffee grounds to stay awake, you're at Annual Training.

• If you have access to Starbucks, Dunkin' Donuts, or other coffee provider, you're camping.

• If you're all clustered together around a coffee pot, in an air-conditioned tent, and watching pretty pictures on a big flat-screen, you're at a brigade staff meeting.

The Sherpatudes

Here is a list of epigrammatic tips inspired by the most recent Red Bull Rising post. It's a mix of maxims regarding organizational analysis, knowledge management, and working in a tactical operations center ("TOC").

Behold, the "Sherpatudes":

1. Continually ask: "Who else needs to know what I know?"

2. Continually ask: "Who else knows what I need to know?"

3. Never speak with complete authority regarding that which you lack direct knowledge, observation, and/or suppressive fires.

4. Never pull rank over a radio net.

5. Let the boss decide how he/she wants to learn.

6. Let the boss decide how he/she wants to communicate.

7. "I am responsible for everything my commander's organization knows and fails to know, learns and fails to learn."

8. Know when to wake up the Old Man. Also, know how to wake him up without getting punched, shot, or fired.

9. The three most important things in the TOC are: Track the battle. Track the battle. Track the battle.

10. Digital trumps analog, until you run out of batteries.

11. Always have ready at least two methods of communication to any point or person on the map.

12. Rank has its privileges. It also has its limitations.

13. Let Joe surprise you.

14. Don't let Joe surprise you.

15. The first report is always wrong. Except when it isn't.

16. The problem is always at the distant end. Except when it isn't.

17. Exercise digital/tactical patience. Communications works at the speed of light. People do not.

18. Your trigger finger is your safety. Keep it away from the CAPS LOCK, reply-all, and flash-override buttons.

19. The warfighter is your customer, and the customer is always right.

20. Bullets don't kill people. Logistics kills people.

21. Knowing how it works is more powerful than knowing how it's supposed to work.

22. Cite sources on demand. State opinions when asked.

23. Work by, with, and through others. It's all about empowerment.

24. Do not seek the spotlight, Ranger. Let the spotlight find you. Then, make sure to share it with others.

25. Both the Bible and "The Art of War" make this point: It's never a mistake to put oneself in someone else's boots.

26. Humor is a combat multiplier. Except when it isn't.

Zen and the Art of Organizational Analysis

I'm just a city kid from Iowa, but even I know how to watch the corn. Find the space at which the tassels blur into amber waves of terrain, that middle distance where you can see the cornfield for the stalks, the forest for the trees, the ocean for the swells. It is a magic moment, and difficult to maintain. The land is not flat or static ...

It is sculpted ... It is inhabited ...

See the contours ... See the connections ...

See the structures ... See the spaces in between ...

I have sought out this figurative sweet spot on the landscape, again and again.

On my high school speech and debate team, I specialized in an competitive category variously called "student legislature" or "student congress." I learned how to maneuver parliamentary process, how to whip and count votes, and how to listen to the floor debate while also eavesdropping on caucuses and conversations. Find the sweet spot, and you can sense the mood of the room, predict how the vote is going to go, figure out where and when you need to be.

As a journalist, I pursued an expertise in architecture and design. I realized later that I was actually writing about people, rather than bricks and mortar. One of my favorite philosophical cornerstones comes from Winston Churchill, who, after World War II, observed at the dedication of a reconstructed parliament building: "We shape our buildings, thereafter our buildings shape us." Find the sweet spot, and you can see how organizations think of themselves: Flat organizations build flat buildings. Hierarchical organizations build skyscrapers. Those physical forms serve to reinforce the power structures and communications within.

Take a step back from the building-scale, and consider a larger area. You can see how organizations connect to their communities, and how those connections can be manipulated to create change. For example: A lima bean silo connects to a community's agricultural, transportation, and business networks in certain ways. Maybe the lima bean business goes south. Re-purpose that structure into a hotel, and it now connects its surroundings in different ways: retail, travel, and tourism.

As an U.S. Army communications soldier working in a Tactical Operations Center ("TOC"), I learned to keep one ear on the radio and to listen for my callsign, to manage radio traffic according to proper procedure, and to keep track of the battle. It was like listening to a baseball game on the radio, mentally moving the players around the bases.

Later, working on the battle desk, I learned to watch how messages flowed in and out of the TOC. A radio message or phone call would arrive on one side of the U-shaped work area, and you could watch it ripple across the room. A sergeant major once posted this sign in the the Red Bull TOC: "Who else needs to know what I know?" Keep an eye on the battle-drill, and an ear on the TOC-talk. Find the sweet spot, and you can see the data flow, where the organization is headed, and where your boss needs to be involved to achieve his objectives.

I'm not trying to sound goofy or mystical, or like some science-fiction guru from "The Matrix" (1999). Sometimes, however, we don't know what we think until we write it down. Even as I'm writing this, I am beginning to recognize the threads and themes that run throughout my disparate experiences: I focus on process and procedure. I surf through conversations. I identify interconnections. I seek out the modes and nodes of influence toward specific outcomes.

I may be onto something. Then again, I may also be full of crap.

Maybe every practitioner—it doesn't matter of what—has a similar moment of transcendence. You do something long enough, and, suddenly, you know what you're doing. Even if you don't think about it. One day, you wake up and realize: You know Kung Fu.

I'm good at finding the sweet spots in some types of organizations. That doesn't make me a hero, but it occassionally makes me useful.

Similarly, there are infantry soldiers who can parachute onto a random piece of ground, and instantly describe what needs to happen to achieve tactical advantage: The high ground is here, start digging in here, put the machine gun here for optimal effectiveness.

There are military intelligence analysts who can look at a map and a chronology, and spit out a prediction about who is doing what to whom, and the most likely times and places they'll strike next.

There are combat engineers who can look at a road and tell you what's out of place, where the bad guys would be, how the bombs buried in the dirt would be triggered.

It's all about finding the sweet spot. Of doing something without thinking. Of becoming simultaneously aware of the details, while also seeing components in context. Of being an actor both within and upon a process.

There are seeds of genius available in such moments.

The trick is to know when to harvest the corn.

Good Soldiers Never Bad-mouth the Boss

When U.S. Army Cpl. Jesse Thorsen, West Des Moines, Iowa, a drilling member of the U.S. Army Reserve, put on his combat uniform and took a Des Moines, Iowa stage with Republican presidential candidate Ron Paul, the not-so-strategic corporal officially crossed the phase line between "dumb" and "stupid." In doing so, he helped illuminate the potential consequences of a warrior class at odds with the society it protects, and the need for both citizens and soldiers to recommit to their respective roles within the republic.

Bottom line up front: Army regulations do not allow allow you to wear the U.S. flag on your shoulder while also waving the banner of a political candidate. Particularly if your mere presence is an implied criticism of your commander-in-chief.

(Side note: Unless you're currently in the military, you don't have a "commander-in-chief." See this nicely observed essay inspired by another presidential candidate's recent remarks in Iowa here. And another homegrown military-and-politics-don't-mix article from 2011 here.)

Every Joe knows this. Particularly in Iowa, which becomes a political no-man's-land every four years. Other states have primary elections, but Iowa has its first-in-the-nation caucuses. A caucus is an inherently partisan event, run by party volunteers, at which participants can be expected to publicly advocate on behalf of politicians and platform planks.

If you're headed to your precinct caucus immediately following your duty day, you take off the uniform and put on civvies. With apologies to George Washington: "When you assume the citizen, you leave behind the soldier."

Caucus meetings can involve a lot of raucous political prodding and poking, jibing and joking. Some of it may even be good-natured. If you want the essential flavor of the thing, consider a few of Iowa writer Trevor Meers' notes from his rural precinct caucus:

GOP Neighbor opened the session with the Pledge of Allegiance, even though there was no flag in the room. “Well,” he said, “just look, um, somewhere.” We sat down to start the caucus, and the old guy in the flag cap said, “This feels a lot like the Possum Lodge.” [...]

Mitt’s man went right to Romney’s status as a family man. “He’s been married almost as many years as I have. I, uh, don’t know how many that is.” Laughter rolled through the community hall. “43 years! That’s it! 43 years.” [...]

No one volunteered to speak for Newt, then GOP Neighbor asked, “Is there anyone who wishes to speak on behalf of Jon Huntsman? No? I didn’t think so.”

Bottom line: The Iowa Caucuses are not private, closed-curtain and secret-ballot kinds of affairs. They're more like neighborhood block-parties.

Unlike the U.S. Army Reserve, the U.S. National Guard falls under the peacetime commands of the 54 state and territorial governors. Because of this, the National Guard is more likely to be called to help civil authorities respond to natural and manmade disasters. When the National Guard shows up to help sandbag against the flood or clean up from the tornado, every Joe knows that—while the uniform conveys a certain amount of knowledge, capability, and authority—the civilians are decisively in charge. The citizen-soldier, the oft-heard saying goes, is only "there to help."

(Side note to U.S. Army Reserve: The more appropriate term is "citizen-soldiers." That's "citizens" first, "soldiers" when necessary. Your repeated attempts to substitute "warrior-citizen" seems a dangerous play to militarize the populace. This is not Sparta. Not yet, anyway.)

I remember sitting in a stateside Tactical Operations Center in 2010, prior to Iowa's 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division (2-34th BCT) deployment to Afghanstan. News of Michael Hasting's Rolling Stone reports regarding the snarky culture of U.S. Army Gen. Stanley McChrystal's Afghan command had just hit the airwaves, and we were watching cable news programming in-between drone flights. One go-to sergeant observed that any of the "jokes" described would be unacceptable in the Iowa National Guard, if they were directed by a soldier toward a governor or other elected official. I have never forgotten Sully's sage advice:

"You don't bad-mouth the boss, even if you didn't vote for him."

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POLITICAL SLINGS AND RED ARROWS

Here's how the Wisconsin National Guard (home to the 32nd Infantry "Red Arrow" Brigade Combat Team, a unit affiliated with 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division) put out the post-Thorsen word in typically plain-spoken Midwestern-speak:

The Dairy State gained national attention in 2011 for the large political demonstrations at the state capitol, and this year’s presidential election promises further political carbonation in a swing state.

So what can a Wisconsin National Guard member say or do in this politically charged environment?

The short answer? The Department of Defense does not endorse any political candidate or party. As a service member—whether active Guard and Reserve (AGR), federal technician or traditional drilling status—you cannot give the impression that any part of the military endorses a political candidate, party or movement.

Questions? Ask your JAG.

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'THANKS FOR YOUR SERVICE; I WILL HAVE FRIES WITH THAT.'

Blogger and reporter Carl Prine—himself a former Marine and National Guard soldier—offered a take-no-prisoners analysis of Thorsen's political actions. In it, he takes to task would-be activists such as Thorsen, should-know-better candidates, the dangerous military mindset that places soldiers above citizens, and even the support-your-troops culture at large. A couple of favorite Prine lines:

[To the military:] Thorsen is the monster you helped to create. It’s what happens when the speeches of your officers turn every REMF into a “warrior” and your press releases raise even lowly men like me into capital-s “Soldiers” standing typographically taller than all those mere little-c civilians.

[To the public:] You’ve trapped those who did their duty in the boneyards of Ramadi and Kandahar by slamming shut the iron gate of stoploss. And when our veterans returned home from battle, you refused to hire them.

“Thank you for your service,” you say. “And yes, I would like fries with that.”

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'A UNIFORM DOESN'T MEAN YOU NEED TO GENUFLECT'

Writer Michael Hastings, vilified in some mil-circles after his McChrystal profile resulted in the general's resignation, recently published a book. A couple of paragraphs from a recent Wired interview stand out as relevant to the Thorsen incident:

[T]he burdens of this war have fallen on so few. So, so few. Goddamn right the people who did serve should feel like their opinion matters, maybe even should matter more. But then you get into a Starship Troopers scenario [where citizenship is measured by military service]. I think the only way to combat against that is for everyone to do their best to understand what’s really going on. And to do their best to understand that just because someone has a uniform on doesn’t mean you need to genuflect. You can be respectful and thank them. But one has to be able to be as critical of four-star general as of Newt Gingrich. You have to treat these people like they’re flawed human beings like you.

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'THE ONLY THING TO WEAR ON OUR SLEEVES ...'

Time magazine's Mark Thompsen, in describing Thorsen's mistake of wearing a uniform while rallying for Ron Paul, also noted:

Admiral Mike Mullen, who served as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff until last fall, made a special point of telling U.S. troops to remain apolitical. “Keeping our politics private is a good first step,” he said in an oft-quoted 2008 article he wrote for Joint Forces Quarterly, a Pentagon publication. “The only things we should be wearing on our sleeves are our military insignia.”

*****

'DEFINING SERVICE ON OUR OWN TERMS'

Afghan war veteran Rajiv Srinivasan, a spokesperson for the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans Association (I.A.V.A.), chose to write about Thorsen's political performance in the best possible light:

We must recognize that, in each of our returning veterans, there is an internal struggle to reconcile the utility of their life’s work over the past decade with the hardships they’ve endured. Our society’s ambivalence gives veterans the prerogative to define their worth of service—and thus the American uniform—on their own terms.

If the American service uniform truly means something to our nation, then we must start taking better care of those who wear it, have worn it and who continue to bear its responsibilities. It’s more than a simple “Thank you for your service.” It means asking, “How can I help you get a job, care for your family, build a life back home?”

Peace on Earth? Listen Through the Static

"What? They are still having WARS?!" asks my backseat conscience. Seven-year-old Lena sounds exasperated.

Mentally, I quickly tune in to the car radio. A Medal of Honor recipient is describing his actions in World War II: "My commanding officer asked me, as the last flamethrower operator that he had in his company, because the others had either been killed or wounded, if I thought I could do something about some of the pillboxes ..."

War can be a heck of a way to start the day. Especially if you're only in elementary school.

So far, it is a snowless winter in Iowa. Starting in darkness, my pre-writing routine involves troop transport: First daycare, then first-grade. During a short suburban commute to school, our days unwrap themselves in purple-gray light, then quickly warm to cornflower blue. Trees and houses on the horizon silhouette themselves like paper cutouts, back-lit in pink and apricot.

I have never been a morning person, but this is my favorite time of day. It is calm and peaceful, even with the radio on.

I remember dashing to weekend drills in the National Guard, waking up at oh-dark-thirty to speed along zippers of interstate highway, the sun rising to reveal the snow-dusted corn stubble rolling and rippling alongside my car. I'd have a stainless-steel bullet of scalding coffee in one hand, steering wheel in the other. Life was good.

Happiness is a 0700 first formation and a couple of hours to get there. Better still, an AM radio spouting sad tales and news of the world, country music stations bleeding into BBC World Service.

Bonus Sherpa tip: Bursts of static mean there's a thunderstorm on the way.

Army communications training taught me to mentally push past the white noise, and to sort and separate snippets of simultaneous conversation. Stations are always talking over and on top of each other, like it's a cocktail party. Or a Twitter feed. Get into the zone, and you can regulate the radio mentally into the background, until you hear something of interest. Like your callsign. Or your daughter.

As part of a family budget-cutting move, I recently cancelled the subscription for my car's satellite radio. That means no more commercial-free, kid-friendly tunes at the punch of a pre-set. Usually, I remember to turn off the radio while shuttling the kids around. That way, I can avoid topical potholes such as roadside bombs and robot planes, and people getting killed.

When I forget to turn the radio off, morning drive-time can become an exercise in addressing Lena's hard questions.

I try to answer honestly and simply. Lena knows that I used to be a soldier. And her classmates have friends and family who are still in uniform. Even though most every Red Bull soldier we know personally is back from Afghanistan (but not from Iraq), she's still quick to pick up on war-related news.

Like my Mama Sherpa would say, back when Sherpa was still in short pants: "Little cornstalks have big ears."

She wasn't kidding.

Recently, for example, Lena zeroed in on a report about burn-out rates of U.S. Air Force drone pilots. While such pilots are sitting safe in cockpits here in the states, they're also omnipresent witnesses to events downrange: Watch a guy for days or weeks. Establish his habits and routines. Then, if and when necessary, pull the trigger.

Imagine how jarring it would be to then be able to drive home as if nothing happened.

Physical distance can create emotional dissonance. Ask any radio operator who's been located the safe end of the conversation, while his buddies are in contact with the enemy. It can feel pretty impotent to be armed only with words.

"Why are they hurting?" Lena asks about the drone pilots.

"Because pilots are like soldiers. They don't like to hurt people. But, sometimes, they have to shoot their weapons."

"Why do they have to shoot people?"

"Sometimes, they have to shoot people--bad guys--in order to keep other people safe."

"How does shooting someone make us safer?"

Good question, kid. One that more of us probably need to ask, given the state of the world, and the sentiments of the Christmas season.

I'm conflicted. While I'd like Daddy's little warrior-princess to keep believing in Santa Claus and pixie dust, I'd also like her to keep asking the tough and critical questions. If Lena has to grow up--and Household-6 says that she will, regardless of my efforts--I'd like it to be in a world in which war is considered the exception, and not the rule.

Peace on Earth? Put your ears on. Listen through the static. Watch for the dawn. And consider the tough questions.

Especially if they come from your kids.

Shooting the Pass, Part 1 of 3

Fort Irwin, Calif., Sept. 28--The soldiers of Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 133rd Infantry Regiment (A/1/133rd Inf.) are preparing for more than three days of “CALFEX”—“Combined Arms Live Fire Exercise.” In many ways, the training event is the culmination of months of both pre-and post-mobilization training, first at Camp Ripley, Minn.; then at Camp Shelby, Miss.; and now here at the National Training Center in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Alpha Company will assault multiple objectives simultaneously, coordinating mortar fires, movements by ground and helicopter, and even overhead Close Air Support (CAS, which soldiers pronounce “kaz”).

In two days, the bullets and bombs will be real. So, too, will the helicopters and jet planes. In preparations for its deployment to Afghanistan along with the rest of the Iowa Army National Guard’s 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry “Red Bull” Division (2-34th BCT), Alpha Company’s training time is almost over.

First, however, the company must travel a couple of hours from the battalion’s headquarters at Forward Operating Base (“FOB”) Seattle, to the even more remote location of FOB Reno. Conditions at FOB Reno will be Spartan at best. Company commander Capt. Jason Merchant orders each soldier to bring a folding Army cot. Sleeping on the vehicles is bad business, he says, and other units have returned from CALFEX with stories about rats and snakes. No sleeping on the ground this time around.

Merchant’s driver is Sgt. David “Bone” Tielbur of Guttenberg, Iowa. A 20-year veteran of the Iowa National Guard, Afghanistan will be his fourth deployment with the unit. First, there was Kuwait, then Egypt, then Iraq. Now, it’s Afghanistan. “I prayed on it a lot. My wife told me, ‘If you don’t go, you won’t be worth a crap to me, because you’ll be worried about the guys,’” the baritone-voiced Tielbur says gently, smiling and shaking his head. “That’s Mamma-Bone for you!”

Tielbur takes great pleasure in quietly staying ahead of his commander: Trouble-shooting his radios, getting him water, setting up his cot. Merchant describes Tielbur as his “driver, RTO, and confidante,” and they joke about their working relationship often. “Let’s see if the Vulcan mind-meld is working,” Merchant tells Tielbur at one point, while the armored Humvee is in motion. “Guess where I want to park.”

Today is Bone’s 40th birthday. And he already knows what’s coming.

*****

Alpha Company is fighting the clock. ““Inshallah, that the Granite Mountain Pass will be open,” says Merchant. “If not, we’ll have to take 'Highway 7' all the way around Fort Irwin.”

Almost immediately, however, the convoy encounters obstacles to staying on schedule. A stop for fuel mid-way at FOB King has come up empty. The battalion logistics officer had earlier promised that there was a retail-fuel oasis at FOB King—the logistical hub for the entire brigade—but the fuel trucks are out on other missions. Alpha Company wastes precious time idling, waiting for the word.

Merchant sends one lieutenant to see if he can make a face-to-face deal for fuel, while also text-messaging his battalion's Tactical Operations Center (“TOC”) via Blue Force Tracker (B.F.T.). After an hour, Merchant orders the convoy to leave FOB King and continue movement toward FOB Reno. “Here’s the lesson-learned,” says the 38-year-old commander from Dysart, Iowa. “Operations never fail because of operations—they fail because of logistics.”

The sun is now lower in the desert sky, and the company pushes on toward the Granite Mountain Pass. National Training Center personnel will close the pass because of the next day’s live-fire exercise. (“But we ARE the live-fire exercise,” one soldier mock-complains. “How can they close the door on us?!”) If his trucks don’t move along the direct route, Merchant will have to divert the long way around. He’s still got plenty of fuel for the outbound trip, but doesn’t want to waste any more time. “We’ve got to shoot the pass,” he says.

The motley mix of Humvees, simulated Mine-Resistant Armor-Protected (MRAP, and pronounced “Em-rap”) vehicles, and other trucks creeps northward to the gate to the pass, which is monitored and controlled by Fort Irwin soldiers. Using crossing-arm barriers, the active-duty soldiers shut down the pass just as Alpha Company squeaks past.

FOB Reno turns out to be a wide spot in the desert, a rocky parking lot surrounded by 8-foot walls of mounded sand. Creature comforts? A line of chemical toilets—the Army calls them “latrines”—located a stone’s throw from the convoy’s vehicles, which are now parked side-by-side in a single row, three platoons in sequence. Ankle-twisting rocks are positioned every few steps. Making one’s way to the latrine feels like walking on the moon.

Alpha Company is in high spirits. Awaiting further instructions, a couple of soldiers start passing a football. “Hey,” yells one soldier, and the ball is thrown to him as well. He tosses it back as an underhand pass: “This is how a real man throws a football.” Apparently, he plays rugby. Bone shuffles past, and suddenly, someone calls out that it is his birthday. There’s a scrum. The soldiers tackle him and hold him to the ground. One by one, they lift his shirt to deliver an open-handed smack across his belly. “Red-belly! Red-belly!” The blows are hard enough to leave images of individual fingers.

Even Merchant takes a turn.

The soldiers are told to place their cots on the rocky terrain immediately behind their vehicles. The sky flares orange-and-blue as the sun falls below the mountain ridge, and the dusty ground turns purple-gray in the dusky light. Many troops break out lamps attached to headbands, and the red- and white-lights bob and bounce in the growing darkness. Some read, some eat Army rations, some play cards. Often, five or six soldiers will face each other in little groups, sitting on two cots, playing card games or telling stories infused with exaggeration and profanity. The antics are straight from high-school gym class.

“Hey, smell this,” says one solider to another, holding up a tan combat boot. “Doesn’t this smell like Doritos? Nacho-cheese Doritos?”

“I can beat that,” says the other, taking off his boots ...

Notes from a Logistical Battlefield

FORT IRWIN, Calif., late September--An Army fights on its stomach. Amateurs talk tactics, and professionals talk logistics. The first three rules of success at the National Training Center are: "Logistics, Logistics, Logistics."

All that is why, in a few days, Forward Operating Base ("FOB") King will be attacked by pirates. Pirates seeking Meals, Ready-to-Eat (M.R.E.). I am not making this up.

Back at FOB Denver, the current headquarters for the 2-34th Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division (2-34th BCT), Warrant Officer Shawn Kiene has one of the few legal cellphones out here in "The Box." As the acting contract officer for the brigade, he uses the lifeline to coordinate real-world essentials like scheduling service of hundreds of portable chemical toilets that dot the our part of the Mojave desert.

A former U.S. Navy sailor and graduate of the Culinary Institute of America (C.I.A.), Kiene was executive chef at a couple of hotels before going to work in the wholesale food distribution business.

"After I got to corporate, I thought I'd come back to the military and teach some cooks," he says. "'Even if it's sh--,' I thought, 'I can teach people to make it into something great.'"

"Instead, I show up and get put in charge of sh--ters," he laughs. "I was supposed to be at the other end of this business!"

As a food service expert, Kiene volunteered to go back to the rear to help out the active-duty unit responsible for bringing supplies from Fort Irwin (called "FOB Warrior" in scenario play) into The Box. "They've got some lieutenant there who's a good rigger, knows how to move stuff, but doesn't know food service. Rations breaks aren't going out quite right."

*****

Hanging out in rear rows of the 2-34th BCT's Tactical Operations Center ("TOC"), 1st Lt. Michael Wagner is holding court with some loggies. He's a quartermaster officer, but currently assigned from his infantry battalion as a liaison to the brigade. Wagner lives, breathes, and eats logistics. He tells this anecdote, which sounds like a routine from "Abbott and Costello meet the Frankenstein Logistics Monster":

"My unit wanted to establish this radio retrans site," he says. "Fifty guys are protecting this site--my unit did not want this site overrun. I asked them how they were going to supply the site."

"'LOGPAC,' they said." The term "LOGPAC" stands for "Logistics Package"--a supply convoy.

"'How are you going to get water,' I asked."

"'LOGPAC,' they said."

"I could see they weren't getting it. 'OK,' I said, 'let's break that down: What're you going to transport water in?'" Their answer: 5-gallon Jerrycans. "OK, one soldier in an arid environment consumes 4 to 5 liters of water per day. That means you'll need about 1.5 gallons of water per soldier, per day. If LOGPAC happens every other day, that means you'll need two jerry cans per soldier, one to keep and one to exchange. That means 100 Jerrycans. Now, how are you going to supply the site?"

They try again: "Water buffalo?" A water buffalo is a tank-trailer that holds more than 500 gallons of water.

"'OK, how are you going to re-fill the water buffalo?'"

"'Jerrycans?'"

"'You're going to refill a water buffalo with a 100 Jerrycans, requiring a team of two or three guys to lift each can up to the tank to pour it in, and then you've got to worry about sanitizing the water because how many people have come into contact with it?!'"

At this point, I don't know whether to laugh or cry: Who's on first? What's on second?

*****

To be continued in tomorrow's Red Bull Rising post ...

The Weather Rock

CAMP SHELBY, Miss., August 2010--The Weather Rock hangs in front of Headquarters Troop, 1st Squadron, 113th Cavalry Regiment (1/113th Cav.). It is bigger than your first, smaller than your head, and is suspended by olive-drab "550" cord used by Army parachutists. As such, it can withstand theoretical wind speeds far in excess of my ability to combine math and physics. Science, after all, is hard.

Saber2th is the one who introduced me to the Weather Rock. He and The Hamster, his sidekick and usual partner in crime. Part of their team's job involves reporting the weather, and its potential effects on military operations--if it's going to be too windy for aircraft operations, for example.

That's where the Weather Rock comes in.

Saber2th explains how it works:

"When the Weather Rock is warm to the touch, that means it's hot. When the Weather Rock is cool, that means it's cold. If it's wet, it's raining. If it's swinging back and forth, it's windy. If it's moist, it's humid. If it's jerking wildly about, there's been an earthquake."

He says this all straight-faced and deadpan and official-sounding, of course, as if he were briefing the time of day or the color of the sky. It is a beautiful thing to behold. He is in his element. He is rocking the TOC.

The Weather Rock: Get yours today! Results may vary. Void where prohibited.

The View from Here

FORT IRWIN, Calif., Sept. 26--Regardless of size or type of unit, the Tactical Operations Center ("TOC") is the nerve-center, the hub of activity, the reptilian brain of the organization. Working in "current operations," the staff tracks where people and equipment are, what they're doing, and to whom they're doing it.

Twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week, working in the TOC is simultaneously thrilling, infuriating, and boring beyond belief. The TOC is like a casino, in that there are no windows. "The sun never sets in the TOC," the brigade executive officer likes to say.

Reports constantly go up, down, and sideways through the TOC. Calls and contacts go out seeking more information, more detail, more ground truth. "We're driving the war from this building," the S3 Operations officer reminds his crew. "But it's the battalions that own the battlespace."

It's like playing a party game of "telephone" while simultaneously assembling a jigsaw puzzle and juggling parrots.

And at least one parrot is always on fire.

Some people love this TOC stuff. Others hate it. The latter are the guys who would be out there doing it, taking it to the streets and to the bad guys, rather than working in the air-conditioned dome, sorting through problems and moving pins around on a map.

It takes all kinds to run an Army, of course. We're all pins, one way or another.

For the next 14 days, the operations staff of the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division (2-34th BCT) has set up shop on the first floor of the two-story "Igloo"--a newly constructed, dome-shaped permanent building at the National Training Center (N.T.C.). The layout resembles something like the bridge of Star Trek's Starship Enterprise. There are three or four video screens across the front, depicting maps and real-time video feeds and message traffic.

A battle "captain"--the position is rank-immaterial, and can be held by a captain, major, or seasoned non-commissioned officer (N.C.O.)--keeps an eye and ear on what's happening. Located up close to the video screens, multitasking "radio-telephone operators" (R.T.O.) send and receive communications via radio, telephone, e-mail, Blue Force Tracker (B.F.T.), instant- or text-messaging.

The battle captain sits on a raised platform one step up and back from the "battle desk," in order to be able to take it all in at once. Around and behind him, there is a constantly changing collection of people from other organizations and staff functions, a combination "peanut gallery" and "Greek chorus."

Even in a digital age, technology can't replace the value of embedding a knowledgeable inter-organizational liaison, someone who can answer quick questions about unit status, capability, and location. The same time, these liaisons listen in on TOC traffic, and call their respective organizations with the latest news and heads-ups.

Like a fisherman floating on a favorite lake, if you sit in the right place and watch the water, you can see the physical ripple and flow of communications throughout the TOC. The report comes in here, it should go there and there. Now, watch to see where--and if--it goes. Sitting in the back of the room is where I do most of my "knowledge management" mojo, eavesdropping on multiple conversations, making connections, putting the question over here together with the answers over there. People in the TOC ask themselves a never-ending question: "Who else needs to know what we know?"

Sometimes, I am hindered in my eavesdropping efforts. The operations sergeant major attempts to keep the TOC as quiet as a library, and periodically yells at everyone, regardless of rank, to shut the heck up and take all conversations outside of his TOC. Lucky for me, he is stymied by the igloo's poor acoustics and the staff's chatty good humor.

For example, a bulletin board on which "significant actions" ("SIGACTS") are to be listed goes missing. Spartacus starts asking loudly, "Where is the SIGACT board? Somebody took the SIGACT board!"

Pilz, for some reason, is hanging around the battle desk. "We'll need to log that as an incident on the SIGACT board," he tells Spart, "after we find it, of course."

In another corner of the room, one of the wargame referees is whining about the brigade's prohibition on civilian "gut-truck" food vendors in the training area. "That's kind of jacked-up," he says. "Because, No. 1, you're simulating being on a FOB, and you'll have that kind of stuff available in-country. And, No. 2, that's how these guys make their money. They come out every rotation."

Man up, sir. Embrace the suck. The 2-34th is an infantry brigade combat team, not a tasty stimulus package. We're the "Red Bull," not the "Red Burrito!"

There's real lessons-learned stuff to be had, trolling around the conversational airwaves. One battalion, for example, repeatedly calls in emergency medical-evacuation ("MEDEVAC," pronouced "med-evak") request, specifying "red smoke" will be used to mark the landing zone for the helicopter. The TOC staff repeatedly have to validate whether or not the mission is a real emergency, or one that's occurring within the NTC's wargame simulation. "Someone tell them that red smoke is for real-world emergencies only," says the Battle NCO.

Immediately below my perch, a young liaison officer (L.N.O.) from one of the infantry units is schooling the brigade S4 (Logistics) staff on how to use its computer systems to track supplies and equipment. Granted, the kid is some sort of quartermaster savant, but it's a little bit like having a 6th-grader fix daddy's computer. Daddy should keep up with the 21st century, if he doesn't want to get left in the dust.

Just then, the Army laser-tag sensing equipment worn by the brigade information officer starts beeping--indicating he's now a simulated casualty. It's an obvious malfunction--no one has fired a weapon in the TOC, but he looks around, bewildered. Maybe it's a simulated heart-attack. Or spontaneous human combustion.

Another wargame adminstrator walks over with a God-gun to reset the officer's system. "It's all these fluorescent lights," he says. "Working in the TOC will kill you."

Slideshow: 10 Views of Life on the FOB

And now for something a little different! In order to further illustrate some of yesterday's descriptions, below are 10 photos of FOB Denver, depicting how many soldiers of the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division spent some of their time in "The Box" at the National Training Center (N.T.C.). Captions appear below each photograph.

This is a close-up of a "sleep shade," each of which sleeps up to 150 soldiers. The rigid, sprayed-on foam-insulation looks like nougat. I love how the irregular patterns of the walls mimic the footprints surrounding the tents.

Civilian workers erect an additional tent for use as temporary office space for the brigade headquarters. The project took about a day, and was rumored to cost $17,000 U.S. in labor and tent-rental. (Thanks, U.S. taxpayers!) Where else would you use such a thing? A similar tent on another FOB had symbols from the Vancouver 2010 Olympics etched into its glass doors!

Soldiers were fed on an "A-MRE-A" ration-cycle. In other words, a hot "A-ration" breakfast, a "Meal, Ready-to-Eat" (M.R.E.) lunch, and another hot "A-ration" dinner. Contractors prepared and served the hot meals on the FOBs, and units came up with different "carry-out" strategies to serve hot meals at smaller sites. The pancakes weren't gray, by the way--they were blueberry!

This isn't FOB Denver, it's actually FOB King--home of the 334th Brigade Support Battalion, among others! A couple of the larger FOBs had these semi-trailers that dispensed hot and cold beverages. Just make your selection and pull the lever. (Watch out for the hot stuff, however--I managed to give myself second-degree burns while making my instant Starbucks Via coffee one morning!) As I traveled to some other FOBs, I personally helped start the rumor that this truck was actually an industrial-sized milkshake machine. Soldiers love complaining about how one FOB is so much better than another ...

"The approach will not be easy. You are required to maneuver straight down this trench and skim the surface to this point. The target area is only two meters wide. It's a small thermal exhaust port, right below the main port. The shaft leads directly to the reactor system. A precise hit will start a chain reaction which should destroy the station. Only a precise hit will set off a chain reaction. The shaft is ray-shielded, so you'll have to use proton torpedoes." These are either the secret plans to the Death Star, or the layout for the second-floor of the "Igloo"--the brigade Tactical Operations Center (TOC). You make the call!

The brigade "Igloo" exterior, during daylight hours. Back when I was an Army communications guy, we had 100-meter-tall antennas to get over the hill. In today's "work smarter, not harder" Army, we do all the work on the ground, then scissor-lift the antenna into position!

The terrain surrounding the FOB consisted of sand and more sand, punctuated with a little sagebrush.

Under generator-powered spotlights each morning, soldiers brushed their teeth and shaved in long trough-like sinks. Next to the sinks were semi-trailers full of shower facilities--locker rooms on wheels!

There were two semi-trailers full of washers and dryers on FOB Denver. Open 24 hours a day!

A typical bunk area inside the sleep shades. Troops gained a little elbow room by stashing their gear underneath their cots. It was cool enough at night (plus the tents were air-conditioned) that most soldiers would sleep either with a light sleeping bag or poncho liner. Check out my buddy's old-school pin-up calendar! All the comforts of home!