thedrifter
08-21-07, 07:51 AM
DESERT SUNRISE
By RALPH PETERS
New York Post
August 21, 2007 -- DAWN was a perfect metaphor for the Middle East: A band of rosy light promised magnificence to come - only to fade into a dusty, disappointing murk.
But, for a little while here in the desert, the air was almost cool and the stray soldiers who couldn't sleep turned out for a scrap of time alone with their thoughts.
You don't bother a man or woman at that time of day. Some must have been thinking about home, others about the tasks ahead of them in Iraq. Some were just bleary and longing for coffee.
I came out of my tent cranky, having failed to sleep between the two massive civilian-contractor trolls who had an Olympic snoring face-off on the bunks on either side of me. And I still didn't know when I'd have a seat on a flight for the last leg into Baghdad.
Then it hit me. Proust had his why-bother cookies, but it's the smell of mess-hall grease in the morning that takes me back. As more soldiers and Marines materialized from the transit-camp tents, headed for the funky latrines or lining up early for chow, I was home again, back in the world in which I'd spent most of my adult life.
There's a timelessness to the military that outsiders will never quite understand.
The rules in the camp forbid interviewing soldiers, and I play by the rules. But I didn't need to ask those young men and women questions. Not here. I knew them. I'll always know them.
Of course, there are differences between the "old" military in which many Post readers and I served. And most of the changes are for the better.
The most striking thing to a Cold War-era soldier is the profusion of combat patches on the right sleeves of the soldiers - who look bewilderingly young.
But other differences tell, too: While troops will always be troops, there's less "smoking and joking," a greater seriousness than my generation ever showed. And these men and women in uniform are a lot fitter and tougher than we were.
Yet, even in the field showers - where all men are theoretically equal, but certainly aren't in reality - you can still spot Old Sarge in the mufti of Eden. There's just a look you get to know. And you don't need to see a badge to tell which NCOs have been drill sergeants.
And for all of the dishonest campus posturing, if you want to see real diversity, just stand in a military chow line.
As I write, the heat's rising. The August temperatures here bully every living thing. I'll start another round of waiting - as Tom Petty put it, "The waiting is the hardest part." (Once you get to Iraq, it's all adrenaline and Gatorade.)
But my day started wonderfully, after all. Among my brothers. To them, I'm just another old straphanger to be shrugged off - politely. But I've got my images of them to carry me through the day:
* Recruiting-poster Marines in crisp uniforms (even here), handling their weapons as easily as if they've grown a fifth limb: combat vets back for another round.
* The lanky Army private with a don't-talk-much Midwest look who sat down beside me at breakfast. As I dug into my eggs like a great, roaring swine, he folded his flame-shaped hands and whispered a prayer of thanks, just between him and the Lord.
* And the troops lined up with their rucksacks, flying off to war.
Was anything better in the "black-boot Army" (which has now replaced the old brown-shoe Army in the role of the lost legions)?
Yeah, as a matter of fact: For all of the bounty of those contractor-run "dining facilities," no hired cook will ever make the transcendent, worth-a-heart-attack breakfasts our old Army "spoons" used to serve up, along with an unkind word or two. But veterans of all our services and of all our wars will be relieved to know that the coffee's as bad as ever.
Ralph Peters is on assignment for The Post in the Persian Gulf.
Ellie
By RALPH PETERS
New York Post
August 21, 2007 -- DAWN was a perfect metaphor for the Middle East: A band of rosy light promised magnificence to come - only to fade into a dusty, disappointing murk.
But, for a little while here in the desert, the air was almost cool and the stray soldiers who couldn't sleep turned out for a scrap of time alone with their thoughts.
You don't bother a man or woman at that time of day. Some must have been thinking about home, others about the tasks ahead of them in Iraq. Some were just bleary and longing for coffee.
I came out of my tent cranky, having failed to sleep between the two massive civilian-contractor trolls who had an Olympic snoring face-off on the bunks on either side of me. And I still didn't know when I'd have a seat on a flight for the last leg into Baghdad.
Then it hit me. Proust had his why-bother cookies, but it's the smell of mess-hall grease in the morning that takes me back. As more soldiers and Marines materialized from the transit-camp tents, headed for the funky latrines or lining up early for chow, I was home again, back in the world in which I'd spent most of my adult life.
There's a timelessness to the military that outsiders will never quite understand.
The rules in the camp forbid interviewing soldiers, and I play by the rules. But I didn't need to ask those young men and women questions. Not here. I knew them. I'll always know them.
Of course, there are differences between the "old" military in which many Post readers and I served. And most of the changes are for the better.
The most striking thing to a Cold War-era soldier is the profusion of combat patches on the right sleeves of the soldiers - who look bewilderingly young.
But other differences tell, too: While troops will always be troops, there's less "smoking and joking," a greater seriousness than my generation ever showed. And these men and women in uniform are a lot fitter and tougher than we were.
Yet, even in the field showers - where all men are theoretically equal, but certainly aren't in reality - you can still spot Old Sarge in the mufti of Eden. There's just a look you get to know. And you don't need to see a badge to tell which NCOs have been drill sergeants.
And for all of the dishonest campus posturing, if you want to see real diversity, just stand in a military chow line.
As I write, the heat's rising. The August temperatures here bully every living thing. I'll start another round of waiting - as Tom Petty put it, "The waiting is the hardest part." (Once you get to Iraq, it's all adrenaline and Gatorade.)
But my day started wonderfully, after all. Among my brothers. To them, I'm just another old straphanger to be shrugged off - politely. But I've got my images of them to carry me through the day:
* Recruiting-poster Marines in crisp uniforms (even here), handling their weapons as easily as if they've grown a fifth limb: combat vets back for another round.
* The lanky Army private with a don't-talk-much Midwest look who sat down beside me at breakfast. As I dug into my eggs like a great, roaring swine, he folded his flame-shaped hands and whispered a prayer of thanks, just between him and the Lord.
* And the troops lined up with their rucksacks, flying off to war.
Was anything better in the "black-boot Army" (which has now replaced the old brown-shoe Army in the role of the lost legions)?
Yeah, as a matter of fact: For all of the bounty of those contractor-run "dining facilities," no hired cook will ever make the transcendent, worth-a-heart-attack breakfasts our old Army "spoons" used to serve up, along with an unkind word or two. But veterans of all our services and of all our wars will be relieved to know that the coffee's as bad as ever.
Ralph Peters is on assignment for The Post in the Persian Gulf.
Ellie