As I think that it is too important to belong behind the "pay-per-view" wall, I've copy pasted the page.
There should be functional links to the individual blogs anyway.
Of note : we find that blogs are handy way to stay in touch with friends and family - outside the military, I set one up for my grandson soon after his arrival.
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About Frontlines
TimesSelect has invited four members of the United States military — all active bloggers — to write about their daily lives. Three of the bloggers are now stationed in Iraq, and one has recently returned home.First Lt. Lee Kelley, 34, is serving near Ramadi, Iraq, with the Army National Guard. His unit has been in the country since June 2005. Lieutenant Kelley, a native of New Orleans, has lived in Salt Lake City since 1996. His blog is called Wordsmith at War.
Warrant Officer Michael D. Fay of the United States Marine Corps Reserve has held the position of combat artist for the corps since January 2000. He has been deployed four times since Sept. 11, 2001, twice each to Iraq and Afghanistan. Warrant Officer Fay, who returned home from Iraq to Virginia in February, will continue to post writing and artwork in his blog, Fire and Ice.
Capt. Will Smith, 30, enlisted in 1995 and is now a captain serving in Tikrit, Iraq, with the 445th Civil Affairs Battalion, an Army Reserve special operations unit based in Mountain View, Calif. Captain Smith, who lives in the Philadelphia area, keeps a blog at savvyskull.com.
First Lt. Jeffrey D. Barnett, 24, is from Huntsville, Ala. He joined the Marines in 2003 and is stationed in Falluja, Iraq, with the 1st Radio Battalion, based in Camp Pendleton, Calif. His blog is Midnight in Iraq.
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The Milblog Phenomenon and My ‘15 Minutes’
Warrant Officer Fay’s studio, with laptop for blogging, in Falluja.
In this life I’ve enjoyed a number of well-deserved titles- Father. Son. Brother. Uncle. Marine. Artist. Friend. Recovering Alcoholic. High School Senior Class Salutorian. I’ve also been the object of less desirable, but equally well-earned descriptors: Ex-Husband. College Dropout (thrice). Drunk. Defaulter. Lately a good former Marine buddy of mine has added a new one. He calls me a curmudgeon.
Recently I was invited to participate as a panelist at the first ever Milblog Conference hosted in Washington on April 22. The event was sponsored by the Veterans of Foreign Wars and Military.Com. In the past year it seems I’ve acquired another title — milblogger. Like curmudgeon, only time will tell if this will be worthy of mention in my obituary, or whispered about in embarrassed tones by friends and relatives at the wake. “What a shame, a curmudgeon AND a milblogger.”
The conference was a combination tent revival and homecoming. Milbloggers are passionate about what they do, and our readers are equally passionate in seeking us out and reading our postings. A year ago I had no idea of what a blog was. Today, as witnessed this very moment by your reading, my thoughts and experiences as a Marine combat artist go out to the furthest reaches of the planet — what is affectionately tagged “the blogosphere.”
To a person, every milblogger at the conference started out with one primary mission — to keep family and friends in the loop about our real-time experiences out in the war on terrorism. My nephew, First Lieutenant Richard “Joey” Fay, before he left for Iraq last July with his Marine battalion, started one with the help of his wife, Kris. His intent was simple, keep kith and kin informed while cutting down on e-mail traffic. Want to know what I’m up to? Check the blog. (His blog can be read at Fayboy01.blogspot.com.) Setting the site up was both simple and free thanks to Blogger.com.
We milbloggers found a shared common philosophy in posting on our sites. There was some debate over what to call the unwritten law we all found ourselves spontaneously adhering to, but the three-part guiding principle was universal — Don’t post anything you didn’t want your mom, your commanding officer, or Osama bin Laden to read.
Those of us chosen to be panelists at the conference had something else happen. Not only were acquaintances coming to our sites, but so were complete strangers … by the tens of thousands. “If you build it, they will come” took on new meaning for us. Me — the last analog guy in a digital world, the gent with sketchbook and pencil — found himself on the cutting edge of information technology and political influence. I was posting digital images of field drawings still reeking of cordite. I would sit hunched over my laptop at Camp Falluja, fresh in from the field, cathartically pecking out dispatches even as my superior and cubicle buddy, Marine Corps field historian Lieutenant Colonel Craig Covert, implored, “Fay, you’re ripe! Please take a shower, NOW!” (Lt. Col. Covert’s blog, here.) I would click the “publish post” button, and somewhere in Pittsburgh a technical writer’s e-mail inbox would ping with a message alerting her. As Inspector Gadget loved to say, “Wowzers!”
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Through the Eyes of an Iraqi Man
The following piece is a short work of fiction. I wrote it through the eys of a local Iraqi man, who is a figment of my imagination. Much of the information and actual events I am privy to here are classified, but in this fashion I can share some of the realities about the Iraqi people that many Americans may not think much about or realize. Of course, it is not intended to represent a whole society or culture, but I know for a fact there are men like Abu, and I thought you might like to hear his “voice.” Like all fiction, Abu’s words and experiences are based, to some degree, in reality.
- First Lt. Lee Kelley
My name is Abu Hassin. I am sitting right now outside of my small home on a chicken farm east of Ramadi, only miles from the fishing village where I grew up. I am smoking a cigarette and drinking my evening tea while I write these lines in a notebook.
I am very happy that the Americans helped to remove Saddam. Who else would help us? I remember the day when Saddam was captured. I have not cried and laughed so much in a very long time. In December I was so proud to see my wife go out and vote. She is a brave woman. Before my mosque came to be used by insurgents, my imam prayed for the Americans over the loudspeakers. Do they know we pray for them? Some say the Americans want to stay in Iraq, but I think they want to go to go home.
There is violence still, yes, but there has always been violence in this land. Already life holds so much more promise for my people. I am old now, but for the children I am very happy. I am an elder in my village, so people listen to me. And I am sick and tired of these stupid men creating more violence. What will it solve? Don’t they understand that if they stopped the violence, the Americans would leave? The Americans call them insurgents, but they call themselves “freedom fighters,” as if the American’s want to take our freedom away. They are helping to free us!
I see these men acting so secretive and important, planning their attacks. I knew them when they were little boys playing barefoot in the dirt. I laugh at them. I am too old, so they leave me alone. They threaten me, but I know they will not harm me. I am not afraid of death anyway. My own father was dragged away in the night from my home by Saddam’s men. We were never told why, and we never saw him again. All three of my uncles fled the country. Now these “freedom fighters” threaten their own people, hurting Iraq because they cannot truly hurt America. They are silly children who think they are all grown up.
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The Little Inconveniences of Army Life
When you are away from home for a year in a place like Iraq, there is a lot to miss. Of course you miss your family and friends and all the important parts of your life, but the little things can also add up and cause you to long for home even more.
For example, I have been wearing the same clothes every day for nearly a year. What am I wearing today? A funny looking green suit. What will I wear tomorrow? A funny looking green suit. It sure would be nice to wear some blue or red clothes! (Oh, yeah, but then I would stand out like a bull’s eye. O.K., maybe green isn’t too bad.)
Also, since arriving here, I have enjoyed my meals “picnic style” — with plastic forks, plastic plates, and paper cups. There just isn’t anything like the excitement of steak night coupled with the challenge of cutting the meat with a dull plastic knife. At least my arms get a workout from all the sawing back and forth. The spoons in the little packages are large enough to fill sandbags with in a pinch. When sampling the delicious Baskin Robbins ice cream as a dessert, the spoon size requires me to contort my mouth into odd positions to get the dang thing to fit — and every so often the spoon will have sharp edges that slice the inside of my cheek.
Of course we do not have indoor plumbing. You haven’t lived until you have sweated inside a porta-potty in 120 degree heat, smelling that awful odor. In the winter, it is nice that you can escape the gut-churning smells but somehow karma makes up for it with cold toilet seats and the toilet paper disappears twice as fast for some unknown reason. (more…)
Revisiting Afghanistan
Things are finally settling down enough to allow me the time to do the actual thing I get paid to do: create art.
(Slide Show): Artwork from 2002 and 2005 deployments to Afghanistan.
My first set of pieces will be based on a trip to Afghanistan last spring. I had previously gone to Afghanistan at the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom during the winter of 2002, in the Kandahar region, Bagram and Kabul. It was winter and the landscape was raw and desolate. I told folks back home, in all seriousness, that everything had a bullet hole in it and the national flower must be shrapnel. In fact, I keep a jagged and rusted shard of the stuff on display in my bedroom as a reminder. I also returned with intangibles: visions of the trees in Kabul festooned with kites, and the weary windburned faces of marines standing watch on the farthest unforgiving edge of the civilized world.
Last May I returned to Afghanistan and went out with the Third Battalion of the Third Marine Regiment, a Hawaii-based infantry unit. The three companies of this battalion had responsibility for three provinces smack dab in the foothills of the Tora Bora mountains on the Pakistani border; Nangarhar, Konar and Laghman Provinces. The scenery was spectacular. The Afghanis themselves are a strikingly diverse nation. Many possess those penetrating otherworldly emerald green eyes made famous by Sharbat Gula, the Afghan girl on the National Geographic cover back in 1985. There are blondes, redheads, oriental features, Arabic faces and distinctly European types; not surprising when you consider the conquering armies from both East and West that crisscrossed the wild valleys of the Pech and Kunar Rivers of these provinces.
The process of making art out of these experiences goes something like this: 1. Go through a couple thousand photographs and field sketches to identify themes. 2. Read personal journal, watch and listen to hours of digital audio and video recordings a couple of times. (I’ve got everything from personal interviews to firefights.) 3. Create a detailed work plan with projected pieces and the medium for each (I do oils, watercolor and finished graphite drawings). 4. Stare at list and get overwhelmed. 5. Procrastinate. 6. Ruminate. 7. Drink too much coffee. 8. Begin. 9. Fantasize about a simple life flipping burgers or handing out happy face stickers at Wal-Mart. 10. Finish. 11. Repeat steps 1-10.
Most artists will tell you that starting is the easy part; you also need to know when to end. (more…)
Fighting With Honor
It seems to me, in this chaotic enterprise we call Operation Iraqi Freedom, that we’re providing a service to the entire planet. There’s a simple formula to prove this. The fewer terrorists there are planning and carrying out attacks on civilians — and for that matter, the fewer terrorists left alive — the better our world must exponentially become. By that barometer alone, we are doing a wonderful service to all those opposed to terrorism.
As an army, we are trained to be merciful but relentless. We do not enter mosques unless we absolutely have to. We try to respect Muslim holy days (Friday) and other religious holidays. We provide security so the citizens of Iraq can vote. We do our best to keep non-combatants safe. We understand that it is better to let an insurgent get away than to harm an innocent civilian. We form up in lines and walk patrols, or we load up in vehicles and drive in. We know the rules of war, engagement, and the escalation of force. We understand the Geneva conventions. We try to live by Army values: loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. We provide medical care to enemy wounded just as we treat our own. Our actions are constantly being analyzed, modified and improved, to ensure we only kill those who would do us harm.
We don’t run and hide. We are prepared for a fight and are not shy about it. We understand that war is a nasty business, but we are willing to fight the enemy face to face. These insurgents, on the other hand, set up explosive devices that can be remotely detonated, after which they run and hide like teenagers throwing eggs at a house. They fly airplanes into buildings full of civilians. (more…)
The Conversation
Not long ago I was out with a patrol on a “knock-and-talk” operation, visiting Iraqis in their homes to give and get useful information. We happened upon a large house situated across from a small mosque. I knew it was a mosque because I read the Arabic sign above the door and recognized the loudspeakers rising above its roof.
Some children were standing in the entryway to the house’s courtyard, and they looked a little apprehensive as our Humvee pulled around the corner. As I exited the truck they moved away a bit and ducked back inside the courtyard, but still well within sight and hearing. I wanted to show them they had nothing to fear so I quickly shouted an Arabic greeting. That turned them around.
I approached them slowly and I began to speak with three of the boys, who turned out to be brothers. My conversation is transcribed below. Not everything is included, as there were lots of shrugs and hand signals used to make ourselves understood, but they seemed to understand most of what I was saying in modern standard Arabic, which is surprising given the Iraqi dialect. (A linguist later explained to me that children are usually taught modern standard Arabic in school, and, therefore, are probably the best at understanding me.) The older brother, Amar, led most of the conversation. I was thrilled to understand what he was saying and for him to understand me without the the help of a translator.
Me: Welcome.
Them: Welcome.
Me: How are you today?
Them: Praise be to Allah.
Me: Good, praise be to Allah. Is that a mosque?
Amar: Yes, a mosque.
Me: It is a small mosque.
Amar: Yes, small.
Me: Do you play soccer?
Them: Yes, we play soccer.
Me: Good. Are these your brothers?
Amar: Yes … sisters. (He used the English word “sisters,” apparently excited he knew an English word).
Me: Oh, not sisters. Boys are brothers. Girls are sisters.
Amar: Oh, brothers!
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Just Drop Me Off When This Is Over
When this is over, take my weapon. I won’t need it for a while. Take this body armor. I would look silly wearing it at the beach. Witness as I grow a goatee. And watch me indulge, at least for a while, in fast food, massive amounts of sleep, alcohol, channel-surfing and many other things that I have lived without for long enough now that I remember liking them more than I actually do.
I have two wonderfully resilient children to whom I’ve dedicated my life, and who will one day soon forget that their Dad was gone for so long. They are incredible, intelligent and well-adjusted — and for that I thank my wife.
They won’t notice if I’m gone another day or two.
So just drop me off when this is over.
I truly appreciate all the support, but I don’t need parades or awards or speeches from the governor. I don’t even need a ride. Just leave me on any interstate that has a friendly shoulder with nice loose gravel to kick at, or in a subway car full of morning New York commuters, or in a hotel room looking out at the arch in downtown St. Louis. Leave me in Atlanta, or Portland, Ore., Gig Harbor, Wash., or in a lighthouse on the coast of Maine. I’ll gladly be dropped off anywhere in North Dakota, Maryland, Alabama, or Florida. How about a rest area in Flagstaff, Ariz., or a four-way stop in Twin Falls, Idaho? I’ll be fine on my own, whether you leave me in a quiet forest, at a state fair, or in the middle of a mosh pit.
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Life Never Ends
During my recent trip to New Orleans, I received a phone call from the father of Lance Cpl. Nicholas G. Ciccone, the subject of my April 3 posting. I had been expecting a call from Mr. Ciccone. The family wants to arrange a private viewing of his portrait.
Mr. Ciccone generously shared with me the circumstances around discovering the existence of his dead son’s image. Matt, the stepbrother who contacted me, overwhelmed with thoughts of his beloved brother, couldn’t sleep one night last week. So he did what many of us do during occasional dark nights of the soul — we Google. Matt Googled his brother’s full name, and up popped a couple of sites with the drawing. Some light entered the dark night.
I can barely tell you how gratifying it was to hear this. A few days later I received an e-mail from his mother with effusive thanks. Several cousins of Lance Cpl. Ciccone have contacted me and the thread running through their messages is not simply their love for this young man, but that they have all been thinking of him intensely during the past few weeks. Whether parent, sibling or friend, all have articulated in one form or another a common feeling — they’ve regained a piece of him, that he’s returned, if only for just a short period of time. I am humbled.
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Listening to the Land
(First Sgt. Gregory Westbrook)
Native Americans would put their ears to the ground to hear or feel vibrations of, say, a train coming, or a cavalry of soldiers on horseback. Out here we have intelligence analysts with their collective ears to the ground. They listen to the Americans fighting in Iraq and to the people of Iraq. They help us understand the sounds of the land. They spend their days poring over intelligence reports about things like the disposition of the Iraqis and enemy tactics. The intelligence flows from the battlefield, all the way up the chain of command. It is continuous, like a tide.
Some intelligence may be bad, or from an unreliable source. But some can be very helpful. Here’s an example: A few months back, a soldier noticed a hand print on the side of a house in the Al Anbar Province. For some reason, the soldier thought the hand print looked out of place amid all the dirt and cracks on the house, so he reported this small detail to his intelligence analyst. We finally realized that this symbol was being used in the area to let terrorists know that the house was “friendly” to them. If you were an insurgent who had just fired a mortar or a rocket-propelled grenade at an American base, this hand print designated the home as a place you could seek shelter.
We have many interpreters, or “terps” as we call them, who help us immensely. These are Iraqi men and women who appreciate what we’re doing for their country and want to help us. (more…)
A Lazy Sunday
It was another semi-relaxed Sunday here at Camp Falluja.
A couple weeks ago the Marine Expeditionary Force Commanding General passed that all non-essential personnel shouldn’t come into work until 11 a.m. on Sunday, or should generally get a few hours off. The 11 a.m. thing is kind of a farce because almost everyone is essential, but my team and I try to take the afternoon off if we don’t have any operations going on. Such was the case a few Sundays back. It was the first one in a while I had spent totally inside the wire.
I spent the afternoon with my roommate organizing our room. We had both received a plethora of care packages and stacking and organizing all our new belongings (mostly food) was a challenge. Getting rid of the empty boxes requires a long walk to the dumpster, something we try to avoid by consolidating as much as possible. I turned off my chow supply from home after only a couple boxes because I quickly saw I would not be able to eat it all nor would I have a place to store it. My roommate did that a little later, about eight boxes into the game with more on the way. He’s tried to give this stuff away any way he can, mostly by displaying it next to the coffee mess at our workplace.
I actually gave away some food as well. The marines at work hadn’t taken to using my previously owned coffee pot, so since it had been sitting there for a couple of days, I bundled it up with some coffee and filters and gave it to the Ugandan gate guards outside our building. They said “Thank you,” but didn’t really seem enthused. Maybe they thought I was asking them to hold my I.E.D. Either way, they now are capable of making their own coffee, whether they choose to or not. (Update: I have seen the Ugandans using the coffee pot lately.)
I also got a haircut from one of the marines at work. He is what I call a “closet barber.” (more…)
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