Tales from the Sandbox - Holmes - Military Times

Outside the wire

I keep hearing support soldiers, sailors and Marines say, “I wish I could go outside the wire.”
And I think to myself, “You have no idea.”
When I go out, I hear guys say, “If I could, I would never go outside the wire again.”
They mean it. They’ve seen friends die; they’ve rolled over IEDs — just enough of a blast to spark thoughts of the possibility of a bigger blast; and they know 120 degrees in full body armor doesn’t make for a great day.
But the fobbits back in the forward operating bases mean it, too. They’re bored senseless.
They won’t whine about it, but I have no qualms about whining for them. (My photographer Rick Kozak says I don’t whine so much as just glaze over.) Hanging out at the FOBs just isn’t as stimulating as going outside the wire. Everyone says they joined the military to travel and see the world, but they don’t actually get to see more than the base, and it’s totally American.
Al Asad is an airbase surrounded by seven miles of sand, so what you see there is only what the military has set up: Lots of concrete barriers, a big dining facility, a gym, a hospital and a Subway shop.
When people think of young service members not wanting to go to Iraq, I think they picture blood and fear and sweat. And it is scary here. The 28th Combat Support Hospital just lost a nurse — the first since Vietnam — to random mortar fire in the Green Zone.
So yes, they’re scared. But the boredom is its very own kind of hell. The movie “Groundhog Day” is frequently mentioned; every day is the same.
Most people here don’t have days off — at least those in the medical profession who, if they’re not on shift, are always on call.
But they all say, “What would I do with a day off?” It’s so hot it’s hard to get motivated to go walk around post. Hell, at 120 degrees, it’s hard to get people to walk to the dining facility. And, the dining facility, gym and PX can be as far as a mile from your hootch. And when you go there, depending on the base, you must be in full uniform: Long pants, boots, T-shirt, long shirt, hat. It’s like walking around in a plastic baggie.
Once you get to the PX, pickings are slim. Candy and snacks, mainstream music, some clothing (but no female-sized socks) and DVDs. They have gift shops, too, all offering the same selection.
Some FOBs have fast food: Pizza Hut, Subway, Burger King and Cinnabon. But if you don’t eat fast food in the rear, why would you do it here? The morale, welfare and recreation folks try really hard with dances and poker tournaments and such. But sometimes, after spending every waking hour — and sometimes sleeping hours — with your co-workers, you’re not necessarily looking for something social.
Many people stand in line every night to call home. Or stand in line to spend a maximum of 30 minutes on the Internet. Or stand in line for the treadmill at the gym.
Every day.
There is no variety.
They can’t leave. They can’t pop in the car to visit friends. They can’t go to a local restaurant and sit at a table. They can’t experience the local culture.
They all crave a taste of something else: that latte from their favorite coffee shop. A bookstore that carries more than adventure and romance paperbacks. A Saturday morning spent reading a big newspaper — which they can’t get here — wearing their pajamas. A shower without shoes. A bathroom closer than two blocks away. Petting the dog, dinner with real silverware, a long walk by a stream.
A beer.
And everything looks the same: 12-foot-high concrete barriers that block views of anything. Rows and rows of small trailers — or “cans” — that make suburban housing look original. Humans in uniforms.
That boredom can quickly morph into depression, or anger, or anxiety.
You won’t hear them whine about it. But you might see that glazed-over look.
Maybe I learned it when I was in the Army?