Convoy Communications 2.0

The bus ride from the middle of Iowa to Camp Shelby apparently takes about 16 hours, judging by this week's "radio traffic" on Facebook. The brigade has been moving out, piece by piece, unit by unit, on a nearly daily schedule.

Watching the Facebook news feeds has been a little like eavesdropping on the radio, with my fellow soldiers conversing between buses. Sometimes, they're even on the same bus.

Messages such as "I'm so glad that dog-and-pony send-off ceremony is over" to "Welcome to Camp Shelby, where there is no gravity, but everything sucks," clued me in to where people are on the map. Time between "dog-and-pony" to "Camp Shelby" message? Approximately 16 hours.

When I first learned how to do stateside convoy operations, we maintained communications via our FM radios. We were lucky to get a few miles out of them, from front of our first serial (or "stick) of vehicles, to the middle of our convoy. To talk from the front to the rear of our entire battalion, we'd have to relay messages, like a big game of tactical "telephone."

"Bravo-Tree-Six, THIS IS Bravo-Four-One. I have contact with Bravo-Two-Four. I will relay your message, OVER."

"ROGER, Bravo-Four-One, THIS Bravo-Tree-Six. What is Bravo-Two-Four's location and rate-of-march, OVER?"

And so on.

It helped pass the time, I guess. And the miles.

Some 20 years ago, on my first convoy move, our battalion had three sticks moving eastbound through my old stomping grounds in Eastern Iowa. There is/was a confusing split between Interstates 74 and 80. The unit was supposed to stay on Interstate 80.

Suddenly, some convoy-leading lieutenant--yes, I still remember his name; no, I'm not going to tell it right now--gets on the horn. His message over the radio sounds like something out of an old M.A.S.H. TV episode: "My location is ... I am passing a Red Lobster ... right ... NOW!"

As most of the radio net was laughing at the young officer's inappropriate choice of landmarks--identifying a mile marker or intersection would have been more useful--I realized something else. For many years, I lived in this particularly part of Eastern Iowa, and I knew this:

There is no Red Lobster located on Interstate 80.

The lieutenant, in other words, was mis-oriented and headed south, both figuratively and literally.

I tell that story not only because is sounds like Maj. Frank Burns fiasco, but because those days are pretty much over. During our travel up to Camp Ripley, Minn., for this year's Annual Training, most of our vehicles did not have FM radios installed. Instead, our company commander and his lieutenants tried to communicate via civilian civilian cell phones, because that's all they had. The problem was, no phone is loud enough to hear or talk over the noise of a Humvee engine. And putting your phone on "vibrate" doesn't work, either, because--believe me--the Humvee vibrates way more than your phone.

Downrange and in country, most of our vehicles will have Blue Force Tracker (B.F.T.) devices installed. We use a dismounted BFT device in the Tactical Operations Center ("TOC") in order to track the whereabouts of each vehicle in near-real-time. The position of each BFT-capable vehicle updates via Global Positioning System (G.P.S.) refreshes every few minutes, and is displayed on a map as a little blue dot or square. In Army terms, "Blue Force" is friendly; "Red Force" is bad guys.

We can also use BFT to text-message among vehicles and the TOC. It's great technology: Great for putting your finger on nearly everyone's location on the battlefield. Great for reaching out and touching people: "Hey, you're turning your convoy the wrong way!"

Then again, troops using Blue Force Tracker will never land a war story like the "Great Red Lobster Turnaround."

Traveling Light

On my very first Annual Training with Iowa National Guard, back in 1992, our Army communications battalion drove Humvees for two-and-a-half days--stopping to rest at two "overnight halts"--all the way to Camp Shelby, Miss.

As a new soldier, I didn't realize that such a large-scale, long-haul mission was so unique. Subsequent Annual Training missions were more likely to take us only a long-day's-drive away.

For example, when I joined a combat Engineer unit that used tracked Armored Personnel Carriers (A.P.C.), we'd either have our APCs hauled by other National Guard units specializing in Transportation--Army semi-truck drivers--or we'd borrow equipment from a motorpool at Fort McCoy, Wis. Think of the latter as an Avis or Budget rental service run by Uncle Sam: "Sir, will you be returning that M113 with a full tank of gas, or will you want us to fuel it for you?"

Just because our tracked equipment couldn't be driven on the highways, however, didn't mean that we couldn't be. We packed into our remaining Humvees and drove ourselves to where we needed to go.

When I was transferred to a "light" Infantry unit, however, we didn't even have enough organic Humvees and trucks to transport all our personnel and equipment. (In Army terms, "light" means that you're capable of walking everywhere.) That meant that most of our soldiers bussed back and forth to Annual Training.

So at least the Infantry guys in our brigade are trained up on how to cram themselves and their backpacks into a can, so that they can be bussed cross-country. To mash together an Army training rule-of-thumb with an old Greyhound slogan: "Fight like you train, train like you fight. And leave the driving to us."

Still, I'm not looking forward to the bus trip to Afghanistan ...

Scenes from a Send-Off Ceremony

The vibe at a unit send-off ceremony is like a funeral, a graduation, and a wedding all rolled into one, except that there isn't as much beer involved.

Don't believe me? Consider this: There are bagpipes, there is marching, and the National Anthem is played. From where I come from, that's halfway to a party right there.

Here's how it went down for me:

First, there was freakish line in the sky immediately preceding our brigade headquarters' official send-off ceremony last Friday. It seriously went from black to blacker in 60 seconds flat, and dumped Biblical amounts of water on Boone, Iowa: Flash-flood, dogs-and-cats, use-your-seat-as-a-floatation-device while you hydroplane-at-highway-speeds weather.

I'd like to report that it got sunnier after that, but it would be more accurate to say that the rain stopped. It was misty and cloudy and almost muggy. Perfect weather to match my overall mood.

The ceremony took place indoors, thank goodness. A volunteer group of Iowa bagpipers marched the Headquarters Company troops into the auditorium. Greetings were offered. The National Anthem was played. Salutes were rendered. Words were said, and prayers offered. Most of all, past-tense was used.

I've become increasingly convinced that that send-offs aren't as much for the people who are being sent-off, as they are for the people doing the sending. It's important for mom and dad, spouse and kids, friends and family to mark the time and place of their loved one's departure.

The ceremony was over in about 30 minutes, even with the 7-minute standing ovation the troops received as they marched in. The troops grabbed their rucksacks and duffel bags as they left the building, and started stuffing the gear into the bellies of the buses.

There was plenty of time to say good-bye. Almost too much.

Since I didn't have family there, I played my usual part of court jester, cracking jokes and shaking hands and chatting with anybody who seemed to want to chat. I also took some pictures for folks, so the whole family could get into frame.

Later, I realized it had felt a little like emotional triage site. You couldn't focus on people too long or deeply, because you might end up crying yourself.

There were the girlfriends and boyfriends saying good-bye with death-grip hugs and kisses. Forehead to forehead, couples tuned out world for as long as they could.

There were the geographic bachelors, the guys and gals who just reported into the unit. "Yeah, I just introduced myself to the commander," one soldier muttered to me, shaking his head. Imagine parachuting into the deployment to become the one guy on the bus who doesn't know anyone else.

One buddy of mine was getting on the bus. He'd injured his back, and the Army wanted to evaluate him medically when he gets to Camp Shelby, Miss. Another buddy of mine wasn't getting on the bus. He'd also injured his back, but the Army had told him that they wanted all medical evaluations be complete prior to travel to Camp Shelby. He'd told his parents not to come to the send-off, because he wouldn't be getting on the bus that day. They came anyway.

There were new fathers, huge with pride, cradling tiny babies.

There was a family of four in a prayer huddle, facing inward and toward each other, standing two steps from the door of the bus. It was like an island of calm in a sea of T-shirts and duffel bags.

I saw one mother struggle to keep her three kids focused on looking for Dad through the windows of the bus, while the kids struggled not to focus on the fact that Dad was leaving for a year. I thought about what the walk to the car would be like for her. Or the drive home.

The send-off ceremony is part of a mental and emotional transition from civilian to soldier. After all the standing in line, hearing the pipes, loading the bus, and saying good-byes? At some point, troops just want to get on the bus:

Let's do this thing. Let's get this deployment over, so I can come back. Let's roll.