Welcome to Balad

When my name came up for deployment last May, my only surprise was that I'd not been sent sooner.

I "volunteered," which means my name was in the list for this rotation, there were 13 eligible people in our group and 11 billets to fill so far. They'd take volunteers first, then deploy everyone else in the order of most time in service, most recent deployment and most recent remote assignment.

I've been in and out of the military for 15 years and have never done a remote or a deployment, so the notification of my pending selection chilled me. I knew my turn had come. A friend of mine, Eric, was also on the list, so we discussed our options and decided, in lieu of waiting anxiously to get that fateful email, to visit our deployment officer for firsthand direct information. If we had to go anyway, our status as "volunteers" would allow us to at least select our hell of choice.

We immediately walked to her office and knocked on her door. Eric said quietly, "Ma'am? We have some questions about deployments."

She smiled and said with obvious excitement, pen poised, "Balad or Baghdad?"

Perhaps we looked like two deer caught in headlights, because she said, "I'm sorry, Lieutenants. Please. Come in. Sit down." As we sat down, she said, "Now. Balad or Baghdad?"

We said, "We're just wondering what the odds are that we'll get sent."

She said, "You're going. Where do you want to go?"

So we chose the one we hadn't heard of. The logic goes something like this: when given a choice between going to a war zone one hears about daily on CNN and a war zone no one recognizes, it's wise to go with the latter.

Balad AB, better known as Camp Anaconda, is on an appropriated Iraqi military academy base. It's situated about 60 kilometers north of Baghdad, in the Sunni Triangle, on the banks of the Tigris River. It's a favorite insurgent target right now. They fire mortars at us and we gleefully fire howitzers back to show we're paying attention. It's a nasty ongoing exchange in which much ammo is expended but little actual damage is done by either side.

So we volunteered for Balad. Any location in Iraq is not a good place to be right now, so our first phase of adjustment began at that moment. I was cold when I walked out of that office, and felt miles away from those around me. The base of my skull tingled. All I could say was, "Did we just volunteer to go to Iraq?" Eric looked about as numb as I felt. But if nothing else, it was comforting to know neither of us was alone. If one is about to ride into hell, it's a comfort to know your friend is riding shotgun.

For a couple of days, I had somewhat disturbing dreams. They weren't gory or nightmarish, but it's unusual for me to dream at all, and I woke a few times feeling disturbed. Then I'd lay there in the dark thinking, it's really true...I'm going to Iraq.

I began to take care of deployment outprocessing immediately. Pre-deployment training is tedious and time-consuming. It includes financial arrangements, powers of attorney, ordering DCUs (Desert Camoflage Utilities) and sundry other issue items, and ensuring your will is current. Then there's paperwork and various offices to outprocess, etc.

I told my family and friends I was going to deploy, and thus began to entertain visitors on a regular basis. No one said "I want to see you one last time just in case you don't come back." This was simply understood. I thought at first they might be interested in some of the information about military life in Iraq, but no one seemed to want to discuss it or hear about it. They apparently wanted to pretend this was just a normal visit so they wouldn't have to face the reason they were suddenly on my doorstep.

A few weeks after we volunteered, we heard that several of our friends had been tagged for Baghdad International Airport (or "BIAP," for short). At least one is slated to accompany convoys through the city.

A month before leaving, I began to get the anthrax series of shots and was given typhoid and smallpox (again). Service members from the old days are fond of telling their friends about the gammaglobulin shot they used to get, better known as the "peanut butter shot in the butt" that leaves a giant lump and makes you sit sideways for a week, but it had nothing on anthrax as far as I'm concerned.

You know how nurses approach you with a needle and say, "You'll feel a pinch...."? Yeah, it still hurts, but at least they have a nice bedside manner. I began to get apprehensive about the anthrax shot when the medic who was about to administer it said, "It'll burn down the length of your arm, but the pain will subside after a couple of minutes."

If you'd ever like to know what an anthrax shot feels like but can't afford the real thing, simply inject battery acid into your arm. That's what it felt like. Then it left a knot almost as big as a golf ball in my tricep for about a week. Then I went back two weeks later for the next in the series, this time in the other arm (so they'd disable both sides equally, I guess), and it hurt even more. In addition to the battery acid sensation and lump, this one turned red, itched, and inflamed a three inch segment of my arm for about three days.

When I went in for the third one, two days before I hopped the plane, the tech suggested I do pushups to muscle failure, as this helped some people deal with the shot. This I did and it worked wonderfully. I mean, it still burned, but not nearly as badly, and the lump part is unavoidable, but still...I wasn't seized with the urge to scream, which was a step in the right direction.

By this point, I was ready to go to Iraq if only to get away from the ongoing shots.

I was issued much that was the wrong size, and was not issued a few items I'd need, and was issued a whole passle of stuff I don't need (mess kit, sleeping bag, extreme cold weather gear), and some I hope I don't need (such as chemical warfare gear). I thought a helmet cover that blended with the desert would be nice, but was simply told, "We don't have any." I asked for an M-9 cleaning kit since they were issuing me a weapon (Beretta 92F), and was given the same reply. I said, "What am I supposed to use? My finger and spit?" They just shrugged and looked at me blankly. It wasn't purchased by the wing and so it isn't issued. Simple as that. Scary.

Among the items that did not fit properly were my boots, which we'll get back to directly. When asked what size I wore, I said, "Size 7 in men's." All combat boots come in men's sizes, so this was as simple as I could have made it for them. They said, "Oh. That means you'll need a size 6."

I'd been told DCUs were sized different than BDUs (Battle Dress Utilities, or as the Marines say, "cammies"), so I just looked at him kinda like a dog who just saw another dog on television and doesn't know what to make of it, but said nothing. When they came in, I tried them on. They felt snug and were a bit hard to pull onto my feet, but I thought perhaps they'd stretch out properly with wear--again, my ignorance of DCUs stifled my natural skepticism.

Thus, I left for the sandbox with boots two sizes too small.

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