The Kosovo Kronichles

Subject: The End
Time: 3:00:19 PM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

I climbed a mountain once.

Well, in truth, I climbed it twice. The first when I was very young, but I didn't make it to the peak. The second time was as an adult.

Oh, this isn't the right way to end it...let me collect my thoughts. I'll come back to this mountain.

The surprising thing was that the end of this adventure came not with a bang, nor even with a whimper, but instead with the slow plodding formality of bureaucracy and the fluttering of some paper. In this case, of course, it is the all-important Department of Defense Form 214 which carefully annotates your service and everything that happened to you during the previous period. You sign it, they sign it, you take your copy and the other gets sent to a file deep in the bowels of a huge building in St. Louis. And I’m free. Just like that.

Well, I suppose not. I am, after all, still in. But for the lion’s share of my unit, the time has come to go home. And by home, since this is a National Guard unit, I don’t mean the barracks. I mean home. Policemen will become policemen. Teachers become teachers. Wives & husbands, for the most part, become once again wives & husbands. This band of 1,300 or so soldiers, summoned for about 15 months, now evaporates. People I’ve lived with intimately for over a year are now leaving and going their separate ways. Many of us will never meet again. Some of us will. So it goes.

Actually, it is depressing.

Anyhow, it’s time to close this Chronicle at long last. It served its purpose.

Now, at the end of such literary endeavors it is customary for long-winded Chroniclers to wax poetic, perhaps on their soap-boxes, and summarize, sermonize or demonize on their subject to long-suffering audiences. I have, of course, decided to not do this, as I am a modest man with very little to say.

Heh.

Right.

I think the easiest place to start is by asking the questions what, if any, difference did I make? The answer, sadly, is not very much. Although I am proud of what I did in Kosovo the fact remains that as an individual my impact was minimal to say the least. True, we participated in some engineering work…there are about 4.5 kilometers of all-weather road running where there wasn’t before thanks in part to me. There’s also two concrete bridges where there used to be one rotting wooden bridge and another big empty space that just screamed “put a Bridge here!” and I can say they have my fingerprints on them. Under my direction we cleared suspected minefields and reduced the amount of unexploded ordnance laying about Kosovo by about 350 pieces. My office issued over 200 work orders to KBR and we investigated who knows how many projects that we could never do. We did all this stuff with minimal manning, little funding and less equipment than I care to think about.

While there, I matched wits with smugglers, shook hands with Generals, had a pleasant conversation with a Cardinal, danced with an Italian Carbinieri, ate crawfish with the Swedes, slipped bootleg Doritos to a friendly Canadian, played petanque with the French and ate goulash with the Austrians. On the other side of the ledger I drove thousands of kilometers dodging all manner of traffic, nearly got stuck in really remote places more times than I can think of, tread in land salted with landmines, calmed down an angry mob of farmers using some really quick thinking and more tact than is normally issued to soldiers, committed a fair number of crimes in the name of Getting Things Done and suffered a great deal of anxiety at times, and in general experienced a great deal of boredom.

In other words, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

But despite all this Kosovo isn’t materially better off than when I left. The roots of the ethnic struggles between Serbs and Albanians (with the occasional Roma or Ashkali caught in between) are still there. There are economic challenges that we, as Americans, can barely fathom. They need a hundred new bridges, and a rail system that works, and factories, and electricity and…and….and I really didn’t do much to fix it at all.

I think that shall bother me for a long time to come. I keep seeing the faces of the citizens of Dubrava and it bothers me that I could never build them a bridge. Doesn’t matter, really, that it wasn’t my job. Somebody has to do it, and that person apparently wasn’t going to be me.

Another question I ask is, "What did I learn in Kosovo?"

That is a fertile field to plow...so fertile that I shan't go into everything I learned there, but touch on some highlights. My year in Kosovo taught me a lot about the human spirit by watching the Kosovars get up every morning, dust themselves off, and have another go at it. It taught me that we in America (and Western Europe) have it so much better that we don't even know.

It also has me worried.

In Kosovo I see a dark future for the civilized world. I see a community that fell down, and that despite the help of hundreds of agencies and nations that fumble and bumble over each other they just can't seem to get up again. I see a future of crumbling roads and bridges, but I see worse a future where people spend more time finding fault with each other and each other's ideas than with commonality and trying to understand each other. I see in America where we point the accusing finger at each other while ignoring the looming chaos that exists outside our borders.

So the next question I ask is “Well, am I better off?”

Hmmmm. Trickier.

A long time ago I was a high-school drop-out working in a toy store warehouse with very few prospects. One day I was unloading a crate of puzzles and one of them was a scene of a river in Germany. It hit me at that moment that unless something really drastic happened that I’d never see the real thing. I decided I wasn’t content to go the way I was going and decided I wanted to see the world. Well, I saw it, and got kind of hooked on the whole thing. Thing is, somewhere in there I decided I wanted to see more than just the monuments of the big cities…I really do want to see the world for all its warts and glory. The Army is a heck of a way to do that.

The problem with it is it gets into your blood. You want to see more and do more. This isn't just my observation...it has been true throughout time, I think. I read somewhere recently that Roman Legionnaires would complete an enlistment of 16 years. At the end of it the Senate would award them a land grant and enough money to set up a farm or perhaps a tavern where they could live the rest of their days in comparative comfort, free from the non-stop marching and wars. Interestingly, many of them would abandon the farms after a period of time and enlist for a second 16 year tour. A few would enlist for a third tour. It wasn't for lack of money, for they had plenty. They missed the life of the camp and the tramp of the sandals.

There's a diary entry from a young cavalryman at the end of the Civil War that hints at it, as he awaits his demobilization:

I do feel so idle and lost to all business that I wonder what will become of me. Can I ever be contented again? Can I work? Ah! How doubtful.

My feelings are much the same as I return. I'm not alone. I'm surprised by a few things as I return in this 5th year of war. The Guardsmen keep coming back. Not all, I'll admit, but so many of them are re-enlisting even though the chances are very high that they will indeed be called back at some time in the future, and indeed they have. Many Guardsmen are now on their second tours to Afghanistan or Iraq. One, a friend of mine that I've known for over 15 years, is shipping out to Iraq on his 3rd tour of Active Duty in 9/11.

And I know why.

I climbed a mountain once.

I went with my brother this time. The mountain was Shasta in the northlands of California. Even from the beginning it was a challenge as altitude sickness quickly claimed me. Despite that, I kept pushing up the mountainside. Past the Horse camp to Lake Helen (a misnomer since I doubt it is every anything but a bowl of snow and ice) and then up the Heart with its steep slope and crumbling sides, through the fingers and then gingerly across the glacier and then to the bubbling sulfurous pool of hot water at the base of the final peak.

There I finally sat myself down heavily panting for air, unable or unwilling to go further. The end was only a handful of feet above me, but the altitude was nearly 14,000 feet and I felt sick to my stomach, exhausted and spent. I must have sat there for an hour in that strange and surreal environment with the hot spring whisping around me before I finally made the final assault on the peak.

At the top the world is beautiful. I know it was an illusion, but it seems like you can see the curve of the world up there...but certainly you can see for a fair share of forever. Up there you can hear yourself breathe, but the world is curiously muted because of the lack of air and the lack of anything alive. There is an excitement in the moment that transcends the toils and labor of the climb, the fills you with an awe that mere mortals at sea level can never quite comprehend. There is achievement, there is success, there is a view that goes beyond what the mere eye-balls can comprehend.

I doubt I was ever closer to God than I was at that moment. I've never gone back.

I went to the peak of another mountain when I was in Europe...the Jungfrau, the highest peak in the Swiss Alps. I took a train to the top. It was no where near the same, even if the air was thin and the vista more stunning. I didn't climb it, I rode. Some things can't be appreciated nearly as much until you've suffered for them a bit. In ways my life is well-seasoned with a little adversity. The snow is much more beautiful after you've slept the night in it. The desert is alive if you spend a couple of weeks in it, sweating your butt off, in a way completely unknown to the casual traveler slinging through it in an air-conditioned SUV heading for Vegas at 85 MPH.

Some have asked me why I do this. I can only say I don't know how I could not. When I get to the end of my life I don't want to go to the grave having the most exciting thing in my life having been that trip to Vegas. I'm fortunate, oh so fortunate, to have a job that takes me to places I never dreamed existed, to see the world as it is when you peel back the skin. I needed this adventure.

So, you may ask…what now?

Sadly, it is back to a desk for me. My desire for adventure is balanced by my desire for a steady paycheck and I go where the Army tells me to go. I don’t actually know WHERE that is right now, but I suspect it will be quiet and boring and filled with paperwork that I don’t want to do. My heart has been filled with dread these past few weeks knowing that when I left the Brigade I would have to return to the world of the mundane. Most of my fellow soldiers craved it, and indeed I want to return myself, but I’ll always miss the next adventure.

But now…my adventure is done. In the future, I think I will have more adventures. I’ve got about 5 or 6 years left in the Army so I suspect I have at least one deployment left in me…but there will be more. I still have to go to Peru, for instance. I’ve always wanted to see Australia as well. Somewhere in there I shall get married. Having children seems to bear promise of being an adventure as well, one that many of you have accomplished while I have fallen far short. I should like to learn to snowboard, and maybe climb a few more mountains. I think I’ll have a good time growing old, for the most part, and then one day I think I’ll pass on. There are just so many things left to do.

But those are different stories that will be told in their time.

And this story is done.

.

So to all of the gentle readers that have followed my adventure for the past 16 months or so, may I thank you for your kind words and observations that reminded me that those at home had not forgotten me. You buoyed me as I think you cannot know. I thank you humbly for taking time to read these humble passages and perhaps have taken something away from them, and understand a bit of who I am when I don the uniform and leave the homeland. You have given me purpose when sometimes I needed purpose the most.

And now lastly, to all of you, may you have your own adventures of your choosing, may your Chronicle be long and well-written. May you live your life with the most Pax you can.

So ends this Chronicle.

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 8 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: Home
Time: 9:08:15 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

And then I flew home.

The night before they finally gave us our all-important DD214 and the final farewells began. My flight didn’t leave until the next morning, so I headed of to sleep in the rack for one last night. I spoke for a while with my deputy, a really good man who I hope the best for in the future. In the end we said goodbye and shook hands and headed our separate ways. In a very official way when we were handed our papers we ceased to be a unit and became a bunch of individuals.

The sleep wasn’t very good as at all hours some of us were awoken and grabbed our gear and went to make flights. Because of the composite nature of our late organization we came from all over the place and to all over we then went. My turn finally came in the morning when I got up, loaded up my rental vehicle, and headed for SEATAC.

When I joined the Army we were officially discouraged from traveling in uniform. Now, it is officially encouraged. So when I got onto the curb I had my rucksack on my back, a duffle bag in each hand and my much-beloved patrol cap was off my head and the hated beret was back on top. And yes, I was in camouflage. I live for danger, and I was flying through San Francisco Airport this day. In uniform.

To my surprise United has a policy of upgrading soldiers in uniform, so I had the embarrassment of riding Business. I really didn’t care for that too much. I feel myself a servant of the people and am uncomfortable taking gifts of any sort. But then again, the flight was full and it would have been awkward to find someone to switch with. Oh, what the hell…I only come home once this year.

The flight from Washington was smooth and fast, aided by good tailwinds. The view was lackluster for most of it as the cloud cover was unbroken until I finally came over California and spotted Mount Shasta, standing tall amongst the pygmies. I thought I should not be emotional coming home because I’ve done it so many times one would think I would be used to it by now…but Shasta was a beautiful sight, sitting on the shore of a sea of low-lying clouds.

In time I saw a lake and scratched my head. Which one could that be? It looks vaguely like Clearlake…but it couldn’t be. And yet, it was…Clearlake was where I had my first National Guard command.

Then we were over the hills and crossing the Sonoma Valley. I cold see clearly Windsor, Santa Rosa, Rohnert Park, Cotati and Petaluma. I couldn’t see Fort Bragg as I was on the wrong side of the plane, but as we swung over Marin I could see Novato and San Rafael clearly. I could see where Corte Madera was, but not clearly enough to see my old house.

In the distance I could see Contra Costa, with Richmond spreading out from the east landing of the bridge, and with Diablo in the distance. I think I could see Hercules, but that’s hard to see. To the north I could just make out Benicia From a trick of the flight path I couldn’t see the Golden Gate, but that was okay. The day was remarkably clear and boats, to my amusement, were in the bay.

I love to travel. I love to go to really crappy places. I enjoy the thrill of the adventure and the enjoyment of discovery.

But home…

Home.

Home.

Tomorrow: The End

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own

Subject: More Reports of Nothing Happening
Time: 11:02:07 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            I’d like to report more on my demobilization, but to be frank, there isn’t much happening which has made me all kinds of bored. However, I was listening to the radio the other day and I was really, really surprised to hear something which made me think that I should probably write a quick paragraph or two on what the US is like. I mean, it seems only fair…I described chunks of Kosovo as if it were an alien place, I should probably do the same with the US. After all, I’ve been gone a year and a year is a long time to be away from home.

            Okay, purists will point out that I’ve only been gone a few months as I came back to Texas for a week. Technically this doesn’t count.

            Okay the big changes.

            Ummm.

            Nothing much, really. I was expecting gas prices to be through the roof and, sad to say, they’re not too much higher than what I left them at. The roads seem a lot cleaner now, but in truth I don’t think that’s changed. I’m just used to seeing gobs of litter on the road side. The air is cleaner, without a doubt, than Kosovo’s perpetual haze and I trust water that comes out of the tap…but all this was the way it was when I left.

            It’s easier to drive now, with painted lines on the road and plenty of traffic lights. I was even in a traffic jam and I was amazed how patient everybody was. No one tried to drive on the sidewalk to get ahead. I’m driving too slowly, which surprises me a little. In Kosovo doing 90 kilometers and hour could be harrowing. Here, people honk at you for going too slow on the interstate.

            The food is familiar. There’s something called Coke Zero now, but no one is trying that. Oh, there are no naked ladies on the Coke cans. That’s a let down. The restaurants are all bright and open and cheery and look very much the same. The sameness is disappointing, but then I can finally get decent Mexican food which is a real plus.

            The lights are always on. How odd.

            Ironically my living conditions have taken a sharp turn for the worse. I sleep in a bay with many other officers again and the showers are more cozy than the ones I left in Kosovo. Oh, and when one flushes the toilet the courteous thing to do is shout a warning beforehand to the folks in the showers.

            Not all is perfect, of course. There was a healthy-looking panhandler at one of the intersections and as I watched he was given at least two bills from two vehicles waiting for the light to change. I rarely saw a beggar in Kosovo other than children trying to get treats from the soldiers. The ones that were there were lucky to walk away from a day’s work with half a Euro. In America even our poor are rich.

            Ah, but the radio. I assume you’ve all heard of this Lacy Peterson? Well, as I drove down the road I hear her Mom on the radio pitching a book about her experiences. Gaaah. Give me a Balkan country torn apart by inter-ethnic strife any day over crass commercialism.

            Then again, that really hasn’t changed either. So…thanks everyone for keeping the US more or less the same.

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: The Slow March of Demobilization
Time: 9:49:13 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            The life of the soldier tends to be one of time wasted. One gets used to long hours of boredom watching a stretch of the perimeter waiting for the enemy to attack. It is just one of the things we do. So of course our entire corporate culture seems to revolve, amazingly enough, around doing nothing. I know that seems counter-intuitive…I’m sure you all think of soldiers of men & women of action, storming up hills or swooping down on unsuspecting enemy formations and the such. While this is true, it is also true that for every cavalry charge bearing down on stalwart foes in the Civil War, there was probably about a month of sitting around brushing flies away and thinking about what was for dinner. Boredom & soldiering go together like peas and more peas.

            So we’re home in more than just a simple geographical sense. Our days are filled now with great gobs of high-protein, low-calorie nothing. As a case in point the first stop was to go to the CIF (I think it means Central Issue Facility. In truth, no one knows. No one cares, really) to turn in my equipment they issued me. It is a huge warehouse and myself & my stalwart band of engineers arrived for our appointment about 11 AM and plopped ourselves down in the line and waited.

            It was a wait of not quite epic proportions. The line moved with a slowness that defies my literary ability because to say “glacial” would be untrue and might give the wrong impression. If it were, indeed, glacial then we could probably move about some and come back before the ice had moved anywhere. So, rather than come up with some clever banter about how slow it was, let’s just save me some time & typing and say it was slow, shall we?

            Anyway, it was so slow that three hours later we were still suspiciously close to where we’d started from. So close, in fact, that I decided to measure it and sent out my terrain team to locate our starting point and conduct a survey. They came back and had worked it out to about 6.3 meters over the last few of hours. I was overjoyed because from that, of course, we were able to work out our velocity and were able to develop, after much arguing and writing of figures, a solid estimate of where in the line we should start braking procedures to slow our pace to prevent us from slamming into the counter at speeds just in excess of 0.58 Millimeters per second. This, of course, amused us and perplexed our fellow line-standers, which amused us even more.

            With our gear gone, (in my case very little…I turned in that fine desert-cammo body armor that I carried everywhere for a year, but after all these years I own most of my own gear.) we hopped on the bus to the official paperwork place where we slowly cease to be deployed officially. In the building there are a whole bunch of stations where people ask you questions and, if you answer them right, they sign your check list and you’re a step closer to civilian-hood.

            A big chunk of the stations pertain to medical. There is no prodding or turning & coughing or the such. It’s a very pragmatic approach to medicine. They ask if you have any problems. You say no. If you say yes, they send you to the hospital & they document the problem. I, of course, said no problems. I am, after all, as healthy as a middle-aged Ox with glaucoma, bad hearing, a missing tooth and a slight propensity to being chubby. They did ask a lot of questions and entered them into official records…one of the fallouts from Gulf War Syndrome is that the Army is careful to ask about anything you might have encountered that may cause problems down the line. They also asked if I’d seen a dead body. I admitted that I thought they were dead, but it just turned out they were sleeping in the staff meeting like the rest of us.

            Other stations went about the same way. You get to see the Chaplain. Well, you get to see the outside of his office. Only people with problems see the Chaplain. At this stage of the game, having problems simply delays getting out and on to important activities like drinking, so the Chaplain was remarkably bored.

            The worst station turned out to be Finance. Health issues are minor compared to the remarkable problems of getting you hazardous duty pay turned off. Sadly I didn’t get to Finance that day as the system shut down whilst I was in line at the comparative early hour of 7 PM, so I have to go back later.

            The next day was Sunday which in a normal world would be a day of rest, but our command decided to get a jump on it. There are briefings that are supposed to be done when you finally get home…things like how to cope with depression & suicide…how to cope with your family…how to cope with not having to roll out of bed at 2 in the morning and not finding your weapon. You know...the touchy-feely stuff. As this was keeping the vast majority of the soldiers from experiencing their first full free day back in the States, the mood was a tad bit ugly. The Game was coming on and we were getting a lesson on how not to beat your spouse.

            By the grace of some unknown deity, or perhaps because the command was better at sensing the mood of the crowd than I’ve given the credit for in the past, they abruptly cancelled the final brief of the afternoon and let everyone go. This was a really wise decision on their part, in my humble opinion, as the last brief was a seminar aimed at getting soldiers to re-enlist, which would have made as much sense as trying to convince a condemned man to chip in for a new rope.

            Anyway, that’s about that. Right now I’m killing more time. After blissfully giving us MLK day off (the first holiday I think I’ve had off since New Year’s Day 2005) we were told to report at 0700 Tuesday morning to get our next dose. Arriving there, we were told that we’d be going through in the evening…terribly sorry…run along now & come back at 1630. In other words, it is another enormous waste of time.

            Ahhhhh…good to be back home.

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: Back Home (Almost)
Time: 10:22:23 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            Howdy all;

 

            Well, I am safe in Washington.

 

            My journey began at the early hour of 50 minutes after midnight when we loaded our bags and started getting a variety of briefings, such as the customs briefing, anti-hijacking and etc. Then we traveled by bus to Pristina airport where we waited in a crowded terminal with a Czech and French contingent before finally boarding and taking off about 10 AM on the 12th.

            I joined the Army to see the world. I kind of did this journey…at least I got a good Whitman’s Sampler of terminals to add to my vast collection of visited places…including Shannon, Ireland (Ireland is beautiful from the air and from the window of their terminal), Gander, New Foundland (Ice was so thick on the runway and wind blowing so hard we looked like a Charlie Chaplin movie trying to get into the terminal), Indianapolis, Indiana (Don’t ask why) and finally we touched down in Washington.

            So here I am, pressed for time, longer report to follow.

 

            Sam

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: The Horse Heads for the Barn
Time: 1:12:32 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

Well, my last day has come at last although not, I hasten to add, the end of this Chronicle. There's a few more entries left.

The last few days have been a flurry of activity, but have also seen a sea change in the way myself and my fellow soldiers relate to each other. As we hand off our burdens to the Texans, we were able to see each other - well perhaps forced to see each other - with something other than mission on the mind all the time. We've started to talk, hang out more socially and pull a few pranks on each other. After all, we're going home.

I'm not sure if I can describe the atmosphere of what it is like. Obviously, nearly everyone has been away for a long period of time and has felt the tug of their homeland on their hearts. The closer the time to return becomes, the stronger that tug becomes. Our experience is a bit different in that we are all bound for home very soon. Giddines can fairly permeate the rank and file. Of course, bad things happen at the same time. Some soldiers, sensing the end of discipline, begin to act poorly. They sense that if they get into trouble now, what could happen to them? Even losing a stripe doesn't seem that bad when home is so close. Perhaps they gamble that with home so close and the dissolution of our unit nigh on hand that before the wheels of justice could grind around they would be free and clear.

Not so. At least several soldiers found out after drinking on New Year's Eve.

But I shan't talk of these things. The important things are we are packing, the Texans have the reins, and there is a chicken named Noodle running around our Brigade Headquarters.

Okay, the last isn't that important if the truth be told, but I did have to share it. One of the afformentioned fellow soldiers with too much time on his hands saw a chicken & rescued it at the cost of 5 Euros (Too much, in my opinion) and named it Noodle, then set it free. Well, free as a chicken in a fenced compound can truly be.

I, myself, have pulled a small prank, although it is hardly worth mentioning. I put one of my Sergeants in for a big medal and then found out the General himself had to pin it on. The Sergeant, while a good man, tends to get spun up about things from time to time. So, rather than telling him he was getting a medal I told him he needed to see someone about a minor vehicle accident he had about 7 months prior, saying that the issued had surfaced again. Needless to say hegot spun up, and with good reason since the 'accident' was little more than scratched paint. Still, his fellow sergeants got in on the gag and began feeding the flames until he was about ready to burst. On the appointed day we marched him into the General's office led by myself who announced the Sergeant was here for his Vehicle Accident Counselling. The General, very quick on the uptake, played it for all it was worth. Then pinned the medal on the stunned Sergeant.

Rarely have I felt more evil.

The Sergeant has promised, in respectful tones of course, that he will get me back. This is why one waits until the end of the tour to pull these pranks because, like the boozed-up soldiers of New Year's Eve there is a feeling that you're quickly going to dissolve the unit and the opportunities for payback - whether from official quarters or not - are distinctly reduced. I suppose that the experience that I've had that was closest would have been graduation from College, where there was an intense relief knowing that It Was Finally All Over. Except, of course, that our graduation is not us leaving but finally going home.

I don't know. It's a hard feeling for me to describe, and it isn't shared universally by all. Many are so eager to go home that they howl with anger at every flight delay of a single day. And I can't blame them. On the other end of the scale are those that have volunteered to stay behind and spend another year here...one of my team has chosen to do so, so I come home with one less in my brood. I suppose I'm somewhere in the middle...I want to go home and see California again after a year's passing. I want to see my family again, and the friends and loved-ones. I want to walk the land.

But, as well, I want to stay in Kosovo. Crazy and mixed-up as this place is, there is work to be done and the people have good hearts. I said a fond fairwell to my KPC friends the other day. They urged me to come back, and said that I have built a house in Kosovo and I am always welcome to visit. I think they were sincere, and I hope someday to return.

But that is the future.

For now the time has come to start the long journey home. The bags are packed, the key is handed off, and there is nothing more in Kosovo for me except memories and desire...and they are not strong enough.

I'm coming home.

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: Another day in Kosovo
Time: 3:36:47 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            It has been a flurry of activity since the Texans arrived. For about ten days straight we rushed from here to there teaching them how to do things, showing them the ropes and the such. Fortunately it hasn’t been an arduous task simply because a) The Texans were well-trained before they got here and b) this bunch replacing us has a positive attitude and enough smarts to handle everything we throw at them.

            But it hasn’t been easy. Doing a hand-off like this is a lot like drinking from a fire hose for the recipient. There’s a non-stop barrage of “Gee, this is what we did here…” and places to see, people to meet and the whole time we’re still maintaining our normal operations. The result has been a lot of long days, and a lot of ground covered.

            Yesterday, however, for the first time they were officially on their own. I took my Captain and we drove out to visit our friends in the KPC and bid a fond farewell. In reciprocation for my taking them out to lunch last time, they took me out to lunch this time. I was very surprised at the restaurant, it was very beautiful and most noticeable for having large panes of glass in lieu of any exterior walls, all nude wood for the frame and a large strip of natural grass & pine trees growing in the middle of the restaurant. Sadly I have no pictures, so I hope to take them the next time I’m deployed to Kosovo.

            Today I rolled out of bed at the ungodly late hour of 7:30 and went to the gym for the first time since November. It felt great! Then into the office around ten-ish or so to check on the progress there…all good, no problems.

            Hmph.

            Going from long hours to nothing to do is not as easy as it sounds. What the heck am I going to do with the rest of the day??? Even the prospect of blog writing pales. I just can’t remember the witty things that happened that I swore I would get around to writing about when I finally got un-busy. Poor memory is making a liar of myself to myself.

            So now I’m becoming a tourist of sorts and trying to collect souvenirs for the folks back home. This is difficult to do because I no longer have a vehicle at my disposal, although my replacement is very kind to let me borrow his when operational constraints are not a problem.

            Hmmmm…still no inspiration.

            The main topic of conversation now seems to be “So…when are you flying home?” and in truth no one knows the answer. We’re all waiting patiently for the rosters to be published. We have vague ideas, but nothing definitive. So we do what soldiers have done for centuries…we wait.

           

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own

Subject: Moving from the left seat
Time: 9:13:47 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            I am sadly behind in my journal writing because the end of the tour is nigh on hand. My replacements from Texas are all in, and we’ve been busily teaching them everything we know…a lengthy process to say the least.

            It is certainly hard to stay focused now. Your motivation level drops because you know that that plane is coming to pick you up, and that raft of problems that you’ve been towing about is soon going to be someone’s problem besides you. Still, we get up every morning and share the gospel according to us, and the Texans have been very cordial and very attentive. I have very high hopes for them.

            I picked New Year’s Eve as being the time that I would stop being in charge and let my replacement, Richard, take over. I would then dutifully follow him around and offer sage advice until he got really tired of me, then fade into the night. I had intended for the exchange to take place symbolically at midnight, but for practical reasons in the late afternoon on the last day of 2005 I formally turned over to him my badge of office…my cell phone.

            He didn’t have to wait long. To my surprise he almost immediately received a message that one of our roads had been closed due to a rock slide. I was amused.

            He decided to wait until the next day to investigate it which was a wise move. Moving on this road after dark is dangerous even during the day. Driving at night on muddy roads with sheer cliffs (okay, they’re not sheer…but going off the road here, you’d be better off with sheer) and rampaging landslides would be less than optimal in the same way that the Hindenburg was slightly flammable.

            The next day, New Year’s Day, was of course a full work day for us. After taking care of business in the morning, Richard left with his deputy and one of my drivers. After much debate I decided not to accompany them as they hadn’t asked me to, and in ways this was a good time to let the bird fly on its own. Besides, it was a simple mission…half an hour to get there, half an hour back, maybe an hour checking soil conditions at the slide and doing an estimate of the volume and figuring out the stability of the hillside…he’d be back at 4.

            At 5, I was beginning to worry. His cell phone was out of service and the radio wasn’t reaching him. Not that I was worried…oh, no. I don’t worry. Much.

            Fortune smiled on him that night and he managed to get back without a problem having accidentally shut off his cell phone and I managed to look nonchalant. I really had nothing to worry about, but now I have complete confidence in Richard. He is smart, understands engineering and can find his way off a mountain in a foreign land.

            Time for me to go home.

            Alas, I don’t go immediately, but the next few days are low stress for me. There is some packing to do, some getting up relatively late, and of course some more following Richard around…which I am doing less and less.

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: A bit of Tin and Ribbon
Time: 5:08:28 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            Anyone who has read this Chronicle for any amount of time can probably tell that I have a Love-Hate relationship with the Army. There are a great many things that I truly appreciate and love about it. Indeed, if it weren’t for the Army I think that might life would have been much, much different…and not for the better. Conversely, one would have to be blind, deaf and not very bright to accept everything the Army did with joy and glee. Some things don’t make much sense.

            One thing that the Army & I don’t see eye to eye on is the whole issue of medals. In my mind they are given out too frequently and often without much thought. Consequently they lose a lot of their value, like printing too much currency devalues money and makes it less worthwhile. Please note that this isn’t sour grapes on my part, I’ve got a chest full of medals after 21 years of doing this stuff…I’ve gotten to the point that I really don’t like getting a new one because it means having to take apart my ribbon rack and re-doing it, a minor annoyance that often outweighs the beneficial feeling of getting the award in the first place.

            There are a couple of broad categories of medal that one gets. The first are simply service awards…you get them automatically just for showing up to the party. When a young troop gets out of basic training today he’s given a ribbon and a medal right out the gate…the Army Service Ribbon (ASR) and the National Defense Service Medal (NDSM). There’s a variety of these as you go along and we got several of them for being in Kosovo including the Overseas Service Ribbon (OSR), the Kosovo Campaign Medal (which, ironically, allows me to join the Veteran’s of Foreign Wars even though I never got shot at), the Global War On Terrorism service medal (GWOT pronounced “Gee-What?), the Armed Forces Reserve Service medal with “M” device (M for Mobilization), and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization Non-Article Five medal. Oh, I almost forgot the California Federal Service Ribbon for being activated of federal duty.

            Okay those are the medals just for showing up.

            Of course, if you do anything worthwhile there are bonus medals. I put everyone in my section for a medal of achievement except for my one young soldier who didn’t really do anything…poor guy was sick all the time. A few of my soldiers, the young enlisted ones, got the Good Conduct Medal, meaning that they made it through a term of service without getting drunk on duty or slapping an officer or anything like that. Believe me, with some of the officers I know, this medal means something.

            The plethora of medals creates some cynicism amongst many professional soldiers, but I understand that they serve a purpose. Still, it is hard sometimes…you bust your behind and do a great job and get a medal, then you see someone else not do nearly as much work and get the same award and one can feel discouraged. Me, I got over it after several years. I realized that the medals are just things and that in the Army anyone expecting justice better lay in lots of snacks because they’re going to have a long wait.

Some examples from my own career may be demonstrative. I once put together a really great training plan that garnered praise from the mighty and the lowly…it was truly a highlight of my career, but no medal ever came for the work I did, which miffed me slightly. But on another occasion a decree was put out that if a unit was at 100% strength, the unit commander would get a medal. My unit was over 100% strength before I got there and still over 100% after I left…but every year for 3 years they dutifully pinned a medal on my chest for having a full unit.

Like I said…no justice…but then again, nowhere in my contract did it ever say I was going to get any justice.

My young Deputy, John, was feeling discouraged because I’d put him in for a medal that I thoughthe deserved. The awards committee, alas, downgraded the awards request and gave him a lesser one. He felt pretty miffed about this because he had, indeed, worked long hard hours and done excellent work above and beyond the call of duty and many who had received the larger award hadn’t done have the work he had, but were awarded by virtue of their ranks or position. He was naturally irritated but I counseled him as the wise elder that I am. He was still irritated, but at least now he’d had the benefit of my wisdom. Lucky him. Anyway, I told him the story of getting medals for things I didn’t deserve and getting nothing when I deserved something and tried to impart to him a Zen concept that the real award comes from oneself, not from others. As this is a family blog, I shan’t repeat his thoughts on the matter…but I did predict he would have a similar experience sometime in his career.

We didn’t have to wait long. My ability to prognosticate is almost as good as my ability to procrastinate. My deputy had an additional duty (all officers have a primary duty, and most have at least one additional duty) that he spent almost no time working on and also got to go to Germany for a week’s training on this additional duty which he never once put into practice. After a year of doing nothing he attended the last coordination meeting and was surprised to receive an award from the commanding general personally.

Once again the wisdom of me is revealed to the world. But enough about my philosophy…let’s go back to the medals.

            There are so many medals to give out it presented the commander with a problem…passing them out would be a chore, and take most of the day. So he decided to delegate some of the smaller medals to the section chiefs to pin on. I dutifully got a box of medals, plus some more awards for achievement. There was an average of 8 medals to pin on.

            I’m afraid my natural cynicism took over and made it difficult for me to take it too seriously…but medals are medals and the spirit behind them, diluted though it might be in the sea of awards, is still potent and important. They are but a few hundred bits of tin and ribbon that men literally die for. So I trundled up my men and took them to a nice restaurant where we had a nice meal in relative seclusion and handed out the medals…but instead of just formally reading off the order and pinning it on their chests, we took a moment to talk about each medal and what it MEANT. The history behind them, and the meaning. I talked about my Good Conduct Medal and how I am proud I am to wear it, because it means I served my term as a rifleman with pride and honor. I spoke of the Kosovo Campaign and talked about why we were here and the fact that we are making a difference in the world. Medals, in the end, don’t matter one way or another. The spirit and actions behind them are what make them worthwhile.

            After the medals came the real awards, I think. I gave each of my men a knife engraved with their name and thanked them for their services. We also gave a plaque to one of our soldiers who had taken the oath of citizenship while he was there, so he could remember where he’d become a citizen.

            When we were done we all sat around and shared stories about what we’d done and what we’d seen, our triumphs and tragedies. A little corner of peacekeeping Valhalla in Kosovo. I think we were cognizant of the fact that we don’t have long in Kosovo, and after Kosovo we scatter. Our little band of brothers will probably never meet again in total.

            The evening done we returned to our huts. Our replacements would be here soon.

 

Pax

 

Photos:

#1: A bunch of medals (photo credit available on request)

#2: One of my soldiers getting pinned by the author

#3: Citizenship

#4: A poorly-lit group photo of KFOR rotation 6B Engineer section looking like Russian Colonels.

 

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Subject: EJECT! EJECT! EJECT!
Time: 12:28:00 AM PST
Author:  majorsamuel

            One of the things any good staff officer (and, for that matter, most bad staff officers) has to do is brief. The Commander needs information to make decisions and our job as staff officers is to take the huge blob of information that is floating out there and distill it into something short, sweet and useful. This isn’t as easy as it sounds, but this is really a large part of what I do. Once a week I have five minutes or less (hopefully much less) to tell my Commander everything he needs to know about Engineering in the entire region to include Unexploded Ordnance disposal, construction, humanitarian assistance, map making, snow removal, destruction…heck, everything.

            Fortunately I am very good at it. At least, I’m passable. My position in the “Batting order” is a good one…second to the last preceding only the chaplain, which means that by the time I get up to brief my fellow staff officers have already pummeled the poor commander into a stupor with unending facts, figures and the what-not. By the time I get up he is usually blinking like an owl that has just been hit with a small rock, desperately trying to regain his senses. As I brief my thoroughly fascinating subject I am rarely asked any questions as this would require someone to be in a state of consciousness higher than the stupefied subject can normally muster.

            Despite this I enjoy the brief. In ways it is a little like flying an airplane, an experience I got to experience when I was very young when my father sent me up alone in an aircraft on my 16th birthday and, to both our surprises I think, I came back down relatively softly. This was an enormous thrill for me at the time and I experience some of the same experiences when I brief. When you are up there talking there is exhilaration and danger, not know what is going to happen next but at the same time there is the serene calm that you are well trained and able to handle just about any emergency. You have the knowledge…knowledge is power. Bring it on.

            The weekly brief has been enjoyable and, being a secondary staff officer and not part of the “Big-G” staff, I avoid the unpleasant briefings of important dignitaries as they come through. One such was done on Christmas Eve. I shan’t say his name or title for security reasons, but suffice it to say he was a really, really important man who wore 4 stars on his collar. Much to my surprise, my name suddenly came up as being a briefer. I wondered how that could happen because, as mentioned, I am a secondary staff officer. Who at that level wants to hear about engineering? Besides, it was a little downer because I’d been invited to spend Christmas Eve at the Polish Camp eating there, and I was rather looking forward to the experience.

            Still, like any good pilot, when the call goes off I climb into my craft and soar to the skies. After all, briefing someone with 4 stars is pretty much like briefing anyone else in the world. You stick to the facts, you be brief, you answer questions, you move on and nine times out of ten there’s no trouble.

            I was even more surprised as I donned my helmet and flying scarf that my position in the batting order had been moved up (Please note, I never met a metaphor that I was afraid to mix). I was number three after the Intelligence guy and the Operations guy. This really surprised me since I am, again, a secondary staff officer and usually not worth the effort. So I cranked up the old computer and churned out my seven briefing slides showing the various aspects of my little fiefdom that I call engineering, sent it off to the chief of staff who approved them…then I taxied onto the runway.

            I joined the formation just over the four-star and watched patiently while the General got his pummeling by the Intelligence guy, going into excruciating detail on what we had. After a half hour the Intel guy handed it off to the Operations guy who was mercifully brief, taking only about 15 minutes to hit all the salient points. By now this fine gentleman had adopted a stern visage of one who is going to grit his teeth and make it.

            I banked my plane into a dive and began my run.

            As I stepped up to the mike and introduced myself, the General put his hand up to motion me to stop. “Before you begin,” he said looking straight at me. “I was just wondering…will this brief be done before Christmas?”

            BAM!

            I’d taken a hit. I was suddenly in dire straits…I wasn’t sure how bad it was, but he’d used sarcasm. Briefing subjects who are using sarcasm are dangerous…very dangerous. It’s only a hair’s breadth from sarcasm to out-right stern looks and gruff statements. I struggled for the controls, unsure whether to hit the silk or try to ride this baby back to the field. One thing for sure, I couldn’t ask for help. My Father had taught me that…if the plane is crashing, don’t waste time calling ‘Mayday’. Spend your time keeping from crashing. Besides, my Chief of Staff didn’t look like he was getting ready to unfold the safety net.

            The only recognized counters for sarcasm that a junior can safely use are humor and stiffness. My instincts told me that humor was the way to go.

            “Well, Sir,” I said improvising as best as I could. “I think we’ve only got four hours of briefing followed by a five minute break…”

            “I don’t think so,” he said frostily.

EJECT! EJECT! EJECT!

            Frostily. He’d moved from Sarcasm to Frosty in one line. Humor, apparently, was not the way to go. Or perhaps it would be safer to say that THAT humor wasn’t the way to go. I had no choice…I hit the eject button.

            The darn thing didn’t work.

            Well, one thing you never do is let the silence take over. I whipped through my seven scintillating slides with a speed that was admirable.

            The good general, of course, wasn’t aiming at me any more than a horse is irritated at any single fly. I just so happened to be the one buzzing by him when his pain tolerance was finally exceeded. I felt sorry for the guy in retrospect. He’d come down here to Kosovo, sacrificed being away from his family on Christmas eve & day, so that he could show himself to us thousand or so guys stuck in the Balkans away from our families for the holidays. And here we were giving him the full-on brief.

            I think I took away from it a better opinion of the General, actually. Despite being in the glare of his wrath for a few minutes, he was being very merciful. He was being a good leader by sacrificing his comfort to be in solidarity with us guys…and he was probably painfully aware that because of him dozens of us were working Christmas Eve for a detailed brief that he probably didn’t want.

Written by majorsamuel Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own