Friday, August 27, 2010

Of Broken Promises, Skewed Statistics, and "Fuzzy Math"

So have you been paying attention to the news concerning the economy and the results of the much-vaunted NObama "stimulus plan" lately? No, no, no, I mean the REAL news - not the one-sided, politically skewed, pro-NObama crap you hear on CNN, MSNBC, and the other "mainstream" news networks. I'm talking about the REAL news, the FULL STORY news that you can only find on Fox News.

If you have, then you heard the news reports this morning about the Feds releasing the economic growth figures for the 2nd quarter of the year (April-June), and about the Commerce Department downgrading the number from 2.4 to 1.6. And if you were listening to Fox News, you also heard that the economy is headed towards another recession, that the "stimulus program" that NObama and his Demoncratic minions in Congress shoved down our throats is failing - and you also heard the statistics to back it up.

It's like this: the economy grew at a rate of 5.1% in the last quarter of 2009, 3.7% in the first quarter of this year, and now the rate is an anemic 1.6%. Anyone with any amount of common sense can see that the economy is in a downward spiral, and we are absolutely headed for another recession unless the NObama administration does something about it - FAST.

But they won't. They're too busy giving speeches proclaiming how the NObama plan has "saved jobs," "created jobs," "decreased unemployment," and "helped the economy recover."

Huh? WHAT? Are we on the same planet, here? Let's take a look at the facts, shall we?

When NObama first proposed his plan, he said - promised, actually - that unemployment would be capped at 8% and no more. In actuality, unemployed INCREASED to 10%. So much for "saving jobs."

So far, there have been exactly ZERO reports of jobs "being created" by the NObama plan - none of any significance, that is. I had a conversation with someone on Facebook about two months ago where he said that in his company they had created 6 jobs as a result of the plan, so the plan worked.

Six jobs. SIX. Wow. I'm amazed.

As for saving jobs, well, that's a no-brainer. If unemployment GOES UP, then obviously no jobs are being saved. So strike three, you're out.

NObama's economic "stimulus" plan is a dismal failure, and what's more, he knows it. When the plan first came out, NObama said that it would "create jobs;" when the statistics came out that showed this was not the case, the NObama administration then changed the message and said that it would "save jobs." When the unemployment rate hit 10% and proved this to be a lie, they changed the message yet again. Only this time they've come up with a clever and ingenious plan involving smoke, mirrors, and "fuzzy math" to get you to believe the lie.

The NObama administration and the Commerce Department are now grading the results of the stimulus plan not by "jobs created," not by "jobs saved," but by "lives touched." And the category of "lives touched" is so broad and far-reaching that if you work one hour - just ONE HOUR - for an employer anywhere in the nation, your life has been touched and the plan is a success. The Commerce Department, using this "formula," is now saying that NObama's stimulus plan has "touched the lives" of anywhere from 5,000 to 25,000 people. They're not sure of how many exactly, but it's somewhere in that range.

Huh? WHAT??

A few years ago the Demoncrats were blasting the hell out of George W. Bush for using "fuzzy math" to back up the success of some of his programs. They raised holy hell about it, and now they're doing the exact same thing. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! And of course, the NObama administration is still playing the "blame Bush" game - Joe Biden laid the blame for the economy's failure to recover "as fast as we had hoped it would" squarely in the lap of George Bush. I guess no one told him that Bush isn't President anymore, huh? Either that, or he has his head so far up NObama's ass that he can't see reality standing in front of him.

I vote for him having his head up NObama's ass, myself.

The bottom line is this: NObama's economic policies are a dismal failure, and the economy is headed for another crash. He and his administration are literally fiddling while Rome burns, and they don't give a damn. They're too busy worrying about losing control of the Congress this November - which is going to happen, by the way, so get ready for it. In the mean time, unemployment in South Carolina is still hovering at 12%, the economy is in a tailspin, the housing market is nosediving again, economic growth is approaching ZERO (which means very bad news for all of us), but everything is OK because "between 5,000 and 25,000 lives" have "been touched" by the stimulus plan.

And what is NObama doing about it? Well, he's getting ready to go on nationwide TV tonight and declare "victory" in Iraq, claiming that the Iraq war was a success.

The war that he voted against from the start, by the way, and the war that he voted against the surge effort in (which worked, thank you). Now that SOMEONE ELSE'S idea and strategy worked, he's going to stand up and take credit for it.

I have never been more disgusted with a President in my entire life, and I'm counting the days until this buffoon is out of office.

IHC

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

August 25, 1990

After a little more than three weeks into the deployment the wing was really starting to settle down, and the “early deployment jitters” that had plagued everyone had pretty much gone away. The seriousness of the deployment was still with us pretty hard and heavy – although that wouldn’t last much longer – but no one was as nervous and on edge as they were when we first got there. The longer we were there the safer we felt, and the reason for that was obvious to those of us who were there and had a chance to see it firsthand.

The reason was the airlift, and the hundreds of thousands of troops that began pouring into the county. Once we had established our presence at the base and hammered out an agreement with both the Royal Saudi Air Force and the Kingdom itself, a massive airlift got under way that eventually brought half a million troops into the country. Since the part of the flight line that serviced the incoming aircraft was a part of my patrol sector, I had a chance to see it firsthand almost every day, and I mean to tell you it was something to see. There were two runways at the base, one runway located on either side of the base and running parallel to each other; one side of the field and one runway belonged to the civilian airport, and the other side and other runway belonged to the air base and the RSAF. When the airlift kicked into high gear, we took over both sides of the field and utilized both runways. There was an aircraft either landing on one runway or taking off on the other once every ten minutes, and this went on 24 hours a day for nearly three months. I watched troops by the thousands and tens of thousands march off of the aircraft after they had parked, and these aircraft included C-130s, C-141s, and C-5As. They were carrying everything from troops to hummers to light tanks, and after watching this airlift in progress for more than a month and a half I came to the conclusion that we were going to be there a hell of a lot longer than the 90 days we had been told once we got in country.

As it turned out, we were there for nearly three times as long.

So as the Wing settled in and the airlift cranked into high gear our squadron commander, Lt Colonel Pack (he of the in-flight gas mask drills on the way over), set about establishing security for the base according to his own strange and unusual guidelines. Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on air base security and I never went to the War College or anything like that, but I’d attended the Air Base Ground Defense training courses that were commensurate for my rank of E-6 at the time, and I’m here to tell you that the line of “logic” our commander was using was beyond me. We had been told by the OSI that the threat of a ground attack was “minimal,” yet our squadron commander set about preparing the base defenses to defend against – you guessed it – a ground attack. And in order to fulfill the requirements of his base “security” plan, we needed more cops on the ground than we had, so he immediately started screaming for reinforcements.

And he got them. No one in the Pentagon wanted to take any kind of a chance that any US air base would be overrun should the Iraqis decide to come across the border, so when our commander screamed for more troops he got them. And like I said before, at that particular point in time, he was right – we needed them, badly.

However, each time he got more troops he redesigned his defense plans, increasing the posts and the numbers of troops needed to man them, and would then scream for more troops. As far as I know, he was still screaming for more troops up until the day the war ended, although by then someone in the Pentagon had realized what was going on and had stopped sending him troops. But what started out as a deployed Security Police unit of 125 men from one unit ended up with a deployed unit of more than 400 men from five different bases throughout the world, and this included some Air Force Reserve troops that had been activated.

And because of his convoluted and complicated base defense plan, he kept our squadron working a six day on, one day off schedule of 12 hour shifts for nearly the entire deployment, long after the rest of the base had gone into 8 hour shifts. We worked 8 hour shifts for the 3 weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but the day after Christmas we went right back into 12 hour shifts and we stayed that way until the war ended and we came home.

For this and many other reasons, many of us had little if any faith in his competency and leadership abilities, and his nickname of “Wambo” became more fitting than ever.

I mentioned this nickname earlier on in this series, so I guess it’s time to tell how it came about.

Lt Col Pack was a short, chubby, balding man with a large nose, jowels, and a pot belly, and he strongly resembled Elmer Fudd from the “Bugs Bunny” cartoons. As a matter of fact, his nickname among the enlisted troops at Langley was “Elmer Fudd.” When we were recalled on 6 Aug and were waiting on standby at the Armory, the morning of the 7th he had all of us gather in the covered patio of the Armory so he could give us a pep talk. When he stepped out of the hallway into the patio wearing his “chocolate chip” desert uniform and webbed gear (called “LBE,” for “Load Bearing Equipment”), we nearly busted out laughing. He was wearing more crap on his LBE than Batman had in his utility belt, and those of us who had any field experience at all knew that the first rule of going into the field was “travel light.”

Normally, an LBE setup consisted of a webbed belt, suspenders that attached to the belt front and back to help support the load, two M-16 ammo pouches worn in the front on the belt on either side of the buckle, a butt pack worn on the back of the belt to which the suspenders were attached, and a 1 quart canteen on either side of the butt pack. Experienced troops would wear a small pouch containing a field dressing on one of the suspenders at the shoulder (always on the non-gun side so it wouldn’t interfere with shouldering your weapon to fire), and that was about it. Once you fill the ammo pouches with ammunition, the canteens with water, and the butt pack with gloves, a flashlight and a poncho, the whole rig could get pretty heavy. Not too bad, but you felt it after a while.

In addition to this gear, when “Elmer” stepped out of the hallway he was also wearing a police walkie-talkie on one of the suspenders, an upside-down knife on the other, a nylon 9mm ammunition pouch holding one 9mm magazine next to one of the M-16 pouches on his right front, a holster with a 9mm Beretta in it on his right side, a black leather handcuff case with handcuffs behind that, a compass on his left side next to the M-16 ammo pouch, and an M-16 bayonet next to that. All told, that LBE must have weighed close to eighty pounds!

One week after we got there, all of that crap was gone. The 9mm and the radio stayed, but the radio moved from the suspender to the belt where the bayonet had been. But all of the other crap had vanished. Guess he learned the idiom of “travel light” the hard way.

But when he walked out of the hallway into the patio that fateful morning, one of the men standing next to me said in a low voice to the man standing next to him, “My God, it’s Rambo!” to which the man next to him simply said in his best Elmer Fudd voice, “WAMBO!”

And a nickname was born.

Those of us within earshot of this nearly busted our guts stifling the laughter, and “Wambo” never knew what was going on. He was too wrapped up into his pep talk by that time. By the end of the day the new nickname had spread throughout the squadron like wildfire, and for the rest of the time he was squadron commander both during and after the deployment, he was known as “Wambo.”

One of the things he did that did not exactly inspire confidence in him with his men took place about three or four days after we arrived and before our operations really got established. We were all gathered in one of the barracks rooms to get our briefing before going to work, and Pack came in to talk to us. Once again, he regaled us with the seriousness and direness of our situation (Captain Obvious lives) and included the following two statements in his speech, neither of which inspired us.

“And the one thing you should do is never, never, NEVER go anywhere without your M-16!”

Which, of course, he didn’t have. He had his pistol, but that was it. Actually, aside from the day we got on the plane, I don’t think I ever saw him toting an M-16.

“And you should also never, never, NEVER go anywhere without your gas mask!”

Again, which he didn’t have. And don’t you think for a moment that every single man in that room didn’t notice it, because we did. ALL of us did.

But this was only the beginning. It was going to get worse in more ways than one, and from more sources than just “Wambo.” And I’m not talking about the Iraqis, either.

More later.

IHC

Friday, August 20, 2010

August 20, 1990

By the time we’d been in Saudi Arabia for 12 days, we’d pretty much started to settle into a routine. One by one the Wing had overcome the little inconveniences associated with deploying to a foreign land to a base that was in no way ready for you. The big ones – potable water, washers and dryers, and Class “A” telephones – had been taken care of early in our deployment. There were still numerous others to take care of, however, and the Wing took care of them one at a time. For example…

After securing a place for us to stay, the next thing was securing a place for us to eat. For the first week or so everyone was eating MREs, and I imagine that got kind of old with the Wing staff really quick. Those of us in Security Police didn't mind, but the Wing staff, however...so the staff set their sights on the Saudi Officer’s Club Dining Hall. Pretty soon the Wing and the Saudis had come to an agreement for its use, and the OSI came in and did a site survey to ensure it was a safe place for us to eat. This took about ten days or so to happen, and once the dining hall was up and running I went there a couple of times to eat. I was in no way comfortable in that place, because if I were an Iraqi agent who wanted to kill a large number of Americans in one fell swoop, that’s the place I’d go. Aside from that, we had to unload our weapons while we were in there, and in a combat zone I just wasn’t comfortable with that. But the big thing was if that place became a target for a suicide bomber I didn’t want to be anywhere near it, so I think I ate there all of four times until another location – a more secure one – was established about a month or so later. In the mean time we ate MREs on post, which we were still able to get from Supply by the case with no trouble.

Then there was the issue of getting people to work, and that meant transporting them all over the base. The Saudis produced a fleet of “mini-buses” that were capable of holding about 30 people each, tops. They had folding doors set in the middle of the right side of the bus, and to get on or off you had to use this door. While these buses would have been great in normal circumstances, our circumstances were anything but “normal” – everyone there had to carry their gas masks, chemical suits, helmets, and flak vests with them everywhere they went. For us in Security Police we were also saddled with our weapons and webbed gear, although after a while we weren’t required to carry our web gear, just the weapons. (That changed the day the shooting started, though.) To carry all this gear, everyone was carrying around a large sage-green canvas bag called a “pilot’s kit bag,” and it was cumbersome and heavy at best. It was also big – big enough to hold all that gear. This made it a bitch to get in and out of that microbus with, considering the bus was a Mitsubishi and was designed for smaller people without “war bags,” which is what we came to call them. But it beat the hell out of walking, so we put up with it.

While Tent City was being built, the wing was staying in the two Saudi Security Police barracks we moved into the day we arrived. For the most part the Wing was working 12 hour shifts, 6 days on and 1 day off, so there really wasn’t much time for recreation. But on the one day off you had to have somewhere to go and something to do, so the Wing Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) folks erected a Temper-Tent between the two buildings and outfitted it with a large screen TV with a satellite feed, a Nintendo system, a VCR with a fairly good supply of movies, and a popcorn machine. Let me tell you, this “recreation tent” became a little slice of heaven, and it was always crowded. The free popcorn was a big hit as well.

Along about this time I was moved from the flightline area to the main base area, and assumed Anti-Terrorist duties along with a flight of about 45 Security Police troops. I really wasn’t too happy with it as I was being moved from the day shift to the night shift, but I didn’t have much of a choice. So instead of guarding aircraft out in the desert, I was now guarding the main base against terrorist attacks. Only problem was, you never knew just who the terrorist was since they were all Middle Eastern, so you had to treat everyone who wasn’t a Brit or an American as a suspect – even if they wore the Saudi uniform. In the early days of the Gulf War we trusted NO ONE who wasn’t a Brit or an American – NO ONE.

This move to the AT unit – which was still a part of “Charlie” Sector – had the happy result of my meeting the man would soon become my best friend in the war, and one of my best friends for the rest of my life.

Right after Guardmount (the gathering of troops for a pre-duty briefing, post and vehicle assignment) which was held in our barracks, I was taken downstairs and introduced to the other Technical Sergeant on the flight, Lonnie Fulbright. Lonnie is one of those rare people who is continually in a good mood, always happy and smiling, and always able to see both the humor and the good in any situation. He was grinning from ear to ear when I was introduced to him, and the sight of him in his green jungle boots, desert camouflaged pants, brown t-shirt, boonie hat with the brim turned up, grinning behind his wire-rimmed glasses and waving at me like a long-lost friend is a pleasant memory that I’ll keep with me for the rest of my days. We went through a lot of crap together during that time, he and I, and I can honestly say that I never saw him lose his temper once. Nor did I ever hear him swear, although I will say that I did enough of that for both of us. Lonnie was a Christian, a devout one, so he just didn’t lose his temper or swear. But he also didn’t do something that I am both admirable of and thankful for to this day – he didn’t shove his religion at me every chance he got like some overly-devout folks do. Nothing will turn me off to a person faster than this, and I’m glad to say that Lonnie wasn’t like that. I admired his faith then and I admire it now, because it took the both of us through some tough times both during and after the war. To this day we still keep in touch, and we always will.

So that first night Lonnie showed me around the main part of the base, pointing out where the static posts were and introducing me to the other members of the flight. The 12 hours went by pretty quickly, and before we knew it the sun was coming up. Our shifts were split so that you worked half of your shift in the daylight and the other half at night, with the day shift coming on at 1100 hours and the night shift coming on at 2300 hours. So after the sun came up we still had about 5 hours left, and if you don’t think it’s tough to stay awake for 5 hours after the sun comes up and you’ve been up al night, try it sometime. But we managed it, and after we got off work we’d go back to the barracks, take a shower, eat, write a letter, and then hit the sack to get some sleep before we got up and did it all over again.

For 12 hours a day, six days a week. Every week. For 7 months.

Yeah, I know, there were folks out there who had it much worse than that, and I feel sorry for them. But then again, nobody told them to join the Army, did they?

More later.

IHC

Thursday, August 19, 2010

My Fourth Letter to the President

Not that it'll do any good, but at least I'm exercising my 1st Amendment rights and getting it off my chest.

Barack Obama
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington DC 20500

August 19, 2010

Dear Mr. Obama,

You will notice the lack of the use of the title “Mr. President” in this letter, because I do not now nor will I ever consider you to be my President. Your statements before you were elected and your actions since that fateful and dreadful day in American history when you were sworn into office have proven that you are many things, but a President – MY President – is certainly not one of them.

Congressman Joe Wilson from the great state of South Carolina had it right – you, sir, are a liar, and your recent actions in supporting the building of an Islamic mosque in New York City mere blocks from the site of the worst terrorist attack on the United States in our history, an attack carried out by Muslim extremists, prove this simple fact. It is borne out by your actions over the past year and a half that you have been in office, and I’m sure that you will continue to prove it in the time you have left before we vote you out.

You claim to be a Christian and an American, yet for 20 years before you ran for office you attended a church in Chicago where “Reverend” Wright did nothing but spout anti-American rhetoric from the pulpit, and you sat there and listened. You only dumped him and his church, speaking out against him, when it was apparent that he and his anti-American rhetoric was hurting your campaign and threatening your chances of getting elected. Then and only then, when it served your purpose, did you dump him and speak out against him.

After taking office, you denied a flyover by US Air Force jets at a community event, and the reason given was because the event was Christian based, and the Constitution mandates a separation of church and state. Never mind the fact that your predecessors for the previous 12 years had no problem approving the flyover; once you got in office the flyovers ended, and this was the first shot in your clandestine support of the Islamic faith.

Next, you blew off the Boy Scouts of America, an organization based on Christian beliefs, at their 100th Anniversary Jamboree. You chose instead to make a most un-Presidential appearance on a talk show, “The View,” hosted by one of the most liberal, outspoken, and anti-American celebrities out there, Whoopi Goldberg. Then you went out west to do some fund-raising for one of your Demoncratic cronies. (No, I didn’t misspell the word. Figure it out.) One cannot help but wonder how many Republicans you created among the young and impressionable Scouts by blowing them off and showing where your true feelings lie. We’ll see in a few years, I guess.

Finally, you came out last week and voiced your support of the building of an Islamic mosque mere blocks away from the site of the September 11th attacks. You attempted to disguise this support for your Islamic brothers by stating that you were addressing only the legal right to build, but the immediate and deafening outcry by the public in general and your Demoncratic cronies in particular proved that we saw through your façade immediately. Then you backtracked, trying to do some damage control, but I’m here to tell you that it’s too late for that. You can’t ever “unspeak” something that has been said, and you can bet we won’t forget what you’ve said and done come November 2012.

You have done more to disgrace the office of the President than any other man who ever held the office, and after “Slick Willy” Clinton I didn’t think that possible – but you have most certainly proven me wrong. Additionally, you have done more to damage the international reputation and level of respect of the United States among the nations of the world than Jimmy Carter ever did, something else that I didn’t think was possible. I am positive that history will show you to be the worst, most destructive President in the history of the United States.

I am completely, 100% disgusted with you and your policies, your statements, your religion, your lack of integrity, and your socialistic ideals, and will do everything within my power to ensure that you are NOT re-elected in November 2012. My only hope now is that when the Republicans take control of the Congress this November, they can keep you in check after kicking Pelosi and her band of merry idiots out of power.

In the mean time, I’ll be counting the days until your term as President ends – exactly 885 days from today.

God Bless America.



Raymond Craig


IHC

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

August 11, 1990

The first week of our deployement to what was soon to be called "Operation DESERT SHIELD" was challenging to say the least. It was also hectic, chaotic, scary, and thrilling at the same time. Everyone who was there knew that this was no training exercise, that this was the real thing, and that our lives depended on how we did our jobs. There was a real "no shit" attitude in the US compound, and it showed everywhere we went.

The first thing the Wing Commander did was suspend all military customs and courtesies compound-wide, which meant no saluting. The next thing he did was inform the wing that the #1 priority was to remain hydrated, cool, and healthy, so the enforcement of uniform regulations was suspended. Everyone who was out in the sun was walking around in a t-shirt, boonie hat, and a green triangular bandage rolled into a tube wrapped around their necks to use as a neckerchief and sweat rag. (These were called "Ranger rags," don't ask me why.) And of course everyone who wasn't a Security Policeman had a litre bottle of water sticking out of the cargo pockets of their pants. If you were an SP you were wearing your web gear, which included two one-quart canteens which we always kept full.

And everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - had their gas masks with them at all times. Every single person there had the green canvas carrying bag strapped around their waist with the bag containing the gas mask hanging on their side. One of the very first briefings we had the day after our arrival was the threat briefing from the OSI, and in that briefing we were told that that chance of a ground attack was "minimal," but that the threat of an air attack - namely a SCUD missle attack - was "high."

And the threat that those missles would be topped with chemical or biological munitions was "likely." Not "high," not "probable," but "likely." Our gas masks became our best friends, right along with our chemical suits and our weapons.

The day after we arrived the fighters began running combat air patrols all the way to the Kuwaiti border, and the Security Police began the gigantic task of providing security for a base that was approximately 60 square miles in size. Our little band of 125 troops was divided up into three sectors, "A" Sector, "B" Sector, and "C" Sector with a Headquarters detachment at Wing Headquarters running the show. "A" Sector was the dispersal/parking area for the fighter aircraft, "B" Sector was the flightline and surrounding area, and "C" Sector was the main base. I was assigned to "C" Sector eventually, but it took a few days for this to happen so in the mean time I found myself either on the flightline or out in the dispersal area.

Almost as soon as we hit the ground our commander, LtCol Allen Pack (affectionately known as "WAMBO" for reasons I'll explain later) started screaming for more troops. And at that point in time he was right - we were stretched thin to the breaking point, and everyone knew that if Saddam decided to take a right turn and march into Saudi Arabia, there was absolutely nothing that could stop him. Surely not the Saudi military - the day that Kuwait had been invaded, 52% of the Saudi pilots went to the medic and claimed to have a cold, which meant that they couldn't fly - and couldn't be sent up to fight the Iraqi Air Force if they decided to come into Saudi Arabia.

Needless to say, we didn't have much respect for the Saudis and their abilities, and that little bit of respect we had would soon vanish entirely. More on that later.

In the mean time we had a hell of a lot of troops on the ground, and we were operating on only the supplies we had brought over with us. The rest of the support mechanism was en route from the states, but it would take a few days to catch up to us. One of the things I learned about combat deployments like this is that for the first 30 days of the deployment you can get whatever you need simply by asking for it, but after 30 days or so the system and paperwork will be in place and you won't be able to get shit. For example, the second day we were there I went over to the Supply section to pick up a case of MREs for my people, and the supply sergeant there gave me three "just to make sure." Two months later I went in for the same thing and got exactly what I asked for and no more - AFTER the required paperwork had been completed, of course.

We were also faced with some other challenges that you never would have thought about had you not been in our situation - like where to find drinkable water. Anyone who has ever travelled overseas knows not to drink the water, and Saudi Arabia was no different let me tell you. But the Civil Engineers managed to find one location on the base where the water was OK, so every time we needed to fill up our canteens or the "jerry" cans in the Hummers, we'd head there. The location, as it turned out, was the base Ice House - kinda logical if you ask me.

After a few days we turned our attention towards finding a Class A telephone - that is, a telephone from which you could make calls outside of Saudi Arabia. Remember, now, this is in the days B.C.P., so finding a Class A phone was a big deal. And we found one - in the Base Billetting Office.

Before we got there, the US Army had a small training detachment at Dhahran Air Base. The United States Military Training Mission to Saudi Arabia, or USMTM, had its own compound with a Base Exchange, Dining Hall, Billetting Office, and Housing Area. The USMTM compound was small, but it had several things we needed and took advantage of until the Army put the area off limits to us. We used the phone as often as we could, and that was the first thing to go off limits.

Next to go off limits were the washing machines and dryers in the Billetting Office. For the first few days we were there we were washing our clothes in the showers, and then someone found the washers and dryers in the Billetting Office. After a few days of not being able to get to them because the deployed troops were using them, the Army not only put them off limits but locked the doors to the laundry rooms so only guests could get to them. So we went back to washing clothes in the shower until we found other facilities.

Then there was the Base Exchange, a very small store designed and outfitted to support the 90 man USMTM detachment. Next thing you knew the entire wing was using it, and it quickly sold out of everything. The military got supplies to it pretty quickly, and the people there did an admirable job of keeping up with demand.

So little by little the Wing was settling in. The combat operations smoothed out, the Civil Engineers began construction on a Tent City so the majority of the wing could move out of the square buildings we took over as soon as we got there, and thankfully our supply system started working and giving us the things we needed - like our vehicles. About a month after we got there our vehicles finally showed up, 4 Hummers in camouflage green paint which stuck out like a sore thumb in the desert environment. Shortly after that they gave us access to the WRM (War Reserve Material) lot, and we had all of the desert pink-painted Hummers, trucks, and Deuce and a halfs we needed. Life was getting a bit easier for us, just a bit, but there were still some logistical issues to work out. But it was coming along bit by bit.

And in the back of our minds was the knowledge that we were still in harm's way, that the attack could come at any time, and if it did we would very quickly be overrun.

But we soldiered on.

IHC

Sunday, August 8, 2010

August 8, 1990

The first thing you learn when you fly on military aircraft is the importance of ear plugs. Military aircraft are designed to carry cargo, not for human comfort, so noise insulation isn't real high on the priority list. Before the C-141 had even cranked engines, we had already put our earplugs in. As I've always said, "He who gets on a military aircraft without earplugs is a fool; he who gets off a military aircraft without earplugs is a deaf fool." Combine the noise level with the cargo-netting seats, and you have the makings of one long, uncomfortable trip.

Military people are remarkably adaptable, and as soon as the aircraft hit cruising altitude and the crew chief told us we could move around, there was a mad dash for the pallets of sleeping bags loaded on the plane with us. That pallet was the softest area on the plane and could hold about four or maybe five guys, and if you weren't sitting right next to it you were left out when the mad dash took place. Of course, I was sitting near the nose of the aircraft, so I made due with the cargo netting seats. After about four hours of those I was ready for something else, so I tried laying down on the deck with my chem suit in its bag for a pillow. That worked for about ten minutes. Nobody ever got up from the pallets of sleeping bags, so that wasn't gonna happen - they knew a good thing when they saw it and weren't moving.

Like I said, it was a long, uncomfortable trip.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning on 8 Aug we landed at Ramstein Air Base in Germany to refuel, and since it was the wee hours of the morning nothing was open so we couldn't get anything to eat or drink, and were restricted to one small waiting area in the terminal. We stayed there for about two hours and then were ushered back onto the C-141 for the remaining leg of the trip. This leg wouldn't be anywhere near as long, so at least we had that.

It was during this last leg of the flight that the lieutenant who was on board with us - not the cool one who asked me to go along, but some douchebag whose name escapes me - got the idea that we should have the troops open up the pallets and get our flak vests and helmets out so we'd have them when the plane landed. I asked him why, and the answer just about floored me.

"We might be landing in a hot LZ and have to fight our way off of the aircraft!" This was just an indicator of the silly shit this moron would do over the next three months until he rotated out to transfer to another base.

I pointed out to the lieutenant that if the LZ was hot there was no way the Air Force was going to let the aircraft land. For the airfield to be "hot" the base would have had to have been overrun, and if that had happened we'd hear about it and the aircraft would be diverted to a safe landing area. I had to say this to him several times, but it finally sunk in. I didn't even want to get into the fact that there was no way the crew chief was gonna let us de-palletize the gear on the aircraft in flight. Shows you how much the lieutenant knew, huh?

The rest of the flight was uneventful, but compared to what happened on the other aircraft (my unit was broken up into two groups, one group on each aircraft) we had it easy. First the heat went out on the aircraft so everyone spent most of the trip freezing their cajones off, and then the squadron commander decided that it would be a good idea to conduct gas mask drills - all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.

From what I heard, he's lucky to have gotten off the aircraft alive. Remember, the guys on the plane had guns and a full compliment of ammunition to go with them. He's lucky he didn't get shot. So compared to this, my lieutenant was a piece of cake.

After a few more hours we finally landed at our destination, Dhahran Air Base in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. We were told by the crew chief that the temperature outside was 113 degrees with 10% humidity. In short, getting off of the aircraft was gonna be like stepping into an oven. And when the plane came to a stop and the crew chief opened the door, it felt just like that - the heat invaded the aircraft in a wave, and we all instantly broke out in sweat. We all got to our feet and picked up our gear, then started the procession off of their aircraft. Since I was sitting near the nose of the aircraft I was one of the first ones off the plane, and when I got to the ladder leading down I took one step and stopped to look around.

All I saw was sand. Sand, sand, and more sand. No buildings, no people, no trees, no grasss, nothing but sand. "Where the hell's the base?" I said to no one in particular.

From behind me I heard the next man in line say, "Man, this is the last place I wanna fuckin' die!" And that just about sums it up, I thought.

As it turns out the aircraft was on the parking ramp of the base but had come to a stop facing away from the main base. I didn't know it, but at that moment I was looking at the area which would be my main patrol area in the coming months. Just about that time a bus showed up to take us to the terminal, and once there we "processed in." This consisted of us signing a roster indicating we got there, and that was it. We were all issued what would become a piece of standard equipment for the next week or so until we got accustomed to the heat, that being a liter of bottled water. Then it was off to a hangar to wait for our gear to be offloaded from the aircraft.

About an hour later we got our gear and were then trucked over to the place that would be our home for the foreseeable future. Since we were Security Police, we were to be billeted in what had been planned to be the Base Security Force barracks; they had just finished construction of the building a few days before and the Saudis never had the chance to move in before we showed up. The building had two floors and was designed in a square with an open court area in the middle. The room we were in was big enough to hold about 24 beds if you placed them side by side and nearly touching, which they did. Needless to say, privacy was out the window. The good news was that it had running water, a shower/bathroom area, and was air conditioned. Sure, the AC consisted of a window air conditioner mounted in a hole in the wall in each room, but at least it was there.

The bad news was that it was built by Phillipino immigrants who were being paid shit for wages and who therefore didn't care about quality of work. The building started to fall apart around us in a matter of days, and our Civil Engineers had a full time job just keeping the place up.

But on the late afternoon of August 8, 1990 all I cared about was getting out of my uniform that I had been in for more than 36 hours, taking a hot shower, and getting some sleep.

We started security operations the next day.

More to come.

IHC

Friday, August 6, 2010

August 6, 1990

The four days since Saddam Hussein's forces invaded Kuwait had been tense both at Langley Air Force Base and throughout the world. Every day at work the conversation was the same: "Do you think we're going? Are we gonna go?" And my response was always the same: "No, I don't think so. I think he'll pull out."

The truth is, I knew deep down in my heart that we were gonna go. I was just trying to do my part to relieve some of the palpable tension that was present in my unit, and in my home. My wife, Mary, had asked me the same thing when I got back from the recall on the 2nd, and I told her that no, I didn't think we were gonna go. But I knew we were all along.

My unit had been put on telephone standby when they released us on the 2nd, which means that wherever we went, we had to be reachable by phone. Basically that meant staying home and not doing much of anything, because after all, this was 1990 BCP - Before Cellular Phones. Pagers were the rage then, but a pager wouldn't cut it - you had to be reachable by phone, and that was it. But after sitting around the house at night for three nights I was starting to get cabin fever, so secure in the (false) notion that the phone call was not going to come, my wife and I went out to eat at one of the local Mexican restaurants, Chi-Chi's. We left at around 7 or so and got back just before 9.

And the first thing my son, Raymond, said when I walked in the door was that the Law Enforcement Desk had called about half an hour ago, and I needed to call them back NOW.

Oh, shit.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing at the front door in my BDU's, my mobility bag at my feet, getting ready to leave for "I don't know where," with a return date of "I don't know when" - if at all. My son and my youngest daughter, Kathy, were home at the time, but my oldest girl, Melissa, was out on a date, so I said good-bye to Mary, Raymond and Kathy, telling them that no, I didn't know where I was going and no, I didn't know when I'd be back, but everything was OK and not to worry about me because I was a big boy and could take care of myself.

It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do in my entire life. That's the only time in my entire life when I've walked out of the door to my home, not knowing if I'd ever walk back in.

Was I scared? No, not really. Nervous, yes; uncertain, yes. But scared? No.

That would come 5 months later on January 19, 1991.

So Mary and I got in her car and drove out to the base, and once we got to the Squadron area we said our good-byes, kissed each other, hugged, and then she got in her car and drove away. I told her that I didn't want her to see me walking away, so I stood there while she drove off, waving to her as the car pulled out of sight into the darkness.

Then I picked up my mobility bag and headed to the Armory to sign in and start the out-processing routine. In the background I heard the sound of jet engines; that was the two squadrons of F-15's that had been tagged for deployement leaving. The maintenance crews were processing out already, and would be leaving a few hours after that. The 1st Tactical Fighter Wing was going to war, and I was going with it.

Once I signed in, the waiting process began. And it would be a long wait. There were a hell of a lot of people needing to get off the ground, and there were only so many aircraft available to do it. The airlift was so massive that they had to call in Air Force Reserve aircraft from as far away as Missouri, and that took time. Once I signed in at the Armory they issued us our weapons, and the waiting game began. We passed the time initially by doing bag checks, checking the contents of everyone's mobility bags to make sure everyone had what they were supposed to have. Of course we had the idiots who didn't take things seriously and didn't have the required gear, which meant they had to call home and have the wife bring it to them or go to the barracks and get it. The bag checks took most of the night.

The next day we were still on standby waiting to be scheduled for a flight out. The list of Security Police troops who were verified to be going was being finalized, and it was at this point that the flight commander, a lieutenant whose name I can't remember, came to me and told me that he had a favor to ask of me. He then proceeded to tell me that since I had just returned from a remote tour in Korea that I didn't have to go; I didn't have to deploy with the unit. I could call my wife at home and tell her to come pick me up, pick up my bag, and go home. The favor, he said, was that he wanted me to volunteer to go. He said that in the short time I had been in the unit I had proven myself to be a reliable person and someone with the kind of "no bullshit" attitude that was going to be needed in a situation such as this, and that he would be forever in my debt if I would volunteer to go.

At that point we both looked over at the bumbling, inept, sorry excuse of a Technical Sergeant who was the primary Squad Leader whose place I'd be taking, watching as he fumbled with his gear and dropped most of it. The lieutenant then looked at me and said, "If you don't go, I'm stuck with him."

And I said, "Okay, L-T, I'll go." And that was that. I was going off to war when I didn't have to. The L-T looked me in the eye and with a very solemn, serious look shook my hand firmly and simply said, "Thank you!"

Aside from my son and the L-T, up until this point no one else has ever known that I didn't have to go. But there was no way I could stay home - no way in the world. Shirking what I felt to be my duty and not going with my unit when it deployed into harms' way would have eaten at me for the entire length of the deployment and for the rest of my life. Besides, this is what it was all about - this was what everyone who wears the uniform trains for, the protection and defense of our nation when our nation calls. And my nation had called, and there was no way I was NOT gonna go.

No way in Hell.

Later that afternoon we got word from the squadron that if we wanted to call our families and have them come over to the Armory to see us we could; I called home, and about 30 minutes later my wife and three kids showed up. This was a good thing because it gave me a chance to say good-bye to Melissa who hadn't been home the night before. When it was time for them to go it was kinda tough, but not quite as tough as the night before. Maybe because it was full daylight this time, I don't know, but that's just the way it was.

About an hour after that we got the word to get on the buses so we could be taken over to the Mobility Processing Center on the Flightline. Shortly after that we found ourselves doing yet more waiting on the hard tarmac of the hangar area, since our aircraft had once again been delayed by scheduling/mechanical/who knows what issues. They processed us out as soon as we got there, but we spent a few hours more waiting on the asphalt, trying to get comfortable.

At 2130 hours (9:30PM to you civilians) on 7 Aug 90 we got our Departure Briefing, got on the C-141 waiting for us on the ramp, and left the base headed for Dhahran Air Base in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

And I still didn't think that what was happening had really sunk in to most of us on the plane.

All that would change soon enough.

More in two days.

IHC

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

"Fact, Fiction, and the Holy Bible" Revisited

So I'm cruising through Facebook yesterday when I come across a link posted by a good friend of mine named Jared. It's a link to a video of a very clever and well-performed "rap" by a religious lady, and while I may not agree fully with the message I thought the performance itself and her obvious passion were great. And I said so, which got me pulled into yet another religious conversation which, surprisingly enough, was the total opposite of the last one I had when I first posted "Fact, Fiction, and the Holy Bible" a while back. The lady with whom I was conversing, Julie, is a passionate believer in the Bible - ALL of it - and we were able to exchange thoughts, beliefs and ideas in a sane, mature, and interesting manner via the "comments" section of the original post in this blog. All was going pretty good for a while there.

And then Anne opened her mouth and ruined it all.

Seems she went to my original blog post and read it, and this is what she had to say on Facebook:

"In my humble opinion, very few people have ever been debated into a saving faith in Jesus. Even those who have arguments as weak as Ray’s cannot be convinced by debate. (“There is not one physical piece of proof that ANYTHING in the Bible ...actually took place…” That’s a ridiculous statement. There is archeological and historical evidence for the existence of many people, place, and events in the Bible.)

Ray, my prayer for you is not that you lose a debate, but that you are convinced by love. I hope your life is full of Christian people who demonstrate the true love of Christ in such an overwhelming fashion that you are absolutely overpowered by it and that you come to know God.

Jared, I feel like I should apologize for highjacking your wall. All I can say is Jesus made me do it."

Nice, very nice. Someone who professes to be a Christian insults me and then prays for me. Very nice. Here's my initial reply:

"Let me say this, and then I'm finished with this particular conversation.

Anne, you are the PERFECT example of a religious hypocrite. You criticize, ridicule, and insult both the opinions of those who disagree with your blind faith and the ...people themselves, then you throw salt in the open wound by saying you hope we "come to know God." You refuse to accept ANY other belief or depth of belief other than your own, and your hollow words of hope and "Christian love" do nothing more than prove what a hypocrite you really are.

I doubt very seriously if Jesus made you insult me and MY beliefs the way you have. If he did, then maybe that's not the Jesus I have known all my life.

But I doubt if Jesus had a damned thing to do with it.

Julie, thank you for an enlightening and MATURE discussion. It was truly a pleasure to be able to exchange differing ideas and ideals with another. I admire both your faith and your maturity.

Anne - kiss my ass."


In all fairness I will say that at this point Anne spoke up and said that she apparently "worded something wrong" and insulted me, and apologized. And I said yes, she sure did and accepted her apology.

So after making this post I go to the comments section of the original post and find that someone who chose not to give a name (but my bet is that it was Anne even though she denied it) has left a lengthy sermon there for me to read in what I can only surmise was an attempt to "save" me and have me "see the light." Of course, it didn't help at all that the sermon started out with the usual religious-fanatic claim/threat that I only have two choices, accept God and "be saved" or burn in hell for all eternity.

And then, to make matters even worse and even more ludicrous, in hopes of "saving" me the poster regaled me with quotes of scriptures from the Bible - the very book that I have clearly stated that I don't fully believe!

Yeah, THAT'S really gonna work!

To the poster that wasted their time writing the mini-sermon, I say this: Spare me your religious fanaticism and the near-lunatic raving that comes with it. You're wasting your time. As I've said clearly and on several occasions before this, I do not believe in the concept of "being saved" because that's one of the many hoops that MAN has created. If you want to jump through those hoops like a trained puppy, then you go right ahead - but not me. I've known God and Jesus Christ since I was 5 years old, and they've known me since before then. And that's all I need, now or ever. What I don't need is you or any other religious zealot telling me that I have to do this or I have to do that in order to "be saved" or I'll go to hell, and I don't need it for two reasons: first, I don't believe in hell or the devil, and second, I don't need saving regardless of what you may think. Besides, what YOU think is totally irrelevant - it's what God thinks that matters, and I'm pretty sure He and I are square.

Finally, dear poster, I don't object to your religious beliefs - I just don't agree with them. I respect your beliefs and will not say they're right or wrong, but I will say that I disagree with them and if you try to shove them down my throat I'm gonna spit them right back at you, and then some. If you're happy in your beliefs then that's all that matters; I'm certainly happy with mine, so how's about you just leave well enough alone and don't fuck with me, huh?

And now, on to bigger and better things.

IHC

Monday, August 2, 2010

August 2, 1990

On August 2, 1990 I was stationed at Langley AFB in Hampton, Virginia, having just arrived there in May after completing a year-long tour in Korea without my family. I was pretty happy to be at Langley because I'm originally from Virginia and Hampton was only an hour away from my old stomping grounds of Highland Springs, and I also knew that Langley would most likely be my last duty station before I retired from the Air Force. My family and I had for the most part made it through the awkward period of getting reacquainted that always comes after the service member returns home after a remote tour, and were looking forward to the time we were to spend in Virginia.

I was also looking forward to the time I was going to spend with my unit, the 1st Security Police Squadron, because for the first time in my Air Force career I was stationed at a base where there was a Federal Magistrate's Court nearby, which meant that when we of the Base Police wrote a civilian a ticket, he couldn't just wipe his butt with it since the standard AF Form 1408 means nothing to a civilian. But the DD Form 1805/Magistrate's Ticket, however, was another thing entirely - this was a TRAFFIC CITATION in every sense of the word! Points against your license, fines, the whole thing! At Langley I felt more like a bona-fide cop than I ever did before.

So I was working the Day Shift as the Flight Chief of "A" Flight and was still trying to get to know the people on my shift and in my unit. I was also pretty secure in the notion that since I had just completed my second remote tour, the Air Force was going to leave me alone as far as lengthy deployments or reassignments went for at least the next 18 months, because according to regulations that's how long it was going to be before I was eligible for either.

And then Saddam Hussein changed all that.

I was off that day and was at my quarters in the Bethel Manor off-base housing area when the phone rang. I answered it and was told that a base-wide recall had just been initiated; I asked why, and the Desk Sergeant on the other end told me that Iraqi forces had just invaded Kuwait, and Kuwait was screaming for help. So I did exactly what you're supposed to do when you get the "recall" phone call - I stopped what I was doing, put on my BDU uniform without bothering to shave or shower or anything like that (time is VERY critical during a recall), grabbed my pre-packed Mobility Bag containing enough uniforms and personal hygiene supplies for 30 days in the field, kissed my kids and my then-wife Mary good-bye, got in my brand-new blue Chevy S-10 pickup truck I had just bought the month before, and drove to the base to report in. Needless to say, the traffic heading into the base was a nightmare, but it was an orderly nightmare.

Once I arrived at my squadron area and signed in, I was sent to the Armory area to wait. Nobody knew what was going to happen since the President of the United States hadn't decided whether or not to send troops in; seems he wanted to give the Useless Nations a chance to act first. So we sat around for about six hours or so, and finally were given the word - go home and wait for the phone to ring. Normal duty assignments in the mean time, but be ready to go at a moment's notice.

Was I worried? Nope. For two reasons: One, I had just gotten back from a remote tour so I wasn't eligible for deployment, and Two, I seriously believed that Hussein would back down and pull his troops out of Kuwait. And I spent the next 4 days telling everyone who asked me if I thought we were gonna go "no," because he'd back down. NO WAY would he risk incurring the wraith of the entire world and especially the United States by remaining in Kuwait. The outcry from the rest of the world, even from the other Muslim states, was universal and deafening, all of them calling for his immediate withdrawal. As the reports of looting, pillaging, burning and raping started to flow in, the calls for his withdrawal turned into demands and finally into ultimatums.

But he'd pull out. Sure he would - NOBODY could be THAT stupid.

Or so I thought.

More to come in 4 days.

IHC