Chris' Deployment Journal

The Idaho Statesman asked me to write one more story about my experience in Iraq and it is below.

If you missed any, most are still posted (it looks like after a year, some are being deleted now) at:
http://www.idahostatesman.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/99999999/NEWS01/41203005/1002&theme=IDAHOANS&template=theme
Under the title “Letters from Iraq”.

Collect ‘em all!

Best,
Chris
Boise, Idaho


Idaho soldier welcomes the comforts of homeAbout Christopher Chesak and the letters

Officer Candidate [note from Chris: FINALLY I’m in OCS!] Christopher Chesak, 36, of Boise joined the Idaho National Guard in August 2003. When he reported for boot camp in March 2004, he was the oldest recruit in a company of 150. Chesak works as an independent consultant in the outdoor industry.During the 116th's more than 10 months in Iraq, Chesak wrote a number of "Letters from Iraq" columns for The Idaho Statesman. Readers will remember the story of Chesak experiencing the birth of his first child, daughter Lillian, by telephone as soldiers moved from Kuwait into Iraq in December 2004. Or his story about one soldier who taught Iraqi children to read English by the light of a night-vision scope. [note from Chris: It was actually by the light of some chem. sticks.]About 2,000 Idaho soldiers served in northern Iraq with the 116th Brigade Combat Team. The 116th, based at Boise's Gowen Field, had about 4,000 soldiers from 20 states. The 116th was deployed for of 18 months, including training in Texas and Louisiana before leaving for the Persian Gulf.


Editor's note: Christopher Chesak wrote for The Idaho Statesman about the 116th Brigade Combat Team's experiences in Iraq. We asked him to reflect on life back home, several months after he and the 116th returned in November.

Returning to Boise from a yearlong deployment to Iraq, I quickly slipped back into the comforts, safety and familiarity of home. For days I was numb, almost unable to comprehend it all. Simply lying on my couch, drinking beer and watching football made me feel like some sort of royalty.
The once-mundane was now opulent and luxurious.

But while the physical transition was immediate, the mental and emotional transition took a little more effort.

The first thing I did to help my transition was something many other soldiers won't do: I told Sally, my wife, partner and best friend, all the stories that I couldn't tell her (or you) before.

I described to Sally the distant boom of insurgents' rockets launching, the sound of them flying overhead, and the concussive BOOM! when they hit the U.S. base across the highway from our own.

I explained about the sniper who took potshots at a comrade while I was nearby, talking to her on an Iraqi cell phone. As his squad mobilized to counter-snipe, they informed me of what was happening. I sought cover while still nonchalantly talking to her on the phone.

I expressed the gut-wrenching worry I felt for a friend wounded in the face and hand by a car bomb. I described to Sally what it felt like to clean his warm, sticky blood off the ammo boxes from his Humvee.

I also told my wife what charred body parts look like and what it's like to see a piece of meat lying in the street or wedged into the grill of your Humvee and realize that moments before it was a living, breathing Iraqi person.

We lived in that environment for a year, our senses constantly attuned to so many otherwise minor details and our mettle constantly steeled for whatever might happen next. After a year, it's difficult to let go of that hyper-aware, always-ready, expect-the-worst mind-set.

One day back home, I drove up 28th street and my mind wandered. Suddenly I noticed a pothole in the middle of my lane and instinctively gripped the wheel, readying to swerve the vehicle hard left to avoid the bomb that insurgents might have hidden inside. Luckily, before swerving into oncoming traffic, I remembered that I was now 10 time zones away from those insurgents.

Another night, I spotted a truck trespassing on a neighbor's property. Instead of calling the police, my first thought was to grab my machine gun and train my sights on them. Luckily (especially for the trespassers), I'd turned in that machine gun long ago.Still, and perhaps forever, when a car backfires, I will instinctively assume it's a gunshot and immediately scan for bad guys.

There are other physical reminders. I'm having continuing problems with my hip. I had a pre-cancerous blemish (caused by the intense Iraq sun) burned off. And my body just never quite adjusted to winter's chill this year. I guess that's to be expected since, physiologically, I had to get used to 120-degree days. It must be hard for your body to accept a 100-degree change within just a few months.

For me, those physical problems and mental reactions are slowly fading away. For those who experienced worse than I, the memories won't fade quite so quickly.

One friend from my unit confessed that he was often haunted by the image of an Iraqi man. The (presumably innocent) man was caught between my friend's Humvee and an exploding car bomb. The man was blown across the hood and windshield of the Humvee, giving my friend a firsthand and up-close view of the man's final moments.I hope that time will help him deal with that image, as it has with my own mental snapshots of the violence we witnessed. But dealing with it doesn't mean those images will ever be forgotten.

I actually do what I can to share those experiences, showing my photos (the non-graphic ones) to friends and family, our church (twice), Kiwanis, Rotarians, nurses, grammar and middle schools and whoever else will listen.

A lot of veterans prefer to never speak about these things, but I want all the people back here to know what we went through, what our lives where like, what we missed back home — and to never forget what amazing freedoms, comforts and safety we have in this country.

I know I will never forget that. Nor will I ever forget just how good my own couch feels. Or how a beer fresh out of my refrigerator tastes when I drink it in the confines of a peaceful nation, a quiet hometown and the serenity and protection of home.

Our last days on Barbarian Base were spent packing up. We thought they'd be as quiet as the rest of the year.

Unfortunately, just as our replacements from the 101st Air Assault started to take over, insurgent activity jumped. We started getting a lot of IED's. (We think the insurgents were trying to send a little notice to the active duty guys, who are younger, more gung-ho, and perhaps – just perhaps – not quite as respectful of the locals than us older National Guard types.)

Then, on our second-to-last patrol, our guys from second squad got hit bit a VBIED (a car bomb).

Here's a Spc Henson shot of what happened to the truck (which a few months earlier, while I was on leave, was also hit by another large IED , the blast from which actually picked up the rear end and swung the vehicle around a bit and caused some minor damage).

Now, this up-armored M1114 was hit right on the fender by a car bomb, a taxi that swerved at them from oncoming traffic and was filled supposedly with three 155mm, two 135mm, and one 80mm artillery shells. All that happened (to the truck) was three of the tires were blown out, some minor fender/engine damage, and the trunk was somehow blown open, along with two of the doors. After the blast, the truck actually drove out of the 'kill zone' for a few hundred meters. (You gotta love that 'run flat' system on the tires, which is nothing more than a solid rubber donut inside the air-inflated tire.) Some mechanic's time, about $10,000 worth of parts, and this truck was actually patrolling again within a week.

The series of images to follow are all Spc Hensen's. 

Here's a shot of the truck, number B36, while it's still out in sector, awaiting a tow back to the KRAB (note that a gunner is still manning the turret machine gun). These things might cost a quarter-million dollars per, but for the four out of five crew inside that walked away without a scratch, it was certainly money well spent.

Unfortunately the fifth guy, my buddy 'Scarface', was the original guy in the gun turret and was hit, but even he had only minor wounds, including a burned hand (from the blast) and cuts on his face. He may have been hit by the blast itself, by some small shrapnel, something blown around by the blast, or the 80+ pound .50 cal machine gun, which was blown off its mount (all for lack of a simple coder pin that probably costs $2) and into the vehicle.

Some of 'Scarface's' cuts were near his tear duct though, so he was flown out of the KRAB on a medivac to a larger base, just in case. It turned out the duct will be okay but he'll have to wait and see if he has any problems with it tearing or not in the future.

He rejoined us a few days later and is fine. (When most guys saw these past few photos, some thought that the photos shouldn't have even been taken – much less, I assume, posted on a blog. But I wanted to post them so that you can see the real affects of what's going on over there. Meanwhile many other guys who saw this photo only commented on how cute the stretcher bearer to the left rear was.)

Worst of all, a few innocent civilians were killed in the blast. The civilians didn't have our Interceptor body armor on and certainly weren't in a M1114 armored truck. One guy was wearing only a 'man dress' and riding a bike. 

Here you see some damage to a taxi further from the blast. 

Here's a shot of what's left of the car bomb. 

As another truck returned with the ammo and weapons taken off the damaged Humvee and we started unloading it, I noticed something sticky on the ammo cans. It was Scarface's blood.

Wilson and I got some baby wipes and started cleaning them off. This was definitely a 'reality check' for me. So much of the year had been so quiet and we were so near leaving, that I don't think I was completely mentally prepared for something like this (then again, how could you be, unless having been through it before). I can't imagine what it would have been like to actually lose someone…

Here's a close up of vehicle B31, which was right behind B36. This is where some of the car bomb's shrapnel hit it, peeling back a thumb-sized piece of the armor but, obviously, coming nowhere near penetrating it. 

Here's B31 again. The small gouge in the armor is barely visible near the bottom center of the door.

You might be wondering what are the oil stains on the vehicle. Well, remember that poor guy on the bike? That's him. 

After all this, we had to keep on packing up. Scarface's squad members, shown here, had to pack all his stuff up for him as he recovered in a distant hospital.

He was constantly on all our minds for the next few days. Even if we knew he was fine, we still kept thinking about him.

In between thoughts of Scarface, I started to get a little excited, finally starting to believe that we were actually leaving!

Our last day, we started throwing all our remaining duffle bags in the LMTV (cargo truck), 

and then finally, blissfully, happily, drove the heck out of Barbarian Base for once and for all (or so we thought). Note that the two guys in the cargo truck in front of me are taking pictures of me taking pictures of them. It was a momentous moment and worthy of all the shots we could take. 

And then, at last, finally moved onto the KRAB. 

Our new home. 

Inside our new bachelor pad, the lads got settled. 

We unloaded the truck full of our duffle bags and then reloaded it with duffles from the 101st guys. 

While we thought we were done with Barbarian Base for good, we did later that night drop back in and say hello to some of the new guys in our bay. The rest of our company was on one, last, final raid, that we thankfully (somehow) missed out on. So we sat and watched Armed Forces Network TV for a few hours until their return, as they were our ride back to our new home at the KRAB. 

We also turned in most of our ammo (keeping just a magazine per guy, just in case), 

I said a bittersweet farewell to my SAW, 

and then I put her on the pile with all her brethren. Goodbye 'Sawz-All', good ole' number 111087. I knew ye well (but not too well, thankfully). 

On the KRAB, those of us who weren't helping the 101st learn the city (namely us lower enlisted guys) spent the next few days loafin', 

watching yet more movies on laptop computers, 

eating delicious, HOT, good KRAB food (like these lightly fried scallops that somehow never seemed to make it out to our patrol base… hmmm….), 

quaffing LOTS of ice cream, 

and expanding our minds through reading. Here Spc McFarland reads some titillating articles. Don't worry, there are certainly no photos of naked women in that magazine as pornography isn't allowed in theater, not even a bit.

We also started to savor all the other things that the glorious (at least it seemed glorious to us) KRAB had to offer. 

We started hanging out at their 'Clamtina' (get it? It's a 'cantina' but it's on the KRAB, so it's Clam-tina…) MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation) building, playing games, 

playing pool, 

and getting 'hopped up' on the sugar rush from their $0.50 slushies. (Yeah, where were these when it was 125 degrees out and we were baking in concrete guard towers?)

We also found out that, in addition to a stellar weight room, sports leagues, and numerous 'fun runs', the KRAB also had continuing education classes, self-defense classes, bingo tournaments, computer classes, USO shows, and even salsa dance classes. We, on the other hand, had only guard duty... 

We also hit the KRAB's coffee shop quite often, 

usually in an effort to use up the over $14 I had accumulated in army 'pog' change. They don't use regular change over there because, I believe, it's all too heavy to ship. Since most of the guys just throw these things away, the Army totally makes out on the deal. 

We hit the phone center and tried to use up all the phone cards that nice folks had sent us, but which we couldn't use on our base since there was no phone center (although we had cell phones which we had to pay cash for calling cards for). I had some extra calling cards (thanks mom, dad, Kathy, and others) and gave them to some 101st guys in there, who could certainly use them over the next year that they're now stuck in Iraq.

Sometime in here Scarface came back to the unit and we were very happy to see him. I tried to take some video of his return, all the accompanying hand-shaking, and his recounting of the attack.

We also checked out this cool truck that EOD (Explosives Ordinance Disposal – aka 'the bomb squad') uses. Seats eight, has two gun turrets and firing ports through all the bullet-proof glass, is raised up to avoid bombs and mines – man, we wish we'd have had these things! You could have fit a whole squad in one of them and, with two gun turrets, pulled your own security. 

During the final day, we killed time waiting for the flight out. Finally we started to move, slowly, getting into the first few of the many, many, many lines we'd see over the next several days. 

Our first official 'get out of country' act was to have our ID cards swiped like a credit card. Then we, now segregated alphabetically, waited in a tent where thankfully I got a little sleep. Finally we got up, geared up one last time in body armor and helmet, and headed to the flight line. 

We settled into the web sling seats in the C-130 and soon were off. Upon takeoff, there was a lot of hooting and hollering in the pitch-black cabin. I tried to get some of that on video with the camera's night vision feature but it's all still extremely dark. 

Dawn found us on a bus to a lovely camp in lovely Kuwait. Almost the entire camp looked like this so it was rather hard to remember where the heck you were living. 

We occupied our time there with better food 

and more board games, generally trying to sequester ourselves away from the main body as much as possible. At this point in the process, everyone is just SO sick of each other that you really can't deal any more with all the knuckleheads that you had put up with for so long. 

The day of the 'Freedom Bird' we waited around most of the day, had a customs inspection of all our duffle bags (at this point we were told that, now that we'd packed all of our extra duffles elsewhere, that we could pack our body armor and helmets in the cargo hold of the plane, if we had extra duffles), then piled them high outside the tents, waiting for the 'Freedom Buses' to take us to the airport. And then we waited… again. 

But first the buses took us to another base, where we waited. Then we had this briefing about stuff that we already knew. Then we waited. Then we got into lines and waited. Then we had a customs inspection of our carry-on stuff. Then we got into lines and were ushered into a lock down area called, ironically, the 'Freedom Tent'. There we waited. Then we got into lines, got onto the buses again, then drove to the airport. And we waited, and waited, and waited. 

Then we got into the buses again then got into lines and finally got onto the freakin' plane!

Here, Spc's Ohlensehlen, Timmons, Smith, and Jolly get ready for the long flight ahead.

And then we hit blessed Ireland for our layover.

There 'The Plan' went into effect. Litzsinger, who was at the front of the plane, raced to the bar before the herds gathered and bought he and I two pints each. I hit the duty-free shop and loaded up on, uh, 'supplies' for the rest of the long flight to Washington state (note the bag next to the table, that's full of 'supplies'). I also quaffed two MORE pints before getting back onto the plane, for a total of four in about an hour, all at around 0400 in the morning on an empty stomach. Others had more than that, some far too much for such a short period of time.

The flight was LONG, dull, and cramped, although luckily me and Sgt. Sam Tozer had one of the very few empty seats in-between us. 

Still though, we got loopy. Here Sam puts to good use one of the hot towelettes that the flight attendants plied us with. We watched four movies total, slept as much as we could, eat a lot of airplane food (Sam and I putting down five breakfasts between us during one serving), and just generally pined for the landing in the USA.

At last, we touched down in the US and there was much rejoicing, many of the lads whooping it up as we landed (all of which I again, hopefully, captured on video). 

Our first breaths of American air; moist, crisp, cool, Washington air to be exact, were wonderful. 

The governor of Idaho (in black 116th ball cap) was there to greet us and gave us all a commemorative coin (note the 'coin handler' woman behind him who handed him each coin). He was followed by no less than four generals, and a couple of full-bird colonels, all of whom thanked us and welcomed us home.

One of the colonels recognized my name from my articles in the Statesman and said quickly, 'Hey, great write-ups!'

We quickly left the plane, then got onto… you guessed it: more buses! 

Suddenly cruising the highways of our home country was surreal. We were so tired and everything was just so familiar, yet at the same time completely odd, or perhaps 'wonderful' is the correct word, maybe even fantastic. We just stared and sort of mentally drooled, perhaps unable to process all that was suddenly before us: flat, paved highways, restaurants galore, malls, movie theaters, lot after lot filled with brand new cars, stores, stores, and more stores.

Then we pulled into Fort Lewis, drove out to our barracks, and immediately got off the busses to… get into lines. 

Luckily though, these lines were all good, the first one being the final turn-in of our weapons. As tired as he was, Jake Smith was overjoyed to finally get rid of that little M4 carbine. 

We dropped our gear in our WW II barracks. 

Then we got into a line to turn in our ballistic plates for our body armor. Soon after that, we turned in the body armor itself and our helmets. 

That night, the beer came out in spades. Here, first squad's Sgt Fischer and Spc Cole tip back the first of many Coronas.

Many guys had TOO much that night and there were many a hung-over lad at the 0700 formation that next morning (and one guy who didn't make it at all who was then put on 'lock down' for the next few days). 

The next day began the stupid, poorly organized, frustrating process known as SRP (Soldier Readiness Package) which is the heart of de-mobilizing. We spent many an hour in this old theater, sitting around en mass, listening to briefings from finance, legal, the chaplain, etc.

Some of the first of the stupidity was when we had to take the time to sort all 300+ of our group alphabetically to help 'speed the process' along, yet the paperwork we were to sign wasn't alphabetical, so, in the end, it actually took more time.

The guy in charge, 'Les,' was a total, and self-admitted, ass. He spent more time telling us how long the process would take and how frustrated that we would get during the process, that he actually made the process much longer and got us all frustrated. Go figure.

On a separate note, at this point guys ironically started to complain about dehydration. Because there weren't pallets filled with water bottles all around us, as we'd become accustomed to in Iraq, we weren't drinking enough water. I had to be reminded that now we could actually drink water from the tap. I'd completely forgotten we could do that. 

During down time, we spent time playing with new cell phones calling loved ones, 

getting online at the wireless Internet cafe/coffee house on post, 

admiring the armored cars of the Japanese troops staying near by to train there (the grand irony of that being that they were staying in WWII barracks built to train American guys to fight their grandfathers), 

eating some really good food at these little mini-chow halls (each of which apparently was staffed with one real character, ours with a sort of hippie-vet who announced loudly each time a guy came in, "We got burritos, hamburgers, hot dogs, 'Freedom Fries,' and of course we're always going to serve you some BAKED BEANS! Man, I love this job, they PAY me to give this stuff away!"), 

and just generally biding our time. 

At night, we ate, drank, and were merry. This meal was particularly good, a fresh seafood place in Tacoma, that made me extremely happy. While at this point I'd already eaten out a few times and had my fair share of beers, it was this particular meal that felt to me like 'the one' meal that we'd so long and often talked about on those long, long nights on guard duty and while choking down all that processed army food.

Meanwhile, eating all this food and drinking that long-sought beer, I watched the abs that I had worked so long and hard to get quickly disappear under a new little layer of fat. Ah well. I just wish I could have kept them long enough for Sally to appreciate them. 

We also played lots of pool (again). 

And we found out that Timmons, try as he might, just can't handle shots of booze. Thankfully we brought that trash bag along with us! 

If SRP is the heart of de-mobilizing, this converted field house (note the lit-up racquet ball courts in the rear) is the heart of SRP. Over the course of several days, we spent a lot of time here, most of the time waiting in very long lines so that, when you finally get to the end, they do literally two to five minutes of work on your file. Then you get into another line.

Just to give you an idea of the lack of organization, instead of grouping each day's stations into one area, they were just scattered all over. On Day 1, you're supposed to go to something like stations 7, 8A & 8B, 10-14, etc., instead of just putting them all together and naming them 1-8 or something like that.

By the time we were into Day 3 here and the group behind us was on Day 1 in their lines, there were so many people here that SSG Attebery colorfully described it as looking like 'maggots on meat'.

On that particular day, we were waiting on the small bleachers in a shuffling line of sorts. That line led to: 

this line. Which lead to: 

this line. After this line you finally got to spend ten minutes with a nice woman who processed your new ID card.

Well, they were nice women until 5:00 PM. Once that time comes, they cut off the line and if you aren't done, then too bad, they just cut the guys loose. We had about 16 guys behind us, all of whom had waited in line for nearly four hours. Come 5:00, they were told to leave and come back the next day, 'first come, first served', regardless of their nearly four hours already spent in line on this day. When we asked if they could write up a list of who was here so that they could get to the front of the line tomorrow, we were simply told, 'No.' 

So, out of frustration and just shear joy at being home, we went out again, this time to a great bar called Swiss in Tacoma. We of course played pool. Needless to say, beer was involved. 

Another day found us filling out our travel voucher forms, which were written in an almost code-like lingo. If we hadn't hand hands-on help, we really would have had no idea how to fill these things out. They're important though as they are for reimbursement for your daily per diem expenses, about 18 months worth. I'll certainly be needing mine since I'm now unemployed. 

This blurry shot wouldn't make too much sense to anyone else but I just had to include it. It was the night that 'Litzsinger Took Control'. So upset by the ineptitude all around us, Litz had had enough. This night we were supposed to sign the coveted DD214 form, the final document that sums up our entire time deployed, awards won, etc. It is apparently the one and only official thing that says we were indeed deployed. They had us line up alphabetically and then were calling us into this random barracks where they would dig through their un-alphabetical pile and then have us sign it. This could have taken hours. Taking initiative far beyond his rank, Litz talked to the powers that be and instead had them bring all the documents to one location, one we were all now already waiting in, and just called people up as their form came up. Litz probably saved