The military mindset — again

October 01, 2006

Once again, I was frisked on my way into the chow hall.

It brought a flood of memories — and not the good kind.

It all started with an Ugandan, you see. The Ugandans work security at the chow halls. They check IDs, ensuring no one enters who is not allowed.

We have IDs, specially made by the Army, that are supposed to give us access to all facilities here in Balad. In theory, that is fabulous. In reality, it doesn't really work so well.

There we were, standing in line at Dining Facility 2 — affectionately known as DFAC 2 by all branches of the military — with the C-130 crew we were supposed to fly with tonight.

One by one, we stepped up to the Ugandan guard. She looked at my press credentials and ID, and shook her head no.

When the crew tried to explain that they were escorting me to eat, the guard turned on them.

I'm going to paraphrase her response, which was in broken English.

She told them they were out of uniform and that they needed to be armed to escort me to eat.

Armed? To eat?

And the crew was in uniform. They were wearing PT gear — official Air Force workout clothes.

When I tried to explain that Air Force aircrews don't haul weapons around base all the time like the Army does., she shook her head no and pushed me aside.

I told the crew to leave me. But they didn't, they wanted to see what was going to happen. To tell you the truth, I was glad they stayed.

She looked at my official ID again and flipped through a nearby reference book. Then she told the crew they were out of uniform and that they needed weapons.

Yes, this went round and round.

Finally, she said I had to be searched. So there I stood in the gravel outside of DFAC 2 with my arms and legs extended while a Ugandan guard frisked me. We're not talking just any frisk. I feel a little violated.

Then she got out the metal detector. That really got her suspicions up.

First it beeped on my head. I tried to explain that it was the ball point pen behind my ear, but she wanted no explanation. She ran that detector all over my head, under my hair. I pulled out the pen and clicked it, showing her that it was harmless.

She ran the detector all over my head again, combing my hair with it. Maybe she was looking for a metal plate?

Then she found the notebook in my back pocket. I pulled it out and started flipping the pages. She ran the metal detector over it, nodding when it beeped on the metal ring binding.

One final lecture about weapons, uniforms and IDs, and we were free — Free with a warning that she was working the next night and would not be so lenient.

Yikes!

After being frisked that, um, forcefully, I shutter to think what would come next.

It was Mexican night inside DFAC 2. We ran into two more 463rd crews, shared some laughs and frustrations and headed home to our trailers. But that was just the beginning of what turned into a very tough 24 hours of bureaucracy.

See, the 332nd Expeditionary Wing here at Balad had our paperwork two weeks ago. But a change of command happened, and things got lost. So we can't fly until several echelons of military rank agree to let us.

There is war on, however. And, understandably, reporters are the last thing commanders have time to deal with.

They deal in lives. Every decision they make affects the lives of the men and women in their command. They formulate combat missions, deal with maintenance nightmares, and try to keep all their men and women safe in a deadly place.

These folks barely have time to sleep.

Patience, patience, I tell myself. But again, there is a war on, and it's my job to cover it. But I believe that to cover a war, you must go where the men and women fighting the war go. You can't cover a war from a desk.

We met with Brig. Gen. Robin Rand, 332nd commander, this afternoon. He shared his concerns about us being here and I shared my concerns about not being able to actually fly.

We'd been in Balad for three days and our hands were tied because of the paperwork snafu. Hour upon hour had been spent in the Public Affairs office, staring at yellow walls and waiting for a status update on the paperwork.

At noon, the little voice in my head began screaming "I'm in hell."

Then we made it into Brig. Gen. Rand's office. It was a good visit. I'm glad he made time for me.

We talked about media coverage of the war. He said he didn't usually agree with what he saw on the broadcasts. That was not the Iraq he knew as a combat commander.

I told him that was why I was here. You can't cover a war without getting in the grime with the people who are fighting the war. I agreed that there were many days when I caught the news over here and found the reports to be nothing like what I saw happening.

Closing the gap is the key, I told him. Let me in and I'll tell the story of what these warriors are facing, what they're doing and who they are. He asked that I cover his entire wing, not just the Hercs.

Fair enough. We had a deal.

The approval came through five hours later, in the nick of time.

We were hoping to get on a flight hauling the chairman of the U.S. Senate Arms Services Committee, Sen. John Warner of Virginia, out of Fallujah. Also on that plane was Sen. Mark Pryor, D-Ark.

We really, really wanted to start flying missions — But we desperately wanted to start flying in time for this mission.

The call came in at around 5 p.m., as the plane cranked its engines on the north ramp.

Maj. Ryan Guiberson, director of operations for the 777th Expeditionary Airlift Squadron, the designation for Little Rock's 463rd Airlift Group here in the desert, drove us across base to the ramp.

Let me just say that Guiberson is a man of great faith and hope.

I had given up on hopes of flying about an hour earlier. I'm almost a rabid optimist, but even my glass-half-fullness has limits. I had convinced myself that the general wasn't going to sign off on our mission. He wasn't going to let us fly.

But, at the last minute, he did.

Guiberson looked at me with the tired eyes of a man who had been up for 36 hours and told me he refused to give up hope.

"I'm Catholic, you see. And that's an unforgivable sin," he said with a slight grin.

I had to start planning what we'd do if the mission didn't come through. We had to get a story cranked out. I had to drop one idea and go to Plan B. Then the Bat Phone — Guiberson's line — rang.

It was a go.

We zipped into his little pickup, which is covered with Iraq dust inside and out and sports a white paint job with orange racing stripes. As we pulled up to the flightline gate, we could see Tail 553 sitting there, cargo door open, all for engines spinning.

We grabbed our body armor, helmets and backpacks and ran to the plane. The loadmasters grabbed our stuff as we ran and gave a boost up into the plane.

There sat several soldiers, guns between their knees, looking at us. As soon as we walked into the plane, the door closed and we started to roll.

Like I said, just in time.

Posted by editor at October 1, 2006 11:20 AM