Walking the TOC

FORT IRWIN, Calif., Sept. 24--The 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division headquarters stumbles into Forward Operating Base (FOB) Denver, and immediately starts unloading the vehicles and setting up the Tactical Operations Center (T.O.C.). The TOC itself--the nerve center for the more than 3,000 troops comprising seven battalions of mostly Iowa and Nebraska National Guard personnel--is located in the "igloo," a brand-new, two-story, circular building that looks like something straight out of Star Wars.

No, not the Death Star. Instead, you know the scene in which the young, restless, and whiney Luke Skywalker looks across the sands of Tatooine under two setting suns, while John Williams' orchestral score swells up? I'm pretty sure that FOB Denver is in the background.

"You know, that little droid is going to cause me a lot of trouble ..."

Moving into the FOB is chaos, but it is a familiar kind of chaos. In the darkness, soldiers try to figure where they're going to be sleeping later that night, provided anyone gets any sleep. The occasional spotlight lights the way to the tents.

From where we park the Humvee to the TOC is approximately 200 meters. Sleeping quarters for officers--majors, lieutenant colonels, colonels--are located nearby the TOC. The trailers, built for four people, sleep eight or nine majors each. Rank has its privileges, apparently, particularly if you like sleeping really, really close to your buddies. Sleeping quarters for everyone else are another 500 meters across the dunes, in massive foam-insulated tents capable of sleeping about 150 soldiers. There is plenty of elbow room, as well as room for other parts of one's body.

The brigade headquarters company and portions of the 2/34th Brigade Special Troops Battalion (B.S.T.B.) divvy up space in only one of these massive "sleep shades. The term is an apparent holdover from when conditions at the National Training Center (N.T.C.) were so rustic, the tents didn't even have walls.

There's some talk and movement toward keeping squad, section, or shift integrity--grouping together the soldiers that work together in the same places and times. That way, day-shifters won't wake up the night-shifters as much, and vice versa. In turns out not to matter much, however. The rushing sound of an industrial air-conditioner masks the usual snoring and banging around. Signs posted on the outside of the tents, warning that the facilities are for sleeping only and to take your business activities elsewhere, also help.

The smart soldiers quickly figure out that the electrical outlets are located on the support columns around the perimeter of the tents, so the layout of the cots develops more organically than the traditional "dress-right-dress" of traditional bivouac sites. When it comes to recharging cameras and bootleg iPods, it's strictly "first come, first served."

There are eight or nine other sleep tents, lined up in two neat rows. There's one for contractors and role players. One for female soldiers from our unit. One for the caterers who will serve the meals in our chow halls.

The dining facilities are another 200 meters past the sleep tent.

For those of you playing along at home, that means the total distance from Humvee to cot to hot meal is approximately one kilometer. Along the way, one passes clusters of portable toilets, hand wash stations, and 500-gallon trailers called "water buffaloes," from which soldiers will refill their canteens and CamelBaks. There are also some semi-trailers containing shower and laundry facilities.

Over the course of the next two weeks, soldiers will repeatedly observe that nothing on the FOB is convenient, but everything is certainly within walking distance.

Crossing the Line

FORT IRWIN, Calif., Sept. 24--Archer finds me by accident, while I'm hanging out in the "RUBA" and all heck is bursting and bustling around me. It is the morning of the big game--or at least that's the vibe. Today, the entire 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division is bugging out and moving into The Box. He grabs me by the elbow, and says he wants me to take a picture.

He points out toward the dusty horizon, toward the mountains, toward the training area called The Box. In the distance, the trucks are rolling up the roads like convoys of dung beetles. "See that haze? That's why they call this place the 'Dustbowl!'"

Because all the Forward Operating Bases ("FOB") at the National Training Center (N.T.C.) have names like "Seattle," "Denver," and "Reno," it took me a full night's sleep to figure out that the troops weren't calling their dusty little staging area "Aruba." You know--like the island. Turns out, it's an acronym: "Rotational Unit Bivouac Area."

The frustrations of the previous day have melted in the early desert light. I've decided to grind my emotional gears and shift into full military mode. Later, I'll stop by the military clothing store on post, and add yet another set of Army Combat Uniforms (A.C.U.) to my soon-to-be-retired collection. Two uniform sets, four T-shirts, seven pair of underwear, and my Army physical fitness uniform should get me by for two weeks. I'll also bite the bullet and acquire a second bulletproof vest from the Distinguished Visitors Bureau contact. Because it's camouflaged, this one will blend in better with the rest of the herd.

The question of what to carry into The Box is a little more problematic. Because I'm not going to be able to use civilian stuff, I'd prefer not to hump my duffel bag full of expeditionary clothing. That includes my personal bulletproof vest. I'd also prefer to turn in my laptop computer into someone trustworthy--remember, in The Box, there's a prohibition on personal computers and cell phones--but I don't know exactly where and when I'm going to come out of desert in two weeks.

The public affairs officer (P.A.O.) tells me to bring whatever I need to do my job, but the "job" has gotten a little fuzzy. We've talked in vague terms about how I might help out with newsletters and stuff, now that I'm not role-playing as civilian media on the battlefield. He's a little skittish, too, about whether he's somehow crossed the line with the NTC media roleplayers. Because of the uncertainty, I end up choosing to keep all my worldly goods on my person. Now, I am the dung beetle.

Meanwhile, his assistant, Staff Sgt. Katz, has gotten me a seat in the convoy, in a four-seater Humvee that she herself is driving. The PAO will be riding in the same vehicle, she tells me, as will the Deputy Commanding Officer (D.C.O.) of the brigade.

Upon hearing that, I begin to get that sour feeling again. Riding in the backseat of the second-in-command's vehicle doesn't seem like a good idea, if one is trying to stay off the radar. Once I'm in The Box, I figure I'm clear. Until then, I keep waiting for an anvil to fall on my head. Some people think of the glass is half-empty, some people think water in the glass has been poisoned. Guess which kind of person I am?

Katz is checking out the vehicle's lights, fluids, guages, the works. The Army calls it "P.M.C.S." for "Preventive Maintenance, Checks, and Services." That takes about 90 minutes. On the windshield, there's a sign with large red heart depicted on it. Each convoy has a different symbol on it--hearts, diamonds, moons, clovers--to help Military Police direct traffic toward each FOB.

The convoy time start time has gone from 0800 to 1000 to 1800. It will be a long, hot day, waiting in the motorpool with the vehicles, sweating it out as to whether someone will pull the plug on Sherpa's Wild Ride.

I am standing around the back bumper of the Humvee, when the brigade commander spots me. He walks over, as casually as a brigade commander can be said to walk.

"Sherpa! I was wondering how and when you were going to show up again!"

I am either about to be busted, or blessed.

Unexpectedly, he drapes his arm across my shoulders. God love the Old Man--always keeps you on your toes, always keeps you off balance. Still, if I've got any pixie dust or blarney lube left in my toolkit, I figure now is the time to lay it out there.

"Well, sir, you know how you jokingly asked me a couple of times back at Camp Shelby, whether I was going to figure out a way to get to Afghanistan? Well, the Iowa G3 has sent me out here as sort of an embedded historian. I'll help your PAO out with whatever I can, and I'll keep my eye out for lessons learned, too."

Then, I say it out loud.

"And, sir? I plan to visit you and the unit in Afghanistan sometime next year, embedding as civilian media."

The Old Man smiles, and plays along beautifully. Recalling my career as a writer of do-it-yourself home-remodeling stories, he muses, "You know, I have been thinking about Afghanistan as a Better Homes and Gardens article ..."

He continues the good-natured ribbing: "You remember in Egypt and Iraq, how we grew corn in the desert? Afghanistan needs more gardens. We're going to green it up when we get there!"

He does not realize it, but he has touched upon one of my favorite movie quotes of all time. "But, before the gardens, must come the fighting." I fear there will be fighting, and that some of my buddies will be in harm's way.

We joke around a little more, and then he is called away. I realize that I have just been granted a 5-minute audience with the commander of more than 3,000 troops, on what could be the busiest day yet of the deployment. That he came over, called me out, joked around, put my fellow soldiers and I at ease? That's why he's in charge.

"Apparently, Sherpa, you can do anything you want to," mutters the PAO, shaking his head and smiling. I feel like I've just been sprayed with Teflon. "The 'embedded historian' idea was a good one, too."

The rest of the day passes with much heat and light, and little incident. When the unit finally moves out, the sun is setting. The sky turns purple, and then settles into darkness. Our FOB is an hour or so out there, somewhere.

It is only when the Humvee starts moving, however, that I figure I am already on the objective. I have crossed my Rhine and my Rubicon, my personal line in the sand.

There is no going back now.

Fear and Clothing in the Mojave Desert

FORT IRWIN, Calif., Sept. 23--It is my first day on the ground at Fort Irwin, Calif., and, beyond getting picked up at the Las Vegas airport, nothing is going my way. The day had started back in Iowa with a conversationally uncomfortable taxi ride. Then, because I'd gotten caught in government travel-agent funding purgatory for a weeks--happy new federal fiscal year, by the way--my airline tickets were middle-seat all the way. Finally, humping 48 pounds of bulletproof ceramic plates as carry-on luggage also proved ... humbling.

Even though I'm not deploying with them to Afghanistan, I am attempting to accompany my unit--the 2nd Brigade Combat Team (B.C.T.), 34th Infantry "Red Bull" Division--into the Mojave Desert. After that, I hope to embed with them in Afghanistan as civilian media, sometime in 2011.

There is definitely a National Training Center (N.T.C.) way of doing things, however, and the very idea that someone might volunteer to go "into The Box" is proving a little too out of the box for some. Even some of our own people aren't quite getting it.

My superiors back in Iowa hadn't liked the idea that I'd take a few weeks of vacation from the military in order to embed with the unit as a civilian reporter, so they issued me military orders to do just that.

At the time, we'd thought that there wouldn't any real-world reporters from Iowa visiting Fort Irwin, and the brigade Public Affairs Officer (P.A.O.) wanted to ensure his people had experience in scheduling transportation, meals, and lodging for visiting or embedded media. The solution? Bring your own "reporter," and move him around the battlefield like a chess piece or puppet. It's probably every public affairs professional's dream! Reporters that do what they're told!

(Looking back on it, of course, the unit ended up with plenty of real-world media visiting the Red Bull in The Box, resulting in great coverage such as this, this, this, and this.)

The NTC also supplies notional media--role players from "International News Network" that show up without warning to take pictures and broadcast stories about what U.S. troops are doing. Some of the stories are relatively neutral, and sound like CNN. Others pretty biased, and sound more like Al Jazeera. (One Red Bull example: Over pictures of a U.S. medic providing first-aid to a "villager," an INN reporter voiced-over a comment such as "U.S. troops attempted to cover up evidence of their botched attack.")

Why all the "media" attention? Part of the counterinsurgency (COIN) fight is waged not with bullets, but with information. Commanders and soldiers learn quickly that they not only must defeat the enemy on the battlefield, they also have to defeat media misinterpretation--and enemy propaganda. "Be the first with the truth," is an Army public affairs battle-cry.

So, into this already confusing media mix here at NTC, arrives little old Sherpa. Not quite real-world media, not quite make-believe. A little bit country, a little bit rock'n'roll. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right ...

Stop me if you've heard this before.

I've got some personal reasons for wanting to go into The Box, of course. The Army has a saying: "Train like you fight, fight like you train." There are particular rules one has to follow as an embedded reporter, the first of which seems to be: "Thou shalt not look like a combatant." That means no camouflage. You are supposed to stand out, away and apart from the guys and gals you are covering.

I've never had to "go to war" as a non-combatant. Mother Sam has always provided. What equipment will I need? What clothing will I prefer to wear? I'm planning on testing out some gear in The Box, finding out what works for me and what doesn't. That's one reason why I had my new bullet-proof vest sent to me via overnight delivery, so that I'd have it in time for this trip.

That and, c'mon--how many times does a guy get to call up someone and say, "I'll need that bulletproof vest by Wednesday"? I feel like James Bond.

I'm also interested in breaking down some potential walls of perception. Even my close Army buddies usually forget that I work as a freelance magazine writer and editor. I think it would be good to remind them, visually, that I might be more of an outsider the next time they see me. Ditching the uniform would be a start. I'd also like to observe how soldiers of all ranks react to my presence when I'm not wearing rank myself, the Red Bull patch, or the American flag. In short, I'm hoping to play "Sherpa" than "soldier." My deal with the government-paid travel devil (gnome?) still allows for that, but only as long as my military mission takes priority.

After hitting the ground, however, I'm picking up on a vibe that the whole deal is in danger of going south. That, if I say the wrong thing or trip over the wrong lines, somebody at NTC might decide that my accompanying the unit into The Box is a supremely wrong idea.

That includes this butterscotch-skinned warrant officer, who is technically wearing the same "Red Bull" patch as I am, but is actually a recent transfer from another state. She's an Army automation specialist and data analyst--very logical. She's also going to be one of the special few staying outside of The Box, helping out with the Distinguished Visitors Bureau (D.V.B.)--a brigade "Welcome Wagon" for visiting full-bird colonels and above. In theory, she's also going assist the brigade public affairs section in getting the corn-fed media in and out of Fort Irwin.

As she drives a colonel and me around the Army post, I witness first-hand the calming, soothing effects her dark eyes, butterfly lashes, and silky laugh have on field-grade officers. But me? The upstart irritation in the minivan's backseat, the one stupid enough to volunteer to grunt it out in the wilderness? I'm not getting a lot of love. Heck, I'm not even getting peace or understanding.

"You'll need to come with me to check out a flak-vest and Army cot," she tells me.

"Roger on the cot, but I've got my own vest. Civilian type, coyote brown, with SAPI plates," I tell her. "OK if I use that?"

"Why would you want to wear plates if you don't have to?" The older-style Individual Ballistics Vest (I.B.V.) is Universal Camouflage Pattern (U.C.P.), and will be issued to visiting media at NTC, without ceramic plates. Generally, a Kevlar lining in the vest will stop bullets shot from a handgun, while plates will stop bullets shot from an assault rifle. For the record, I've got the equivalent of a newer design, the "Improved Outer Tactical Vest."

I have just shepherded 48-pounds of bullet-proof plates through airport security and airline bureaucracy. That, in itself, was an education. "Because I wanted to validate how to travel with my equipment, and to test it out in the field? 'Train like you fight, fight like you train' and all that?"

"But that's not what you would use in Afghanistan!"

"I will if I embed as a civilian ..."

"But you're not civilian, you're military," she says.

Sherpa. Does. Not. Compute.

We go round and round. Either because she can't get her head around it, or because she's never worked with me before, my usual Sherpa-mojo ain't cutting it. She's just not that into me--or my special brand of Why Not.

I get a similar reception when the brigade PAO introduces me to the "combat-trainer" (C.T.) who coordinates with the simulated media. Coincidentally, the three of us figure out that we all went to the same school of journalism, back in the day. But, after we sing the alma mater, the idea that I would wear civilian clothes, and do a media-like job, is causing some pained and hard-thinking looks.

"You're going need to be in-play," the trainer says. That means wearing MILES gear--Army laser-tag system--to detect if I've been notionally wounded or killed. Gotta play the game.

"Not a problem--I was expecting to do so," I say.

"AND you'll need to be in uniform," he continues. It is then that I realize that I am wearing the only uniform I have--everything else is civilian gear--for two weeks in The Box.

I am not happy. I am discouraged and disgruntled. I have spent all day dragging my duffel bags halfway across the country, to a desert filled with hostiles who do not speak Iowan. My largest bag is now an olive-drab albatross. The sun is low in the sky, but still set on "simmer." The desert is so close, I can taste it. It tastes sour and dusty.

The Red Bull is moving into The Box tomorrow, and I want nothing more than to be on that convoy. I need to figure out my next move, pull another trick out of those bags over there. I'm running out of time, humor, and luck.