“Mortaritaville”

October 04, 2006

Incoming! Incoming! Incoming!

The voice is yelling over speakers posted throughout the compound right now.

Of course, the voice doesn't really need to yell at us. Believe me when I say there is no doubt we've got incoming rockets.

The voice is punctuated with chest rattling explosions.

The rat-a-tat of outgoing counter-fire fills the lull between explosions.

This is why Balad is called Mortaritaville.

Seriously, they sell gifts at the recreation center with that logo.

While we catch fire a lot, most of the time we can barely hear the explosions.

But then, some days we hear them very well.

It's just the way it is around here.

Col. Dave Ellis, director of staff for the 332nd Expeditionary Wing here at Balad, told me earlier this week that his first two weeks on base included 30 mortar and rocket attacks.

You get used to them. Really. You do.

The “booms” are a part of life.

Grimy work

Earlier today we were out on the flightline with the maintainers, walking from plane to plane, watching them turn water into wine.

These 100 mechanics fix everything from oil leaks to burned out light bulbs. On any given day, a maintainer can be seemingly lost in an engine, only to reemerge covered in oil and grease.

Their uniforms never really clean up. Neither do their hands.

Grease and grime work their way into the skin like a tattoo. Soap and water won't shake it loose.

Some of these men and women get turned away from the chow hall. Monitors say they're not clean enough to eat.

Supervisors have to clear up the confusion. Their hands are as clean as they get, they say. Let them eat.

I was up on the wing with a group of these mechanics, watching them work on a latch.

How did we get up there? Climb up through the hatch on the flightdeck onto the top of the plane. Walk the spine down to the wings and remember to stand in the middle.

As I was standing there, I shifted my weight and kicked a screwdriver. It rolled and rolled, heading for the edge. Down it went, 15 feet to the ground to land with a clunk.

Oops!

That's when I got the look.

Tech Sgt. Ricky Tanner looked up from the latch he was working on. Specifically, he was trying to unscrew the screws to replace it.

He looked up at me with a glare that very clearly said, "You did not just do that." Then he sent another mechanic to fetch it.

So much for being the invisible observer.

Posted by editor at October 4, 2006 01:55 PM