Memorial Day: Me and Jerry

Memorial Day is a day when we remember those who gave service to our country whose time on earth is through. For some it has become a day for BBQ and beer drinking. For those that have loved one's that have served however it will always be a day of remembrance. The first veteran I think of on Memorial Day is my Uncle Jerry. Jerry spent 28 years in the Navy, Active Duty and Reserves. He served during the Vietnam Era and beyond retiring as a Senior Chief Petty Officer in 1992.

Jerry is my Dad's brother and he and my Aunt Carolyn always treated my children and my wife as an important part of their family. On Christmas no matter where I was you could always count on the fact that Jerry and Carolyn would have a present for my children under our the tree. Jerry always liked to tease my wife and she thought he was a very good man. She was very sad when he passed.

As for myself Jerry was always extremely interested in my military career and how it was progressing. He would quiz me on the times when I came home on leave on what I had done and what I was going to do. and when I was promoted to SFC (E7) he was almost happier than I was. Being a Navy man making E7 for Jerry was a sign that you had made it. Navy E7's (Chief Petty Officers) cross the line from junior to senior enlisted. Navy E7's enjoy different uniforms and perks on board ship that the lower enlisted do not. I remember the time I got Jerry laughing when I told him how my Special Forces ODA was doing some Military Free fall training with Seal Team 10 at the Naval Air Station in Rota, Spain. During this trip it was quite comical to watch my friend Terry who was an E6 at the time try to sit in the Chief's area in the Dining facility or try to get a room in the Senior Enlisted Quarters. Terry tried but the Navy would have none of that. 

Jerry retired from the Navy in 1992 and he requested that I be at his retirement ceremony and present him with his flag. It was an honor I will never forget. When I retired myself in 2004, Jerry made the trip to witness my retirement just as I had witnessed his 12 years before. It was sitting in my garage after the ceremony when Jerry joked with me "now you will have to get a real job!" I indignantly replied that in my opinion I had been doing a real job for the last 22 years. He just laughed and said " You'll see."
In the military you can get an instant history of a man just by looking at his bearing, the badges on his chest or the unit patch on his shoulder. You know where in the hierarchy of things he is just by looking at the rank on his sleeve or collar. Civilian life is not like that and sometimes figuring out where you stand can be confusing. That is what I believe my uncle was talking about. Jerry you were right and I now know exactly what you meant.

Tomorrow when I go to the annual Memorial Day Ceremony, I will be thinking of you Jerry..Blue Skies always and see you on the high ground

https://www.cedarmemorial.com/obituary/1760/jerome-f--mcelmeel-cedar-rapids-ia/

Kirkuk

 The radio transmission we received told us not to engage any target west of the base of the Kani Domlan ridgeline. I asked for authentication due to the fact we had been pounding this ridgeline and the Iraqi troops on it for a few weeks with airstrikes. The order was authenticated and myself and my commo sergeant looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. We made a transmission back to our patrol base in Klaw Kut where the rest of our team was located seeking further direction. Our Team Leader informed us that the Kurds had broken through to the city of Kirkuk and that he and the rest of the ODA would link up with us at a small village that was situated on a road intersection just north of our position. It would take them a few hours to arrive so we leisurely packed up our gear and threw it in our vehicles. We headed north until we stopped at the agreed upon meeting point and discovered it was already swarming with Kurdish Peshmerga. We dismounted our vehicles and greeted our allies with some small talk and those that smoked enjoyed a butt.

While we were waiting our medic conducted an impromptu sick call for the Pesh, one young fighter hobbled up with a bullet wound in his lower leg which our medic quickly treated. From the facial expressions and gestures, I got the impression the other Kurdish fighters felt it was self inflicted. As I lounged on the bumper of our vehicle I watched the continuous and comical stream of Kurdish vehicles pour by as they headed south towards Kirkuk. The Peshmerga had commandeered anything with wheels in an effort to take back what they considered their ancestral home. A home that had been stolen from them by Saddam Hussein, and oh by the way there also just happened to be some very large oil fields located near by. Pesh were packed into the beds of the usual Middle Eastern vehicle, the white Toyota pick up, but they were also jammed into school busses, taxi cabs, and passenger cars. I even saw a dump truck with about twenty Peshmerga hanging out the back. All of theses were flying down the road hell bent for leather with scarves flapping in the breeze and rifles hoisted in the air.

I got out of the truck when I saw some Humvees headed towards us, at first I thought it might be another SF team although none were operating in our sector and none where driving such obviously marked military vehicles.  In fact it was a unit from the 173^rd Airborne Brigade who had seen us sitting by the side of the road and stopped for a quick intelligence update. I laid my map out on the hood of this Major’s vehicle and pointed out to him the lay of the land and the targets we had been engaging. I estimated the Iraqi strength and probably direction of flight. He asked me a few more questions and got in his vehicle and their little convoy moved on down the road. This small encounter put in context why I had joined Special Forces. Here I was a Master Sergeant deep in enemy territory with my small team of kick ass troopers and our indigenous allies. I was wearing my University of Iowa baseball cap and hadn’t shaved in about a month. My team had more ammunition and fire power on us than a platoon of infantry. We went where we wanted and when we wanted within the scope of our orders.

This Major had his Kevlar on, chin strap tight, and was all dress right dress. It was obvious he didn’t like talking to a lowly E8. But the point was he needed the information we had and it was good to kick a little dirt on his regular Army boots so to speak. After they left my Team Leader showed up and we all joined the parade of vehicles going south. As we headed down the highway we started to climb up over the ridgeline and as we topped it I saw the damage we had inflicted. The pillboxes we had been directing our airstrikes onto where actually very large bunkers that looked like they led to tunnels farther underground. They were scarred with shrapnel and blackened by smoke. Time and the very real likely hood of booby traps kept us from investigating further. After we crossed over the Kani Domlan we could see the oil fields and the city of Kirkuk spread out before us. We also saw what appeared to be some kind of armored vehicle approaching us at a high rate of speed. It looked like nothing we had ever seen before but we were taking no chances. We got our vehicles off the road and prepared a vehicular ambush using our AT-4’s and Squad Automatic Weapon.  As it got closer however we came to the strange realization that this was a Toyota pickup truck so loaded with stacks of what appeared to be conduit and aluminum tube that from a great distance it looked like it was a Multiple Launched Rocket System. We packed up the ambush and waved as out little Kurdish friend drove by with his loot.

It was shortly after that we entered the chaos that was Kirkuk, the Kurds were vandalizing and stealing everything they could get their hands on in revenge. It was obvious they intended on pillaging the city. As there were only a few U.S. troops on scene in those first few days, there wasn’t much we could do about the whole scenario. I saw one Peshmerga driving a forklift up the highway out of town. I am not sure what he intended on doing with it, but it was his by god and he was driving it home. I also saw a full sized and operational fire truck heading back north. A few weeks later I saw this same fire truck abandoned on a mountain road with no wheels or battery. It must have run out of fuel and they stripped what ever was valuable.

We navigated to a link up point to meet our company commander and the rest of the company. The linkup point was at a large, gated house that reportedly once belonged to “Chemical” Ali the cousin of Saddam. “Chemical” Ali was like the Iraqi Kilroy, that dude was everywhere. Our company had experienced a short but intense firefight prior to our arrival but had secured the house. We linked up and were given some security positions to man on the flat roof of the building. From our vantage point I could see the entire city which mostly seemed to be on fire. I could also hear automatic weapons fire and explosions. Some were in the distance but some were quite close.

Once we got organized I reported to the Company SGM for a debrief and some further instructions. I will be quite candid here, I had no respect for our Company SGM the man was a Douchebag. When I reported to him it was the first time he had seen me in weeks he told me to have my guys shave and take the Kurdish scarves we were all wearing off. No “Hey Mike how’s it going?” or “You guys have been doing an outstanding job!” Just instructions that I had to take back to my guys and enforce that made me look like the same douche he was. Oh well, one thing about civilian life I don’t have to ever talk to that guy again. We stayed in this villa for a few days and then were told to find somewhere to set up a safe house to run operations out of similar to what we had done in Kosovo.

We ended up renting a gorgeous house on the South West corner of the city; it was all marble tile and stone walls with a large stone fence around the yard. The previous owner had obviously fled as no furniture or utilities of any kind were present, we weren’t even sure if the guy we rented it from had authority to do so. We organized the upstairs as an operations/communications room and started running patrols out of the house on a rotating basis. These patrols turned up some interesting things. One day we discovered an Iraqi Mobile Multiple Launch Rocket System stalled and on fire in the middle of the street another day we had to diffuse a small riot between rival Kurdish groups. The PDK did not take kindly to the PKK taking over one of the buildings they had claimed. Tribal loyalties run deep in the Middle East and these rivalries are pretty intense. Another day we acted as a PSD (Personal Security Detachment) for Jalal Talibani . He was a Kurdish leader that would eventually rise to the highest levels of the new Iraqi government.

An informant directed us to an Iraqi vehicle depot that had obviously been looted, but still provided some valuable intelligence. On the way back we cleared what appeared to be an Iraqi barracks and discovered some suspected chemical weapons we turned over to a U.S. Chemical unit. Just for the record, Weapons of Mass destruction where found in Iraq, because we found some. Our time in Kirkuk though was like a finger in a dike, there was only so much that a small contingent of Special Operators could do in a city that size. Every night we heard gunfire celebratory and otherwise. The Kurds where fighting a turf war with the Turkmen, and each other over control of Kirkuk. We saw tracers arching across the sky on a daily basis from the roof of our house. We also heard and felt some huge explosions that rattled our neighborhood as car bombs and IED’s became more prevalent. The smoke plumes would linger for hours from these explosions. After initially melting away the Iraqi resistance was starting to flex the muscle it would show in the bloody months of 2003-2006 prior to the “surge.” My time in Kirkuk is what makes me uncomfortable around any fireworks and sudden bangs to this day. Eventually conventional units like the 173^rd moved in to take over responsibility for security in the city. My team and the rest of our battalion moved back north in to Kurdistan to refit and await further instructions. As we left the city once again headed north I didn’t realize that that would be the farthest south I would ever get during my time in Iraq.

Fat,Slow, Distance

There is a training term in running circles. The term is long,slow,distance and it is what runners do as they prepare for a variety of endurance events usually over 20 kilometers. Due to being closer to 50 years old than 30 I have my own term. It stems from the fact that every year I seem to gain or lose a pound or two but mostly gain. I also find my pace per mile creeping up second by second year by year. When I was a younger man I used to be quite a speedster. I was usually one of the fastest in the company and my personal record for a two mile run was 10:32. At one time I could keep that pace for miles. Now I still enjoy running but I jokingly call what I do fat,slow,distance. I am a fan of John Bingham of "Penguin Chronicles" fame http://www.waddle-on.com/. John's believes everyone can benefit from running if they have the courage to start. So I will continue to run as long as I can move on down the road.

One of the races I ran this month was the Mall to Mall prediction race. This race is an 8.8 mile race between Lindale mall and Westdale mall here in Cedar Rapids. The cool thing about it is that it is a prediction race, you don't have to be the fastest to win you just have to be the best guesser. You are not allowed to wear a watch or ipod or anything that could help you keep a pace artificially. Since the course was an open course meaning no traffic would be stopped I was pretty conservative in my prediction. We started off at 0800 on the morning of the race on a nice spring day. The first part of the run took us through a cemetery for about a mile until we came out onto the main drag in Cedar Rapids, First Avenue. The course was flat and somewhat down hill for the first half. We continued down First Avenue eventually crossing over it and turning right on Third Avenue. The course took us through what I jokingly call the "ghetto." Compared to larger cities this area is nothing but in our city it is truly the ghetto. If there is a shooting in town you can bet it will be somewhere in this area. Most people blame it on the influx of welfare recipients from Chicago looking for a free Iowa handout. I am not sure I agree but I do know that on this particular day everything was quiet I guess all the criminals were still in bed. Once we crossed the river we started heading back up hill, the course took us on a detour through the Cedar Rapids Kernals ball park. The Kernals are the Class "A" affiliate of the Anaheim Angels and we got to run a lap around the warning track before exiting the stadium. Once we left the stadium we turned on to Wilson Avenue at this point I knew how far we had left because this was near my house and I often did training runs on this street. I had been holding a pretty steady pace this whole time but knowing where I was at I picked it up a little and started passing people as we went up the last major hill. We crossed over Edgewood Road and into the parking lot of Westdale Mall. As I crossed the finish line my time was 1 hour 19 minutes and 36 seconds this worked out to 9:02 minutes a mile. I had seriously underestimated my own speed and had run the race over 19 minutes faster than my predicted time. Oh well, the bananas and bagels at the finish still tasted good.


The next race for this month was the Rockford, IL. 1/2 Marathon (13.1 miles). I picked the location due to the fact my daughter's boyfriend lives in Rockford and I was looking for a race within 4 hours of home. I was only doing the 1/2 Marathon on this day because my knee had been acting up and I hadn't had the time to train for the full. On the day of the race I woke up at 0445 got dressed and grabbed the 0530 shuttle from the hotel to check in and get ready for the 0700 start of the race. Before the race I tied and retied my shoes, fiddled with my walkman, and stood in line at the Porto Potties. Finally it was race time,the sky was gray,overcast and the temperature was about 54 degrees. This was actually good running weather, and I was hoping to finish the race in 2 hours or better. The airhorn sounded as all 1200 runners started the shuffle to the start line that is normal for these large races. I finally made it to the official start about 45 seconds after the actual clock had started. No worries though since we all had individual chip timers on our shoes to keep an accurate time as we crossed electronic sensors at various points along the course. The biggest problem I have when racing is running my own race, I tend to let the spirit and adrenaline of the event trick me into starting to fast. The ideal race is one with a negative split which means you run the second half faster than the first,unfortunately this race was no different than any other and I found myself starting too fast. I finished the first mile in around 8 minutes and I knew I better slow down so I wouldn't slow down even more at the end. I was right on track and cruising along for the first 3.5 miles before we hit the first hill. This hill went from 3.5 miles to about 5 and was a long continuous grade. I concentrated on keeping a 9 minute mile pace and trying to ignore people I passed or even harder the ones that passed me. At mile 5 we went back down hill and then back up again before we entered a park and did a loop around a small pond. As we exited the park we hit mile 7 and I looked at my watch and saw I was at 58 minutes. I was on pace for a sub 2 hour race. The second half of the race was mostly flat or down hill. I really concentrated on my pace but about mile 9 I started having some issues with my knee and my left hip. The hip problem stemmed from what I guessed was an uneven gait as I was favoring my left knee somewhat. I also suspected the problems were because I did most of my training runs on a gravel road or on trails and this entire race was on pavement. The pounding on this hard surface was slowly wearing on my legs. At mile 12 I was at 1 hour 48 minutes. I had 12 minutes to run the last 1.1 miles. I kept moving forward and as we made the last turn I could see the large banner marking the finish line. I looked at my watch and poured it on for the last 200 meters. I crossed the finish line at 1 hour 59 minutes and 1 second, 59 seconds under my goal and a 9:06 per mile pace. I liked this race, there was plenty of water stops.One every 1.5 miles and 2 aid stations along the half marathon route. There was also plenty of encouragement along the route as it was all in town allowing for many spectators. I will probably do it again,maybe doing the full marathon next year. Next on the agenda is the Five Seasons 4th of July 5K.

Sinai

If you set the way back machine to the spring and summer of 1983 you would find me on the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula conducting operations as part of the Multi-National Force and Observers (MFO). I was a PFC and the assistant gunner for an 81mm mortar squad. Specifically, 2nd squad (base gun), Weapons Platoon, B Company, 1st Battalion, 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division. Unlike the other regiments in the 82nd, which are designated as Parachute Infantry Regiments, the 325 is designated as Airborne Infantry since our regiment actually landed in gliders during World War II. After the war, gliders were phased out and the 325th was made regular parachute infantry. The designation stuck however, such are the vagaries of military heraldry.


The MFO consisted of units from many nations as the name suggests and still operates in the peninsula to this day. It was formed as a result of the 1979 Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty and was tasked with patrolling the no mans land along the borders of Israel and Egypt to make sure both countries were conforming within the stipulations of the treaty. The US Battalion occupies South Camp just north of the city of Sharm El Sheik and fans out small squad size elements to check points and observations posts within its sector. At the time of my deployment we were only the second United States unit to conduct this mission as we were to relieve a battalion from the 101st Airborne Division.

This was my very first overseas deployment and also my first deployment to a “hazardous duty” area. I didn’t know quite what to expect as we boarded the chartered Arrow Airways flight from Fort Bragg, NC straight to Sharm El Sheik, by way of Gander Newfoundland. It was very strange to me as we sat in our seats with our high and tight haircuts, M16 rifles and “chocolate chip” desert uniforms that there were stewardesses’ offering us sodas and peanuts for the flight. As would become my habit during my career I fell asleep as the plane took off only to awaken when we stopped in Gander for refueling. I wandered around the dark and tiny terminal with the other bored and hungry paratroopers gawking at the Canadian souvenirs in the closed gift shops and wondering how much longer we had to fly. Eventually we reboarded the plane where we were served a standard in-flight meal of rubber chicken, mushy green beans, and warm soda. I fell back asleep and was awakened by the whine of the landing gear as it extended itself for landing at the airfield in Sharm El Sheik.

I snapped some pictures out the plane window upon our arrival and what they showed was a rocky, brown landscape dominated by numerous mountains and wadis. When I moved to Arizona some years later the terrain was eerily similar but with the addition of cactus and without the camels. Sharm El Sheik and South Camp sit on the coast of the Sinai and the Red Sea dominated the view to the east as we made our way towards our new home. With all the organized chaos of any military operation we swiftly moved into our living areas which were small trailer like buildings with two man rooms.

For the next week or so we attended orientation briefings and shadowed our 101st counter parts. But soon enough they departed for home and we were left alone facing our 6 month deployment. Each squad was assigned rotating duties where for 3 weeks you would man an observation post or check point and then you would rotate back for a week of training and refit or guard duty at the camp. South Camp itself was pretty comfortable; it had a small post exchange, mess hall, a gym, and an enlisted club. It also had numerous private “hooch” bars run by units from other countries that were tolerated but not sanctioned by the Camp Commander. The mess hall which was open 24/7 and Murphy’s Bar which was run by the Explosive Ordinance Detachment soon became the center of my social scene when we were back in camp. Typically we would mosey on down to Murphy’s about 1800 and drink .50 cent cans of Carling’s Black Label while playing darts or watching movies on the VCR. During the break between scheduled movies we would haul butt across the compound to the closest latrine and run back to be on time for the start of the next movie. Then we would all hit the mess hall for ice cream and sandwiches as we staggered our way back to our rooms about midnight.

This was a different era for the Army; soldiers in hazardous fire areas were still allowed to drink off duty as they had been able to since 1776. Political correctness and General Order #1 which forbids alcohol on deployments had not yet taken over as it would with the start of Desert Shield/Desert Storm in 1990. Just a heads up for the Muckety Mucks prohibition never works; soldiers still drink on deployment you just force them to become criminals to do it. In Kosovo we had a full bar complete with sound system. You had to enter it by stepping thru a wall locker into a hidden room. No one ever found it, so much for General Order #1.

My squads first off camp mission was to man checkpoint (CP) 3-Alpha which was located on the main supply route (MSR) from Israel to southern Sinai. Our job was to monitor traffic along the MSR, report any large military type convoys or troop movements and send in a situation report of activity three times daily. We arrived at the checkpoint and relieved the squad in place with a quick debrief. They left on the same deuce and a half trucks that had dropped us off. Our CP consisted of two mobile home type trailers about 40 feet long, one was the bunk house with bunk beds and small metal lockers. The other was the kitchen/dining/commo building. The commo room was manned 24/7 as was a small guard shack immediately adjacent to the MSR. Our daily routine consisted of preparing a hot breakfast in the kitchen using local meat and groceries delivered weekly from South Camp, then squad training or physical training in the morning. Lunch was a C-Ration or later in the deployment the new fangled Meals Ready to Eat. Afternoon consisted of more training or area beautification. We were constantly raking the sand around our buildings into a nice concentric pattern of lines. We also had the best rock garden in town with a huge set of Parachutist wings painted white and surrounding the pole upon which flew Old Glory. Another hot meal ended the day.

Squad members also where on a rotating duty roster where about every 36 hours you would pull a four hour shift either in the guard shack monitoring the MSR or giving and receiving situation reports in the commo room. We also conducted weekly vehicular patrols in our sector driving up to the edge of our sector along the border and back in our M151 jeeps. On these patrols we would often leave partially opened cans of C-ration fruit along the side of the road with a P38 can opener sticking out. As soon as our vehicle would pass Bedouin children would rush out from the rocks and seize the treat. Sometimes as a joke we would leave lima beans or spaghetti and meat sauce. We would laugh and laugh as we saw them throw the can down in disgust in our rear view mirror.

Quite often we also conducted 2-3 day foot patrols in our sector, patrolling in team size elements in circular search patterns that eventually brought us back to the CP. It was on one of these patrols that we had a close encounter with a mine field. Mines were the biggest hazard in the Sinai as they were left over from many previous conflicts along with burnt out tank hulls and destroyed vehicles. We often passed these relics on patrol, and I would wonder how they were destroyed and who won the battle. Mine fields were generally marked and we were under strict orders to steer clear of them. The local Egyptian police had a unique way of clearing a path through these minefields. They would get a Private with a 20 foot long stick to start probing a path through the field in an effort to clear it. This was not the preferred technique and I witnessed at least one Medevac due to some mine clearing gone wrong.

This particular minefield was not marked. It was notated on our map however and we had plotted a course to skirt the edge of it by about 500 meters. Unfortunately it is the nature of the desert that it shifts and as we were walking our azimuth we started noticing some rather strange looking black sticks poking up from the ground. These sticks looked too regular and angular to be natural. Upon closer inspection we determined that we had managed to walk into the middle of a field of Anti-Tank mines and these sticks were actually the tilt rods that activated the mines. True we weren’t tanks but Anti-Tank minefields are also usually accompanied by Anti-Personnel mines as well. If anyone has seen the movie Kelly’s Heros you know what happened next. The ol’ bayonet came out and we started probing our way to the edge of the minefield. Eventually we all made it out with no injuries besides some scraps and cuts from low crawling across the desert. We also handed out candy to Bedouin kids as we passed through their villages on our patrols and I learned my first two words of Arabic “Mish, Mish” which means food and “Dollah” which is not technically Arabic but they sure said it a lot. The old guys just stared at us as the kids crowded around. I wondered what they were thinking, squatting there holding the halters of their camels as their children begged the Super Power for a handout.

So our deployment followed the 3 week rotational pattern, punctuated by guard duty and hijinks. We had a platoon toga party using bed sheets. This was inspired by the movie Animal House which had been released not to long before. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders showed up one evening on a USO tour accompanied by a One Man Band as an opening act. I liked the One Man Band better. My Platoon conducted our annual ARTEP (Army Training and Evaluation Program) and passed with flying colors. We better have, all we did during our down week was practice crew drill. Sometimes we would hump a rucksack full of beer and ice the 2 miles to Naama Bay, a resort area, and hang out on the beach drinking beer and checking out girls until the sun went down. We could take the occasional weekend trip to Eilat, Israel on our down time. It was a 5 hour deuce and a half ride but it was worth it. It was in Eilat that I acquired my life long love of Mediterranean food. I still eat a good Falafel when I can get it. We did a lot of things to keep occupied and to stave off boredom in those 6 months.

My final posting was on an Observation Post on the top of a mountain 5 miles off the coast. The only way to get to this OP was by UH1H Huey helicopter due to the fact it was on a mountain top. The winds constantly howled so the helicopter would have to call in for windspeed and direction at least 20 minutes prior to landing. Our only job was to observe and report on shipping in the Straits of Tiran, no patrols vehicular or foot required. Due to this and the fact that we always had advanced warning of any visitors the uniform of the day was PT shorts and flip flops. I had the most awesome tan I have had in my entire life after being on that island.

After we returned from this rotation we started processing our replacements from the 101st to take over our duties. After a week or so we got back on the Arrow Airways jet and made our way back home. My plane took a route which required a refuel in Cairo Egypt. Of course we broke down; while we were restricted to the terminal our leadership made us take our fatigue jackets off so as not to offend other patrons of the airport. “Who are those bald guys, with great tans, desert camo pants and brown t-shirts?" “I am not sure but one thing I do know they couldn’t be Americans.” After a two day breakdown and sleeping in the airport we finally got off the ground. We arrived back in Fort Bragg about 2130 and as soon as all gear was accounted for we were released. I made a bee line for the one thing I had been dreaming about for 6 months, a Burrito Supreme from Taco Bell. That and a nice cold Pepsi ended my first foray into hostile territory on a positive note.

Decorah Time Trials aka Suck Fest 2010

In my continued quest to keep at least some of the "action" in Former Action Guy I try to participate in at least one competitive sporting event per month. Mostly this involves running, and I have competed in races from 5k to Marathon. I have also participated in one sprint distance triathlon but find it hard to train for those with no convenient place to swim. The last couple of years however I have been mixing my running with mountain biking as a way to cross train and to give the knee that I had surgery on a rest from the continual pounding. I enjoy mountain biking and their are some really nice trails literally yards from my house. So this led me to get a wild hair and I decided to enter a mountain bike race. I looked around the state for a good beginning race and decided on the Decorah Time Trials because it had individual starts as opposed to a mass start. Riders would leave the start line at one minute intervals and negotiate the course at all possible speed. So I sent in my entry fee and marked my calendar for April 25th.

Decorah, Iowa is located in extreme northeastern Iowa about 20 miles south of the Minnesota border. It is beautiful country and the Decorah Parks and Trails systems are located over and around a set of massive bluffs on the northern edge of the town. The Time Trials Website said this about the course:10 miles, 3,189' of climbing, 402' elevation change. It also said " This course is highly technical, use common sense and always stay with in your ability level." If I was a thinking man, I would have started thinking right after reading this, however being a former action guy I pretty much discounted this description as so much editorial fluff. I ride my bike at least once a week, what could be so technical?

My first indication it was going to be a long day was that I had inadvertently scheduled myself to be on call at the ambulance service I volunteer at the night prior to the race. Being an out of town member I am required to stay at the ambulance garage while on call. I usually don't sleep very well at the garage, not sure why that is but I usually go home tired the next morning. That night while on call we had a page for, you guessed it a bicycle accident. I can't say much because of HIPPA considerations but it was pretty serious in my opinion and I hope the individual is ok. On the way back from the hospital I started day dreaming and hoping this wasn't some kind of bad omen. I had been experiencing some apprehension about the race and this kind of put an exclamation point on it. I think it was mostly nervousness about the unknown, something action guys feel all the time. I had felt it many times myself but not for awhile. But even former action guys shrug this nervousness off, old habits die hard.

The morning of the race dawned gray, rainy and about 50 degrees, I woke up about 0400 after a restless night and packed my stuff to head back to the house. I arrived home about 0500 and woke my oldest girl and youngest boy to accompany me and be my road crew. Jade was to be the official photographer and backup driver in case for some reason I was unable to drive. Jessie was just along because he is cool and still likes to do things with me. We piled into the Escape and headed to Decorah. It was about a 3 hour drive and they slept most of the way, while I switched the radio tuner between NPR and Country music. When we arrived in Decorah we were a little early for check in so we stopped at Mickey D's to grab some chow. Of course I ordered two sausage and egg biscuits and after we drove away I discovered that the mental giant behind the counter had given me two sausage biscuits. I always get screwed at the drive thru.

So we found the check in and I parked along the road and went to grab my packet with tshirt and race number. One of the highlights of my life is the new race tshirt. I savor the designs and the new shirt smell. It is my tradition that I don't get to wear the shirt until I finish the race. One of those bad luck thingies. I have hundreds of them and every few years I have to cull the herd and get rid of them. A few years ago I had the bright idea of making some of them into a quilt as a way to recycle them. A family member who shall remain nameless (M*m) assures me it will be done by this July. As I made my way to the check in tent I couldn't help but notice that most of the people that were there all looked pretty fit and most of them had some kind of biking outfit on, consisting of spandex biking bibs and multi logoed shirts. Pears don't look good in spandex so I was sporting a pair of black baggy shorts and a cotton tshirt advertising the "MWR Balkans Turkey Trot 2002." There was also a multitude of bikes, single speeds, multi speeds, 29 inch tires, clip on pedals, and everything in between. My bike was a 300 dollar model I had bought in Colorado about 7 years ago. I was wearing my running shoes which were clip-less.

Since I had pre-registered I was able to select my start time and wanting to get a head start on what I suspected would be a learning experience I picked the first open start time available. I would start 14 minutes after the first rider which I figured should put me in good shape to finish with light for the drive home. I grabbed my stuff, perused the information sheet in the packet and affixed my race number to my handle bars. A lot of the other riders were warming up by riding up and down the road, never having been big on all that kind of stuff I sat in the car with my kids and Jade showed me pictures and videos off the laptop she had brought. I did however have to get out and use the porto potty about a million times. This is normal for me, it means my adrenaline is kicking in. I used to hate this when I was a parachutist because it is very difficult to piss once your rigged up and I used to have to get pretty inventive to answer natures call.

At 0950ish a guy with called us all to the start line and gave us a pre-race briefing. Everyone seemed to be pretty chummy and there was a lot of cat calling and joking while he was trying to speak. The race started about 1005 and as I waited my turn to start I tried to get some pointers on techniques from the riders ahead of me. Basically it looked like they were just riding all out until they were out of our sight. I decided I would start steady but not too hard I wanted to pace myself. The start itself was my first challenge, when it was my turn I moseyed up to the start line and waited for the countdown. One of the race staff grabbed my seat and told me to go ahead and sit. I guess this was so riders could clip into their pedals prior to the start, as I mentioned before I was clip-less and I was used to starting with one foot on the ground so the start was mildly disconcerting as I felt pretty dorkish.

When the official starter said GO!! I took off at what I hoped was a mannish looking speed, the first 200 meters of the course were on a paved surface and up and over a small hill. Once I crested the hill I could see some race staff pointing to my left into the woods. I took a sharp left and headed up the trail which almost immediate started going up hill. The grade was pretty steep and the trail was muddy and slick. Did I mention it was raining? I slipped out of my pedals, Did I mention I was clip-less? I figured discretion was the better part of valor and I started running up the hill pushing my bike ahead of me. This pattern repeated itself multiple times over the next 2 miles. My tires had so much mud on them I was getting no traction going up hill and eventually I stopped trying and just got off and pushed on all the inclines. I think 2000 feet of that 3000+ feet of climb the website had mentioned was all in the first frickin two miles. The trail kept switch backing up and down the first ridge line, taking us almost to the top and then almost back to the bottom again. My heart rate was redlining as I struggled and gasped for breath. It was during this time the first rider passed me, eventually I would lose count of how many did. Finally the trail dumped us out on the top of the ridge line and it started heading down the other side. It was about this time the GPS I had fastened to my handle bars lost signal and turned off. From that point forward I lost all concept of time and distance in the seemingly endless collection of muddy switchbacks and roots.

I remember thinking somewhere along the way that this would have made an excellent Special Forces Selection and Assessment event. The course continued to take us up and over a set of steep ridges and my legs were starting to get tired. It was about the middle of the course where the"technical" part really started. I took my first spill as I tried to jump a log. My rear wheel hit the log and skidded to the left kicking me into the downside of the hill. I toppled over like a weeble and the only thing that kept me from rolling down the hill was a fortuitously placed bush. Since my head was downhill and my feet where uphill it took some maneuvering and a lot of energy to get myself back on the trail. The impact of the crash had knocked my rear brake cable out of its clip and I discovered I had no rear brakes as I tried to maneuver around a steep hairpin turn a little further down the trail. I managed to stop by using my front brake and leaning way back off the rear of my bike. I scoped out the issue and discovered all I had to do was get the cable back into its housing and back on the clip. This I did with a little cussing. My second crash happened as I tried to negotiate a large rock and root obstacle.My front tire stuck in the root sending me not quite over the handle bars and into a small tree. Once again I fell over rather violently and wasted a lot of energy righting myself. The roots along the trail were constantly causing my rear tire to skid like a drift racer in Tokyo, and I was hoping for a small section of flatness where I could catch my breath.

My third and final crash was the most spectacular. I was negotiating a particularly steep downhill section and over compensated and got too far over my handle bars as I tried to make another steep turn. I went ass over teakettle, bike and all, and ended up under my bike with my left calf stuck in the frame. My calf had this enormous cramp in it and I couldn't get it unstuck from the frame. I also happened to do this right in front of the aid tent that was setup up in the valley between the ridge lines. A large group of boisterous and drunk mountain bikers were cheering on the contestants as we passed by. One of them asked me if I was all right and tried to help me up. I managed to struggle to my feet and mumbled to him that I had a cramp. I tried to hop on my bike and get out of there with what was left of my dignity but low and behold my chain had come off my chain ring. One of the revelers called out" Hey it works better with the chain on!" I grimaced as I got the chain back on the ring and hopped on my bike. As I pedaled by him I grinned and said "Thanks for the advice." He grinned back, raised his beer can and said " No problem. I'm a mechanic."

There was only about .5 miles left in the race when we crossed back over the paved road and headed into a flat final stretch. I actually managed to speed up and change to a higher gear as I crossed the finish line, giving Jade the "Hang Loose" sign as she took my picture. I gingerly got off my bike and handed it and my helmet to Jessie as I tried to walk off the last 2.5 hrs of torture. I was muddy and exhausted but I had finished

I am writing this two days after the race is over and I have several bruises and some road rash but I am mostly good to go. I am starting to remember fondly some of the good things that happened during the race, like the two deer I saw mere yards away as I picked myself up from my second crash, or the huge morrel mushrooms I saw as I was trudging up one of the many uphills. I am already scheming about buying a better bike and maybe training for another race in August. In the interest of full disclosure I would like to say that of all the riders that finished the course I came in dead last with a time of 2 hours 29 minutes. However out of the 102 riders that participated only 87 finished. I was one of those 87, and I did it on a 300 dollar bike and with no skill to speak of. I am a proud of that and I will be wearing this tshirt for a long time.

Catholic Patriots

I make no secret of the fact that I am Catholic, and by Catholic I mean Big "C" ,Pope Catholic. My Catholic faith is a huge part of my life. Everything I am flows from my faith and the Church. I recently became a member of the 4th degree of the Knights of Columbus. The Knights of Columbus is a Catholic fraternal men's organization with councils throughout the world. It was founded by Father Michael J. McGiveny in 1882 at New Haven, Ct. The Knights have 4 degrees based on the virtues of Charity, Unity, Fraternity and the highest Patriotism.

After I completed the ceremony I started to think back about the many patriotic Catholic men I had known about or read about. I was taken back to that Sunday in 2003 during my time in Iraq. I had been notified that there was going to be a priest available at the FOB and if I could make my way there Mass would be conducted. I managed to get a ride the 35-40 miles from our patrol base back to the FOB in time for Mass that Sunday Morning. The Priest was an Air Force Chaplain, a Major if I remember correctly. There was about 20 of us there sitting on the iconic Iraqi plastic chairs in a small windowless room on the compound of our Kurdish allies. It speaks to the religious tolerance of the Kurds that we were allowed to have Mass on their facility. We had no missals, no choir, nor an organ. All we had was a Priest and our faith. We came together as Catholic men in a time of war and it didn't matter that no one could sing or that you didn't know all the words, for that hour,that room was part of the Holy Roman and Apostolic Church. When Mass was completed, Father conducted a group absolution and I left feeling as if no matter what my future held I would be ready for it.

Catholics have contributed mightily to this nation and other Catholic men have come together in time of war. Here are some Catholic Men that earned the Medal Of Honor while serving God and Country.

Captain Humbert Roque "Rocky" Versace U.S. Army Special Forces

http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net//hrversace.htm

Captain Joseph T. O'Callahan U.S. Navy Chaplain

http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/pers-us/uspers-o/j-ocalln.htm

Lt. Vincent Robert Capadonno U.S. Navy Chaplain "Grunt Padre"

http://www.vincentcapodanno.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=blogsection&id=6&Itemid=43

MA2 Michael Monsoor U.S. Navy Seal

http://www.navy.mil/moh/monsoor/

I am very proud to be a Catholic man and Patriotic American.

Vivat Jesus and De Oppresso Liber

Malfunction

I spent the majority of my time in Special Forces as a Military Freefall (MFF) Parachutist. Military Freefall is also called HALO for High Altitude Low Opening and is a specialty infiltration tactic taught at the Special Warfare Center and School. Some people say “oh you’re a skydiver?” Military Freefall parachuting is not skydiving. Although the concept is the same skydivers have minimal gear and normally jump from altitudes less than 10,000 feet Above Ground Level (AGL) so there is no need for supplemental oxygen. MFF parachutists routinely jump from higher altitudes up to 25,000 AGL with weapons, supplemental oxygen, 90 pounds of gear strapped to their bodies and generally at night. The military can make anything fun into a chore. Skydiving is also a means to an end whereas MFF is merely an infiltration method and is generally only the beginning of the mission.

I was on three different MFF teams 083, 014, and 074. Additionally I was an instructor at the Military Freefall School for 3 years. I have made over a 1200 MFF jumps most in a tactical scenario of one kind or another. I have made tandem jumps and jumps as a videographer as well and in all that time I had one malfunction. This is statistically very good as I believe the average is 3 malfunctions for every 1000 jumps. But like Clint Eastwood said in “Unforgiven” “I was always lucky in the order of things.” Lucky and as most people will tell you I am pretty anal when it comes to things that effect me. Actually the one and only malfunction I had wasn’t even my fault.

I was attending the MFF Jumpmaster course in 1993 at Ft. Bragg N.C.; this course produces subject matter experts in the art of Military Freefall. Graduates of the MFF Jumpmaster course must pass a rigorous academic and physically demanding program of instruction to earn the Jumpmaster wreath and star. Week one primarily instructs students in the conduct of the Jumpmaster Personnel Inspection (JMPI). The JMPI is how a MFF Jumpmaster ensures that all parachutists are properly rigged and safe to jump. The JMPI consists of hundreds of memorized points of inspection and experienced Jumpmasters seem to be performing a martial arts “kata” as they flow from one point to the next. Students are taught that “slow is smooth and smooth is fast” during training as they seek to commit this kata to memory. The culmination of the first week is the JMPI test which consists of the student jumpmaster inspecting three jumpers rigged in different configurations.

The configurations are “Hollywood” or a jumper with a parachute only, combat equipped with a parachute, weapon and rucksack, and finally a jumper rigged with a parachute and supplemental oxygen. The time standards for all three configurations are added together and the jumpmaster candidate has 6 minutes to conduct the inspections without missing any major discrepancies and less than 3 minor discrepancies. Minor discrepancies are defined as incorrect rigging that can cause pain and discomfort to the parachutist whereas major discrepancies could result in death. The stress placed on the students by themselves and the instructors is incredible and less than 30% of students pass the JMPI test. This test and the stress involved weeds out those that cannot function under the pressure and responsibility that is commonplace during MFF Jumpmaster operations.

Week two and three consists of teaching the jumpmaster student how to determine Automatic Activation Device opening altitudes in the case of a jumper malfunction, wind drift calculations, map reading, static spotting exercises and finally live spots out of a variety of military aircraft both prop driven such as a C130 and Casa 212 and jets like the C141 and C5. Spotting is the MFF Jumpmasters bread and butter; this is how jumpmasters maneuver the aircraft to precisely intersect that point on the ground which will result in the parachutists landing safely at the designated drop zone. This is done from thousands of feet above ground level, often at night and due to wind conditions the release point is often miles from the drop zone. Jumpmaster students are required to pass 10 live spots both day and night to graduate from the course.

All this information was necessary to put my malfunction in the proper context. My class or what was left of it was in the back of a C141 aircraft conducting our final round of night spots at the time of the incident. We routinely started our night spots in the early morning hours so as to finish as day was breaking. Jumpmaster students did not land with the aircraft as we were parachutists first and students second so at the end of every block of instruction we jumped out of a perfectly good aircraft. This was done in hours of daylight so as to make it easier to find injured and lost students, the military is very efficient and pragmatic even in training.

I had finished my final spot early and for all intents and purposes I was a graduate, so I spent the rest of the training flight dozing in the front of the aircraft as we did endless racetracks in the sky allowing the other students to finish their assigned spots. As dawn approached the MFF instructor that had been sitting next to me motioned for me to don the rucksack we had been using as a training aid. Great, I thought three freak’n rucksacks and I have to jump one while all the other guys get to jump Hollywood. At the time I had less than 100 MFF jumps and whenever I jumped combat equipment I was on the ragged edge of instability. Jumping combat equipment would certainly turn the pleasant skydive I had anticipated into another onerous chore. The three of us that had “volunteered” were put in the front of our group due to the fact we were heavier and would fall faster than the other students. As I waited on the edge of the ramp looking out and down at the terra firma 12500 feet below I constantly fidgeted and adjusted my equipment like I was Nomar Garciaparra stepping to the plate.

As the Jumpmaster extended his arm in the signal to exit the aircraft the MFF instructor grabbed my chest strap and leapt from the ramp. We formed a two way as we rode the “hill” of transition and leveled out to belly to earth freefall. The instructor released my chest strap and instructed me to do some left and right turns, continuing to instruct and keep my skills sharp even as the course drew to a close. I was ecstatic, I was rock solid in freefall and I knew when I landed I would be an MFF Jumpmaster course graduate. At 6000 feet AGL I looked up, down, left, and right clearing my airspace in preparation to pull my ripcord. At 5000 feet I waved my hands above my head in a jumping jack motion signaling to those parachutists above me that I was about to deploy my canopy. At 4000 feet I firmly grasped my ripcord and pulled vigorously, I saw the MFF instructor seemingly disappear as I decelerated from terminal velocity. My spring loaded pilot chute caught the rushing air and swiftly pulled the rest of my main canopy from its deployment bag. As the rapidly expanding canopy forced my slider down my suspension lines to its position above my head, I grabbed my steering toggles and looked forward. This entire process took approximately 3-5 seconds.

While I was still attempting to gain control of my canopy I saw a brown and green blur flash in front of my eyes, this was followed by a sickening sight. Parachutists are instructed to turn right to avoid collision in the event of a high altitude entanglement unfortunately I had not fully gained control of my canopy and the forward motion of my parachute drove me straight into my classmates blooming canopy. His MC4 parachute main canopy engulfed me, entangling me in his suspension lines and blinding me. In the event that an entanglement occurs, and we were definitely entangled, the higher parachutist should cutaway from the lower parachutist to avoid the possibility of further entanglement. To this day I have no idea who cut away first or who was higher; I was in a frantic struggle against time and altitude as I attempted to clear his canopy from myself and my equipment. Suddenly as clear as a bell I heard someone yell “Cutaway!!!” Looking up I saw my partially inflated canopy surging in and out in obvious distress. Figuring by this point I had nothing to lose I grasped my red cutaway handle with my right hand and my reserve ripcord with my left. “Arch, pull cutaway pillow, pull ripcord, clear burble, check canopy!!”

Once satisfied I had a working canopy again, I checked my altimeter and saw I was below 500 feet and better attempt to turn into the wind for landing. Unfortunately I had no way of knowing which way the wind was blowing as in all the excitement I had totally lost sight of the on ground wind indicator. I desperately flared my canopy and amazingly did a stand up landing in the sand and short, scrubby pine trees on the edge of the drop zone. Cadre members and the drop zone medic rushed to my location asking me if I was ok and if I was hurt. Other than being at a high state of alertness I was fine. As I gathered my wits about me I discovered I had neglected to lower my rucksack for landing and it was still dangling in its original jump configuration between my legs. I also discovered that my classmate’s main canopy was still tangled in the equipment attaching points at my waist. After assisting me in removing my equipment myself and the other student were hustled back to the school administration building to write our statements while they were still fresh in our minds.

After we wrote our statements we were released back to our barracks to await a summons by the school Safety Officer. I was sweating bullets, had I come all this way only to be failed due to a safety violation? I didn’t think I had done anything wrong but my self doubt was increasing with every passing moment. Once I entered the office of the Safety Officer I was subjected to a cross examination, the kind I had imagined was reserved for the most hardened criminal. The Safety Officer, Company Commander and Sergeant Major did everything in their power to put a chink in my story, to trip me up and cause me to make a verbal error.

Finally after what seemed like hours the Sergeant Major looked at me and told me I was dismissed. I said “Dismissed as in failed or dismissed as in free to leave?” He said “You’re free to leave now get the hell out.” As I walked down the hallway towards the exit I saw one of the instructors and asked him what my status was. He told me to shut up and get out, that I would be ok and I best make myself scarce. You didn’t have to tell me twice, well maybe you did but you didn’t have to tell me three times. I later learned the other student was dropped from the course for failure to clear his airspace below and for causing a high altitude entanglement. I was sad that it had to end that way, but in the dog eat dog world of Special Operations mistakes get people killed and he had violated several safety protocols during our incident. Bottom line was, I left Ft. Bragg sporting a brand new shiny MFF Jumpmaster Badge and in the end that is all I cared about.

Former Action Guy

What is a "Former Action Guy?" Well to be a Former Action Guy implies that you were once an "Action Guy." Action Guys are known by many names "Door Kicker", "Snake Eater", or even "An Operator. " I retired from the US military in 2004 after 22 years service, I spent 14 years of that time as a Special Forces soldier or "Green Beret", think John Wayne. I did the typical Action Guy things like move,shoot, and communicate. I hung out with other Action Guys, I studied Action Guy materials and watched Action Guy shows. I was an Action Guy.

Then I retired and suddenly I was a Former Action Guy. I chose to move myself and my family back to the Midwest and I took an office job. I was about as far from being an Action Guy as I could be. Sure I tried to keep up with the Action Guy lifestyle for awhile, I applied for a few law enforcement positions, I toyed with the idea of going back overseas as a contractor but because of family considerations and other things none of this panned out. So there I was stuck in an average everyday guy job still feeling very much like an Action Guy but miserable because it was obvious I was not.

In a society which very much ties a man's job to his sense of self worth, I had went from the top to the bottom. I had been at what many would call the pinnacle of the military experience, I was a member of an elite unit with a rich history then in a day that changed and I was just another guy. Life by necessity moves on but as a guy with a type "A" personality and an admitted over achiever I found it very hard to come to grips with my loss of status.

So I dealt with it, I quit my crappy office job and got a job in the security industry which I enjoy and while not as exciting as what I did before still makes me feel like I am contributing to society in a positive way. I still get my "Action Guy" fix now but in different ways. I joined a running club and run long and short distance races, I have gotten into mountain biking, and back into pistol shooting. I want to try turkey hunting. I am a state registered High School sports official in Football,Wrestling, and Baseball and officiate hundreds of contests a year. I got certified as an Emergency Medical Technician and volunteer at a local ambulance service 90-100 hrs a month. I plan on upgrading to paramedic sometime in the future. I have become involved in veterans affairs and am active in the local Veteran's of Foreign Wars and the Knights of Columbus.

As a Former Action Guy I still get to do some cool things. I helped a newborn baby, born unexpectedly and at home make its way to a hospital. I assisted in the rescue of 8 drunk and hypothermic college kids who may have been fatalities if we hadn't pulled them from that icy creek. I have officiated matches of State Champion wrestlers and acted as Back Judge in a games between top ten Football teams. I took my youngest shooting and taught him how to aim a pistol. I ran for City Council and lost ( I did get 10% of the vote though). So after 6 years I have adjusted to life as a Former Action Guy. This blog is part of that process, I will be posting old war stories mostly so I don't forget them and random thoughts. For my friends these events may or may not resemble what you remember but it is my story and I am sticking to it.

So Ciao and for those that know DAJETFU.

April 9th

So their I was hugging the ground like a little bitch trying to see how much of my body I could fit into the 2 ft wide 2 foot deep trench I was sitting in. Meanwhile Iraqi artillery shells were hitting less than 5 meters away raining shrapnel, rocks and dirt down on top of my Ballistic Helmet, Personnel, Ground more commonly known as the “Kevlar”. My Special Forces A Team had been calling devastating air strikes on the Iraqi Division dug in along the Kani Domlon ridgeline in Northern Iraq for about two weeks and I guess we pissed them off. The Iraqis had taken a terrible pounding and I had observed some of them even shedding their uniforms and deserting via a tractor earlier in the day. I had also observed about thirty of them turn into little pink smears on the grass as a B2 bomber unloaded its entire payload on their bunker.
We had been operating out of some fighting positions the Iraqis had abandoned as they retreated before the Kurdish Pershmerga and US Special Forces teams that had infiltrated Northern Iraq. The Iraqi military had consolidated their defense in a loose ring around the strategically oil rich city of Kirkuk. Occupying many concrete bunkers that were spread about five hundred meters apart; the Iraqis had also replicated their tactics of the first Gulf War and set some of the oil wells on fire. Apparently this was done in an attempt to obscure their positions from our aircraft. Earlier as I peered at the enemy positions through my binoculars and worked up coordinates for the next strike, I wondered if I would be permanently affected by breathing in all this oil smoke which covered us like a thick but slightly greasy fog.
However as I was getting more intimate with the Iraqi countryside I was worried about the more permanent problem that seemed to be facing me. It was about 2300 and pitch dark. Prior to nightfall we had seen some artillery fire land about 2000 meters away but didn’t pay it much attention other than to note it for our situation report. But now as half the team was preparing to bed down and the other half was on watch, the artillery started to bracket our position. The enemy observers added and dropped in range until they let a full blown fire for effect loose on our position.
My commo guy was yelling into the satcom radio that we were experiencing contact; meanwhile I was rousting the rest of the team trying to get them under cover. “Here it comes again, boys” I said as we heard the muffled report of the Iraqi artillery that was followed not to long after by another series of earth shattering and ear ringing explosions. The Kurdish Major who was my counterpart on this patrol, grabbed my arm and was trying to yell something about the incoming in my ear. However between his broken English and the noise I could only catch the word “Peshmerga” as he shook his head in a negative fashion. Was he trying to tell me we were not the primary target of this barrage? Was he trying to indicate the primary target was the Peshmerga forces that had been probing the Iraqi positions along the ridgeline?
Primary target or not when under stress soldiers always fall back on their training, every school I had went to from Basic Combat Training to Ranger school had drilled into me that when you are on the receiving end of an artillery attack you un-ass the area as quickly as possible. So this is what we did, I instructed my team members to grab the small amount of gear we had around our position and to load up in the white Land Rover Defender four wheel drives we were traveling in. We piled into our vehicles and clipped our night vision goggles to our helmets. Meanwhile the Kurds loaded up in the one rusty suburban they had for transportation. Except for the red tracers flying down the valley toward and around our position and the artillery flashes surrounding us there was no light. We drove in blackout conditions using our night vision goggles to navigate as the Kurds followed behind in their vehicle. My plan was to try and find another location to set up shop, one that had not been compromised by the Iraqi observers. Everyone was at a high state of alertness as we drove across the Iraqi countryside paralleling the bluff that ending abruptly at the steep valley that it seems Peshmerga forces where advancing up towards the Iraqi positions.
We were approaching a linear danger area (road) when suddenly my driver who was our senior weapons sergeant yelled “Ambush!! We have men and weapons on the road!!” He immediately threw our vehicle in reverse and tried to break contact. Unfortunately he forgot we were the lead element in a line of 4 vehicles. The vehicle immediately behind us managed to stop but was hit in the front fender by my vehicle as it backed up. The third vehicle in line was the Kurdish vehicle which continued the accordion effect and slammed into the spare tire on the back of the vehicle in front of it so hard the front of their vehicle was pushed into the radiator cracking it and busting a headlight. I yelled at him “What the fuck dude, you need to fuckin think before you go hauling ass!!” Meanwhile, whoever he saw on the road had disappeared, if they where even there at all.
So there we were in the middle of no mans land with two smashed up vehicles, one which was barely drivable. I had my team members pull security as I tried to assess the damage by red lens flashlight. We were barely 1000 meters from where we had just experienced the artillery attack and I felt like the leader of the ass clown circus as I tried to explain to the Major I was sorry we had destroyed his truck. I determined our best course of action was to return to base and see if we could repair the Kurdish truck. Our patrol base was in the village of Klawkut which was about 10 kilometers east of our current position. We limped back to base with the Kurdish vehicle in tow, driving thru the countryside of Northern Iraq it took us 4 more hours to move those 10 kilometers and we arrived at out patrol base about 0400 exhausted. After waking up my Team Leader and explaining the situation I told the guys to bed down and figured we would sort things out in the morning.
The next morning we reported what had happened to our company headquarters and we were instructed in no uncertain terms to get our asses back out there and establish a new observation post. So I loaded my team back up in our vehicles, taking only 2 Kurds with us we established a new OP a little farther north of our previous position. Shortly after we arrived we received radio traffic that we were to engage no one west of a particular gridline on the map. Shortly after that we received word that the Iraqi forces had deserted the ridgeline and Peshmerga where streaming hell bent for leather towards Kirkuk. I informed my Team Leader that the Kurds where heading towards Kirkuk and agreed to link up with them at a small village that we had used as a reference point before. As we waited at the linkup for the remainder of our team we saw a regular parade of buses, cars, dump trucks, and pickups filled with Peshmerga streaming south west along the main highway to Kirkuk. What happened when they got there is another story.
I found out later that April 9th was a watershed day for the invasion of Iraq. It was the day the famous statue of Saddam Hussein was toppled. It was the day that Baghdad was taken and the Iraqi forces collapsed. Although I will never know for sure I believe the fierce direct and indirect fire we experienced on that evening was the last attempt of the Iraqi forces to cover their withdrawal as they melted before the onslaught of American air power and Kurdish foot soldiers. For me the evening of April 9th will always stick in my mind as the night I had a fender bender in the middle of a firefight.

The Road to Klaw Kut

The road to Klaw Kut was rutted, narrow and peppered with the occasional landmine. This was early in the invasion of Iraq and the Improvised Explosive Device had not become popular as of yet with the citizens as a weapon of choice. The explosive devices we encountered as we drove along were probably left over from the 1980’s when Saddam Hussein had launched a campaign of eradication against the Kurdish people in the north of Iraq. Or possibly they were left over from the constant inner tribal turmoil between the Kurds themselves.
We had been directed by our company command to find a suitable base of operations from which to launch airstrikes and reconnaissance missions against the Iraqi armored units amassed along the “Green Line” northeast of the city of Kirkuk. The Green Line roughly corresponded to the non official border between the Iraqi held territory and the semi autonomous Iraqi Kurdistan region in Northern Iraq. However the Kurds considered Kirkuk as historically part of their territory and were very intent on getting it back. With the help of the good old U.S. of A, they saw their chance.
Within that context my Special Forces team was making its way from the location of our company headquarters or AOB in Taq Taq, Northern Iraq towards the village of Klaw Kut. Accompanying us were about 30-40 Kurdish Pershmerga fighters, we all had the intent of setting up a patrol base from which to harass the Iraqi Army. We really had no idea what to expect in Klaw Kut, we had literally picked it off a map. It was far enough back from the Green Line to provide protection from artillery fire and looked large enough and we hoped friendly enough to sustain ourselves and our Kurdish compadres.
As we crested the ridgeline surrounding Klaw Kut and I got my first view of the village, literally my first thought was of Indiana Jones. This village was right out of Raiders of the Lost Ark, not the jungle chasing natives’ part but the windblown dusty desert part. Even though this part of Iraq experienced a modicum of rainfall and was actually quite green this little village was a dustbowl sitting on dirt patch. Klaw Kut was located in a small valley with an unnamed creek running through it. The road we drove in on ran parallel to the creek and had to be forded to get to the main part of the village. All the structures consisted of the mud walls and flat roofs that were common in Iraq. Each family housing unit also had a stable attached directly to the living area, apparently so light-fingered neighbors wouldn’t run off with the family goat or donkey. Livestock is wealth in this part of the world and they take their goats seriously. It was kind of disconcerting to see a donkey poke his head in the window while you were trying to talk but you get used to it.
The only structure not constructed with mud was a small cinderblock building sitting next to the road and adjacent to the creek. This building looked empty and we figured it would do as good as any for our patrol base. The creek would provide a suitable water source and the valley would provide protection and allow us to place observation posts for early warning. As soon as we stopped our little convoy we were surrounded by children trying to all talk at once and grab at our equipment. Through our interpreter we managed to contact the village “headman” and ask for permission to commandeer the building for our use. Apparently this building had been built as a school by some international aid organization but had sat unused for some time. They were happy to let us use it for a price.
After a few hours we had negotiated rent for the building, the procurement of a diesel generator with weekly resupplies of diesel and a once daily hot meal provided by the local women. After some “man hugs” and hand shakes we proceeded to occupy the small two room building. The Pershmerga erected a large tent, similar to a U.S.GP (General Purpose) medium, which to stay in while we laid our sleeping gear in one room of the cinderblock building and put our communication equipment and supplies in the other. One room would be our sleeping room and the other would be our Tactical Operations Center (TOC) /radio room.
We would split our team into two parts. One half of the team would be commanded by the Captain our Team Leader and as the Team Sergeant and senior enlisted member of the team I would command the other half. We would rotate between our patrol base and the Green Line performing reconnaissance and calling in airstrikes on the Iraqi positions along the Kani Domlan ridgeline. Each half would stay out 2-3 days and return while the other manned the TOC.
Eventually we bedded down pulling fifty percent security and planning on sorting out our first mission in the morning. In the morning however we were greeted by the village headman and his wife with a pot of hot chicken and rice. They also provided some flat bread with which to scoop up the food and some tomatoes. While we were eating, the headman mentioned that to officially seal the deal myself and the Team Leader needed to meet with the local village elder who also happened to be the village religious leader. His house was the largest in the village and doubled as the mosque; by largest I meant it had two rooms and a mud wall surrounding his yard. This created a small compound that was shaded by a very large tree that looked to be of the pine family. We agreed to meet him for lunch and the headman and his wife left to take him the news.
Approximately 1200 hours we moseyed down the hill and across the creek then back up the other hill to the elder’s compound. We were accompanied by our interpreter and a few Peshmerga. We stopped briefly at the gate to the compound as our interpreter talked to another Peshmerga soldier who seemed to be guarding the entrance. We entered the compound and were taken around to the back of the hut under that big pine tree. There were a few male individuals sitting around on mats drinking tea and talking to each other. One of the Peshmerga was playing some kind of stringed instrument similar to a ukulele and singing softly to himself. I asked what he was singing and our interpreter told me it was a popular Kurdish folksong, He must have killed on Karaoke night. We were offered hot tea which we accepted. The tea was served in the Middle Eastern style in small glass cups with no handles; it was loaded with sugar and about five thousand degrees. Even though I tried to be careful I burned my tongue and later developed a blister, I neglected to turn myself in for a purple heart however.
Eventually we were called inside the hut, entering through a small doorway and were greeted by a few women who were cooking something in a big pot over an open fire in the center of the room. I started getting nervous when we had to take off our boots and leave our M4 rifles by the door. However the Peshmerga were guarding the door and I decided to quit being so paranoid. We stepped into the other room in the house which had about 20 carpets laid in a crazy patchwork pattern to cover the dirt floor. There were about 5 men surrounding a large carpet laden with food and sitting cross-legged on the floor. In the corner was an old television set on one of those 1960’s TV stands with wheels. There was nowhere to plug in the television and it was more or less a piece of art. We sat down around the carpet and accepted another glass of tea, the elder motioned for us to dig in and we started piling some goat meat, rice and vegetables onto flatbread. The flatbread served as both plate and napkin for the meal. I couldn’t help but think how much this meal reminded me of “Robin Sage” the culmination exercise for the Special Forces Qualification Course. During Robin Sage I had also been a student team sergeant and had to endure a scenario eerily similar to this. Although the country was “Pineland” and the natives were drunken North Carolina rednecks. Never the less I marveled at how the training scenario had actually got it right.
We continued to talk to the village elder through the interpreter and he related how he was very glad to see us because Saddamn was no longer sending aircraft to bomb the village. He also asked if we would be helping the villagers and their relatives reclaim their lost possessions in Kirkuk. He certainly had a long memory as Saddamn had bombed the north in the 1980’s and kicked the Kurds out of Kirkuk during the 1970’s “arabization” of the city.
While my Team Leader engaged the religious leader in conversation I noticed that one of the other men was constantly trying to tune in a radio station on a small transistor radio. He would find something he liked on the dial and listen to it momentarily before he would move on down the dial, he must have had the Kurdish version of ADD. Eventually all the goat was gone and all the stories told, we politely said our goodbyes, put our boots back on, retrieved our weapons and went back to our little hootch. At that point we had no idea how long we would be staying in Klaw Kut but the best I could tell was that we had made a good impression and we would have a solid base from which to rest and recuperate from our patrols against the Iraqis.