thedrifter
10-14-05, 05:14 AM
First mission a dose of uncertainty
New nerves: A GI's initiation convoy in Iraq is tempered by the realization that dangerous incidents are unpredictable
By Matthew D. LaPlante
The Salt Lake Tribune
Salt Lake Tribune
TAQADDUM, Iraq - Around here they call them virgins. That's about the nicest thing they call them, actually.
You can pick one out by the look in his eyes, that first night, when the trucks roll up as the sun rolls down. It's a look of fear, hidden under a scarf of strength.
Tonight, David Summers has the look.
It's Saturday evening. A lot cooler than you might expect of this desert land. A cluster of soldiers drench themselves in the headlights of two Humvees, parked side by side. They're downing cans of Red Bull like college kids at a frat party, doing shots.
Most of them could be college kids, were they not here.
Tonight, a few of them will go to school, learning the rules of the beaten-up, bomb-laden roads that stretch from here to Fallujah. There have been several roadside bomb discoveries here in the past few days. And just last week, a nearby detonation claimed the life of a soldier from this base.
Summers slouches under the weight of his flak vest and rifle that hang from his sinewy arms. He stands in the group.
But he looks all alone.
He's an Orange County kid. Signed up when he was 17.
Graduated high school three months early so he could get out to Advanced Infantry Training a season sooner. Got his orders to come here four days after graduating there.
Private First Class. Patriotic. Supports this fight. Wants to be in it.
And he was absolutely sure of all of that until yesterday when he met up with his unit, the Utah-based 146th Transportation Company, and fell in with a great convocation of poker playing, whiskey drinking, war-bashing soldiers in various states of disillusionment.
Now Summers is a little more than an hour from his first trip outside the wire.
And a little less sure of everything.
The blond teen is still doing his best to look unaffected, but Joe Holste can see that he's got to do something to calm Summers' nerves.
"You nervous, man?" the sergeant from Coon Rapids, Minn., asks, bumping the arm of the young soldier who will be his driving companion tonight.
"Yeah," Summers replies. "I just didn't think I'd be hauling fuel."
"You know, we'll be lucky if we see any action at all," Holste says. "Yeah, we're not going to see anything."
Odds are good that Holste's right. Night after night, for two months, the 146th has been running fuel from here to Fallujah, and no one from the company has so much as seen a roadside bomb like the one that killed Spc. Kevin Jones last week.
But Holste's promise, and the 146th's luck, appear to have been drenched by the storm of admonishment that hit Summers and the other virgins today.
The downpour began when Master Sgt. Brian Colwell began to suspect that the young soldiers he escorted into Iraq from Kuwait might not fully appreciate the seriousness of their situation.
The Oregon City reservist isn't really the lecturing type, but he'd prefer to be able to usher these kids home, back the way they came.
"Folks," he said, "you're fixin' to be in the real world soon. Last time I was here I saw a lot of people die."
But later, as he stood away from the crumbling porch of the run-down barracks where his young comrades were keeping hidden from the afternoon sun, his concern for one, in particular, was keen.
"Summers," he said. "I just hope he has a good sergeant with him tonight."
Later in the afternoon the virgins were visited by Jason Beck, who has been tasked with leading the evening mission. After inquiring about prior convoy and radio experience - there wasn't much to speak of - he asked for questions.
No one spoke.
"You've been in a combat zone for two days," Beck chided. "You don't have any questions?"
After hesitating, for a moment, Summers leaned forward and looked up at the tall staff sergeant.
"How often do you get shot at?" he asked.
"It happens," Beck answered blankly.
There is now just under an hour to show time, and Sgt. Maj. Kevin Dubois is standing before the virgins, cigar in one hand, energy drink in the other, to give a few final warnings.
"Once you go cross over that wire," Dubois says, poking the burning cigar into the air for emphasis, "you're an infantry soldier.
"You go outside that wire and the bad guys are trying to kill you. I'm not trying to scare you, I'm just telling you like it is."
As if to punctuate the point, two rounds of artillery fire rock the night. Summers stirs nervously, glancing in the direction of the dual booms.
"That's outgoing," Dubois says. "You stay here long enough, and you'll learn to know the difference.
"Welcome to Taqaddum. Hoo'ah?"
"Hoo'ah," the virgins reply, but the battle cry sounds hollow.
Summers stands in the first row of soldiers gathered around Beck, as the staff sergeant details the planned mission.
The brim of the young soldier's floppy camouflage hat tilts down, a bit, on the left. His eyes are wide, his jaw firm.
Beck rolls out the latest intelligence report. A roadside bomb, triggered when a truck ran over a yard-long piece of garden hose, has exploded on the route. Bomb-finding teams have discovered a second would-be killer - constructed of two 120 mm artillery shells, just outside the gate. And there have been mortar attacks near Ramadi - the convoy's first stop.
Summers' jaw drops.
A chaplain's assistant moves to the top of the circle, across from Beck. He reads from the Book of Ephesians under the glow of a flashlight.
Summers bows his head and closes his eyes as the sergeant begins the passage. His lips move, quickly and silently, as a prayer is spoken.
With little further ado, the group of solders - an hour ago raucous, now dead serious - disappears into the shadows between the ranks of armored trucks.
Holste's promise appears good. The M915 tractor trailer he is driving, with Summers as passenger, has rolled through the gates of Camp Fallujah, without incident.
The first half-hour passed, moment by frightening moment, as Summers adjusted himself to life outside the wire. In the darkness, at first, he swore he could see shapes moving. His mind swam in anxiousness as the long train of trucks halted to let another convoy pass, just outside the Taqaddum gate.
And then, slowly, he grew accustomed to the blanket of darkness and endless desert beyond. The sinister shapes disappeared. Sleepiness set in. Holste even had to jar his young comrade awake - and more than once.
By the time his truck has unloaded its payload - 7,500 gallons of fuel - Summers is feeling comfortable with his new role, even bored by it.
"After the first little bit, I wasn't nervous at all anymore," he says. "I was actually just trying to stay awake."
But the night is not yet over.
Once again, the convoy has been halted by another fleet of trucks - this one guided by U.S. Marines.
Staff Sgt. Beck, in the Army's lead Humvee, is impatient. When a long break in the rival convoy presents itself, he orders his driver forward.
The Marines blocking the road aren't amused. As the truck in which Summers is riding passes the roadblock, a brilliant flash of white light brings to a heart-stopping end the young soldier's temporary comfort with his surroundings.
The burning projectile misses Summers' door by inches, passing between the rig and its tanker trailer.
Flares are meant as warning devices and signals - typically reserved for use against potentially unfriendly vehicles. In a formal complaint about the so-called friendly fire incident, officers from the 146th will note that shooting a flare at a fuel truck is a particularly bad idea.
For tonight, it ends only in an argument between Beck and the corporal who ordered the shot fired.
Summers is shaken.
"I didn't know what was going on," he says after arriving back at Taqaddum. "I had no idea what it was they shot at us or who it was that was shooting at us."
It is possible that David Summers will drive thousands of miles on these roads without another close call like this. It's possible that the story of his first time will be the story he tells, when his time in Iraq is done.
But there are, of course, other possibilities in the miles yet to come.
Some soldiers grow accustomed to these possibilities, to these dark and dangerous roads, in minutes. It takes others days or weeks to numb the fear.
And some will never grow accustomed to this life.
It's hard to say whether Summers has been changed, at all, with the passing of his first time.
But when tomorrow comes, he will be among those who have left the wire and returned. Tomorrow, when the trucks roll up as the sun rolls down, he'll have left his virginity behind.
Ellie
New nerves: A GI's initiation convoy in Iraq is tempered by the realization that dangerous incidents are unpredictable
By Matthew D. LaPlante
The Salt Lake Tribune
Salt Lake Tribune
TAQADDUM, Iraq - Around here they call them virgins. That's about the nicest thing they call them, actually.
You can pick one out by the look in his eyes, that first night, when the trucks roll up as the sun rolls down. It's a look of fear, hidden under a scarf of strength.
Tonight, David Summers has the look.
It's Saturday evening. A lot cooler than you might expect of this desert land. A cluster of soldiers drench themselves in the headlights of two Humvees, parked side by side. They're downing cans of Red Bull like college kids at a frat party, doing shots.
Most of them could be college kids, were they not here.
Tonight, a few of them will go to school, learning the rules of the beaten-up, bomb-laden roads that stretch from here to Fallujah. There have been several roadside bomb discoveries here in the past few days. And just last week, a nearby detonation claimed the life of a soldier from this base.
Summers slouches under the weight of his flak vest and rifle that hang from his sinewy arms. He stands in the group.
But he looks all alone.
He's an Orange County kid. Signed up when he was 17.
Graduated high school three months early so he could get out to Advanced Infantry Training a season sooner. Got his orders to come here four days after graduating there.
Private First Class. Patriotic. Supports this fight. Wants to be in it.
And he was absolutely sure of all of that until yesterday when he met up with his unit, the Utah-based 146th Transportation Company, and fell in with a great convocation of poker playing, whiskey drinking, war-bashing soldiers in various states of disillusionment.
Now Summers is a little more than an hour from his first trip outside the wire.
And a little less sure of everything.
The blond teen is still doing his best to look unaffected, but Joe Holste can see that he's got to do something to calm Summers' nerves.
"You nervous, man?" the sergeant from Coon Rapids, Minn., asks, bumping the arm of the young soldier who will be his driving companion tonight.
"Yeah," Summers replies. "I just didn't think I'd be hauling fuel."
"You know, we'll be lucky if we see any action at all," Holste says. "Yeah, we're not going to see anything."
Odds are good that Holste's right. Night after night, for two months, the 146th has been running fuel from here to Fallujah, and no one from the company has so much as seen a roadside bomb like the one that killed Spc. Kevin Jones last week.
But Holste's promise, and the 146th's luck, appear to have been drenched by the storm of admonishment that hit Summers and the other virgins today.
The downpour began when Master Sgt. Brian Colwell began to suspect that the young soldiers he escorted into Iraq from Kuwait might not fully appreciate the seriousness of their situation.
The Oregon City reservist isn't really the lecturing type, but he'd prefer to be able to usher these kids home, back the way they came.
"Folks," he said, "you're fixin' to be in the real world soon. Last time I was here I saw a lot of people die."
But later, as he stood away from the crumbling porch of the run-down barracks where his young comrades were keeping hidden from the afternoon sun, his concern for one, in particular, was keen.
"Summers," he said. "I just hope he has a good sergeant with him tonight."
Later in the afternoon the virgins were visited by Jason Beck, who has been tasked with leading the evening mission. After inquiring about prior convoy and radio experience - there wasn't much to speak of - he asked for questions.
No one spoke.
"You've been in a combat zone for two days," Beck chided. "You don't have any questions?"
After hesitating, for a moment, Summers leaned forward and looked up at the tall staff sergeant.
"How often do you get shot at?" he asked.
"It happens," Beck answered blankly.
There is now just under an hour to show time, and Sgt. Maj. Kevin Dubois is standing before the virgins, cigar in one hand, energy drink in the other, to give a few final warnings.
"Once you go cross over that wire," Dubois says, poking the burning cigar into the air for emphasis, "you're an infantry soldier.
"You go outside that wire and the bad guys are trying to kill you. I'm not trying to scare you, I'm just telling you like it is."
As if to punctuate the point, two rounds of artillery fire rock the night. Summers stirs nervously, glancing in the direction of the dual booms.
"That's outgoing," Dubois says. "You stay here long enough, and you'll learn to know the difference.
"Welcome to Taqaddum. Hoo'ah?"
"Hoo'ah," the virgins reply, but the battle cry sounds hollow.
Summers stands in the first row of soldiers gathered around Beck, as the staff sergeant details the planned mission.
The brim of the young soldier's floppy camouflage hat tilts down, a bit, on the left. His eyes are wide, his jaw firm.
Beck rolls out the latest intelligence report. A roadside bomb, triggered when a truck ran over a yard-long piece of garden hose, has exploded on the route. Bomb-finding teams have discovered a second would-be killer - constructed of two 120 mm artillery shells, just outside the gate. And there have been mortar attacks near Ramadi - the convoy's first stop.
Summers' jaw drops.
A chaplain's assistant moves to the top of the circle, across from Beck. He reads from the Book of Ephesians under the glow of a flashlight.
Summers bows his head and closes his eyes as the sergeant begins the passage. His lips move, quickly and silently, as a prayer is spoken.
With little further ado, the group of solders - an hour ago raucous, now dead serious - disappears into the shadows between the ranks of armored trucks.
Holste's promise appears good. The M915 tractor trailer he is driving, with Summers as passenger, has rolled through the gates of Camp Fallujah, without incident.
The first half-hour passed, moment by frightening moment, as Summers adjusted himself to life outside the wire. In the darkness, at first, he swore he could see shapes moving. His mind swam in anxiousness as the long train of trucks halted to let another convoy pass, just outside the Taqaddum gate.
And then, slowly, he grew accustomed to the blanket of darkness and endless desert beyond. The sinister shapes disappeared. Sleepiness set in. Holste even had to jar his young comrade awake - and more than once.
By the time his truck has unloaded its payload - 7,500 gallons of fuel - Summers is feeling comfortable with his new role, even bored by it.
"After the first little bit, I wasn't nervous at all anymore," he says. "I was actually just trying to stay awake."
But the night is not yet over.
Once again, the convoy has been halted by another fleet of trucks - this one guided by U.S. Marines.
Staff Sgt. Beck, in the Army's lead Humvee, is impatient. When a long break in the rival convoy presents itself, he orders his driver forward.
The Marines blocking the road aren't amused. As the truck in which Summers is riding passes the roadblock, a brilliant flash of white light brings to a heart-stopping end the young soldier's temporary comfort with his surroundings.
The burning projectile misses Summers' door by inches, passing between the rig and its tanker trailer.
Flares are meant as warning devices and signals - typically reserved for use against potentially unfriendly vehicles. In a formal complaint about the so-called friendly fire incident, officers from the 146th will note that shooting a flare at a fuel truck is a particularly bad idea.
For tonight, it ends only in an argument between Beck and the corporal who ordered the shot fired.
Summers is shaken.
"I didn't know what was going on," he says after arriving back at Taqaddum. "I had no idea what it was they shot at us or who it was that was shooting at us."
It is possible that David Summers will drive thousands of miles on these roads without another close call like this. It's possible that the story of his first time will be the story he tells, when his time in Iraq is done.
But there are, of course, other possibilities in the miles yet to come.
Some soldiers grow accustomed to these possibilities, to these dark and dangerous roads, in minutes. It takes others days or weeks to numb the fear.
And some will never grow accustomed to this life.
It's hard to say whether Summers has been changed, at all, with the passing of his first time.
But when tomorrow comes, he will be among those who have left the wire and returned. Tomorrow, when the trucks roll up as the sun rolls down, he'll have left his virginity behind.
Ellie