Another Castle Denizen on his way to Iraq

Scenes From The FOB…

Young men and women gather in small groups, not unlike students enjoying the sunshine and summer breezes on college grounds between classes, taking animatedly on subjects remarkable only in their incongruous mundanity; the antics of Hollywood icons, popular music and trends, musings of the goings-on of their environment, as to slip along the edge of the surreal. These students sip from the chalice of Mars, however, lounging in the hot summer sun atop icons of military might and power, and casually lean against mighty engines of destruction, weapons that will soon bark in a anger, like teenagers surrounding a favorite automobile.


The din of conversation is sometimes accented by the sounds of thundering explosions, or the staccato bursts of machinegun fire, as other young men and women conduct training vital to their survival, and the success of their mission; they are learning how to defend the FOB against insurgents to which the FOB represents all that they hate.

The soldiers on the FOB are a diverse group. In this case they are citizen soldiers, drawn from all levels of society, from the city-bred, urban-savvy youngsters to the farm-raised children of America’s breadbasket. They are young, old, and middle aged. An aged Specialist, over 50 years old, with over twenty years in the Guard, shares a quiet conversation with a slightly younger Sergeant, who celebrated his 43rd birthday a few weeks prior to deploying. Each has vast experience in the military, the Specialist with fifteen years of active duty Army time, the Sergeant with thirteen years as an active duty Marine. He left the ranks of the Corps ten years ago, and was drawn to the ranks of the only service that would have him, having grown too old to return to his fellow Leathernecks, but still needing to have a dog in the current fight.

Both men’s faces are lined, and their eyes, framed by the wrinkles of time, betray little emotion, used as they are to the vagaries of military life. They have lived long enough to experience the cycle of war and peace. Once upon a time, they were young warriors, seeking immortality and glory upon the battlefield, before maturity and wisdom taught them that no war was without cost, a cost that they have personally paid and from which they have recovered, only to repeat the cycle all over again. They now live to lead their soldiers through the deadly field of battle, and bring as many home alive as possible, their glory found in preserving life instead of taking it. They calmly smoke cigarettes as they watch the scene before them, exuding a calm patience that soothes the nerves of those who surround them.

Younger soldiers display the attributes of their age. Some, Privates and junior Specialists, interact with one another with the energy and ferocity of pit bull litter mates, their rough language and devil-may-care attitudes hide the subtle fear that they will be tested in the near future. Some will break, others may die, but most will be well served by their leaders, and live, but all will forever carry the scars of the battle.

Small unit leaders, those with the ambition to climb through the ranks, stride about with authoritative expressions, correcting soldiers, inspecting equipment. Most are observed with a quiet approval by the aged pair, but some are frowned upon, as these “leaders” do not seek to use their position to better their soldiers, but to advance themselves. They will be weeded out during the Trials, found wanting when it really counts, hopefully paying for their shortcomings with their rank and prestige, and not with the blood of those forced to serve beneath them.

Bonds of camaraderie, forged during the months of pre-deployment training, are now stretched and tested as the living conditions decline from the comfort of barracks to the Spartan environs of the FOB. Personality clashes are either resolved or inflamed, friendships tempered under fire.

Some mourn the loss of civilian freedom, while others embrace this new Way Of Things.

Citizen soldiers don the armor of their new vocation. They mount their camouflaged steeds and sally forth from the protection of the FOB, their lances now in the form of the heavy machine gun, their pennants no longer flown from staffs above their heads, but now affixed to the right upper arm of their sage and tan digital ACUs, though the aerials of the twin antennae of their vehicle radios would provide an excellent staff, if regulations didn’t forbid it.

Others listen to the transmissions from these radios, plotting the progress of these patrols as they wend their way through the simulated combat zone, where other soldiers have donned the garb of the enemy, and wait in ambush. Command posts and Tactical Operation Centers listen carefully to the voices of the RTOs, seeking to glean whatever information might be found in the carefully formatted reports sent. Heart rates elevate as one patrol reports contact: an IED attack, with the de rigeur ambush, resulting with two dead, and two wounded, with a Medevac request. The trackers and command post personnel process the reports, knowing that this time the injuries are “notional”, but in a few short months, they might be real.

On the perimeter, the Opposing Forces (OpFor) set off artillery simulators, sending thundering booms across the FOB. Those who are unused to such sounds duck. Those assigned to protect the FOB wince and prepare for battle, those who are not look up for a moment, and then resume whatever tasks they were performing… Some don’t even let the explosions disturb their slumber; they roll over and go back to sleep.
 

The days roll on, the training continues, boxes are checked as the Brigade continues to satisfy the list of qualifications required to allow it to go to war. The end of the list is now in sight, the date with destiny is mere weeks away…