Welcome to Balad

The "0100 flight posting" our briefer had mentioned meant, in fact, that the schedules would be posted online about that time, but the counter clerk might get around to writing them on the board by 0200. We determined by about 0230 that we had a fairly guaranteed (ha!) flight at 12:45pm the next day. Then we strolled the "200 yards" back to the armory to check our weapons (why we didn't check them the first time baffles me), and back.

By now my dogs were hurting something awful. Eric (Garcia) split to find his brother (who is stationed there), SSgt Padgett beat feet to the BX to pick up some necessaries, and I caught a bus to the compound for a beer and a bed for the night.

Nothing is well-labelled in deployed locations. You just have to know where stuff is--or stop and ask directions a lot. On my way to locate the chow hall, I stumbled across the (hidden) billeting office, and picked up a room key. I was told my room was "walking distance," and pointed in the right direction. I've learned that "walking distance" is a highly subjective term. My room couldn't have been any closer than a half-mile. That's a half-mile across gravel, sometimes deep, with me carrying my "carry-on" still. (Oh yeah...we left the rest of our bags at the terminal.)

My room had air conditioning, but no linens. It had a blanket and pillow and a plastic cover over the mattress. I stood and stared for a minute, then closed the door, disrobed, curled up the blanket, and slept fitfully until about 10am. My heels were already raw, so when I pulled my boots on the next morning, it was with a few choice words. When I opened the door to leave, there was a neat stack of linens on the floor against my door.

I walked the same trek back, carrying my bag, through the gravel, to turn in my key. I asked the clerk if they normally sent people to rooms without linens. He said he usually gives them a stack when he gives them the key. I said thanks, I'd know to specifically request linens should I be compelled to stay another night.

Al Udeid is flat, sandy, hot and windy. That morning, the heat was easily 110 with 20mph winds. It's like walking into a huge hair dryer set on hot. They buy bottled water by the pallet, and leave pallets of it in little tin shelters every hundred feet or so. All of it is free for the taking. As we were briefed after we arrived here (in Balad), "I defy you to drink too much water." It's all free for the taking, and you easily drink six to eight liters a day. Or more.

I returned to the terminal and our flight was on schedule. We had a couple of hours between show time and flight time, so we walked another mile or so to supply and begged them to switch out our boots, and they were kind enough to help us. I finally had boots that fit (aaaah), but it was too late. My feet were thrashed. (Capt Garcia and SSgt Padgett had skin abrasions, so they traded their boots; I had skin missing.)

The chow hall was closed, so we stopped at the Grab 'n' Go, where they set us up with two drinks of our choice, two dry sandwiches, two salt munchie items, and two candy bars. (In every visit, the Grab 'n' Go supplies each person enough to eat almost three meals.) We returned to the terminal to learn that our flight was delayed.

That's where the fun began. Throughout the afternoon and evening, our flight was delayed another hour due to mechanical problems, then a failure to locate the crew, then...who knows. During this time, SSgt Padgett and I made a clandestine trip to the clinic and scored some antibiotic cream and huge sheets of moleskin for blisters. The next thing we knew, it was 0100 (that's 1am in the morning for you civilian types), and we heard our plane was ready, the crew was located, and we'd be boarding at 0250. Finally!

Capt Garcia at this point decided to try to locate another friend of his who was staying in the Compound somewhere (although he didn't know where or how to find him). He left. Five minutes later, the terminal personnel announced that there had been a change of plans. The flight would be boarding in 30 minutes.

SSgt Padgett and I went in search of Capt Garcia, unsure of where to go but determined to at least give it a shot. We caught a bus back to the compound and strolled around the common area looking. Then we gave up and went to catch a bus back to the PAX terminal. We waited about fifteen minutes at a bus stop before a bus finally appeared. It said something about CAOC on the side, but I could swear it also said Ops Town (the terminal area).

By the time we realized the bus had turned left where it should have turned right, it was too late. You can't stop these buses when they aren't at a bus stop. You could be dying on the side of the road, and drag your body into their path with your last scrap of energy, and they'd just drive around you. Same goes for trying to make it stop so you can get off between stops. So there we sat. On the wrong bus. No matter. We'll just get off at a good stop to catch one going to the right place.

This was the slowest bus I've ever been on. Then, in the middle of nowhere, at the outermost turnaround point where there's little light, with a bus full of people, the driver hopped out and walked away. After a couple of minutes, I looked up and noticed (they usually stop for an interminable time at each stop, anyway). SSgt Padgett said quietly, "He's over there sitting down. I think he's having a cigarette."

He must have had two. About fifteen minutes later, he came strolling back...slowly. He opened the door, heaved himself into the seat, picked up his clipboard, made a notation or two, sighed, then closed the door and we were off again. He finally took us back to the Coalition Compound, where we got off at the first available bus stop and caught the next bus (a mere ten minute wait, this time) to Ops Town. It, too, was painfully sluggish. The driver politely stopped for pedestrians and waved them across in front of her. There was a reunion between long-lost pals (some getting on the bus and one getting off) at one bus stop that we also politely waited out.

When we finally pulled out of the Compound and turned toward Ops Town, I turned to SSgt Padgett and said, "What's left? I guess we could run out of gas. Get a flat maybe." We were exhausted and exasperated enough at this point for this to be passably funny.

When we walked into the terminal, it was 0230. Someone said, "Lt Black!" He came hurrying toward me. "Your flight just left."

"Capt Garcia...?" I said.

"He was on it. So were your bags."

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