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Saga Part VI
Apr. 3rd, 2003 02:38 pm02 Apr 2003
Concertina wire acquires a sad look if left untended. The only way I can think
of to describe it is as a gill-net for trash. So the plants grow in the wedges
of sand between the resting sections, and bags, paper, odd tatters of decrepit
plastic hang from it; plates, ice cream wrappers and napkins, fluttering
in the wind as though they might break free.
Tending it, on the other hand, is a detail which requires a fair amount of
attention. Concertina, for those of you who have not encountered it is a
serial set of loops, which can bee pulled apart, to stretch across someplace which
needs to be blocked, sort of like a slinky, or a concertina. To make it more
effective the links are also equipped with evenly spaced pieces of sharp
metal. Reaching in to remove the odds and ends which take refuge in it means not
touching it. Which is a touch and go thing.
Once, on an exercise I had a member of the squad I was leading step into
an old piece of concertina. His trousers got stuck, somewhat like Brer Rabbit on the
tar-baby, he made a strangled noise, and, with his arms windmilling
futilely for balance, crashed to the ground.
We continue to prepare for our eventual move forward. Convoy preparation, load
plans, battle drills, fields of fire, recovery plans; in event of a disabled
vehicle, or driver. We have soft-sided HMMWV (High Mobility, Multi-Wheeled
Vehicle, i.e. humvee) which means our only organic defense if to return a
fire, as massively as we can. With sandbags on the floors, and rucksacks on the
outsides we look like the gypsies we are, and have some measure of increased
protection.
The most difficult part of all the planning is the duty positions of the
personnel. I have the honor of driving. This causes me some concern. In the,
unlikely, event we get contact I am to drive. Just drive. Stray from the road,
neither to the left nor the right. Just drive.
On the one hand this is flattering. I am seen as cool-headed enough to do
that. Given that I am one of the few people in the company who has ever been shot at
(long time ago, I was in the right place at the wrong time) I tend to share
Churchill's sentiment on the subject {There is nothing so exhilarating as
being shot at, and missed,"} without his enthusiasm for ending up in such
circumstances).
On the other hand, I am one of the best shots here, and the best in my vehicle
(as it is presently crewed). Not that any of us have much chance of hitting
anything from a humvee when it is doing 40-50 mph (and I guarantee I will be
doing that if we are being shot at). I also have no real desire to shoot
anyone.
It goes with the job, and I don't feel any reservation at the thought (none of
us knows how we will perform at the moment of truth) and the Army has done
after action studies which show modern training (and perhaps an all volunteer force)
leads to about 90 percent of soldiers who get shot at returning fire.
In WW2 this number was never better than 25 percent.
So my being behind a rifle is not really any advantage, and my driving might be. But one feels more in control when one can take an aggressive part in the
defense.
Not that the odds of anything more than random harassment is likely to
occur, so I am chasing after shadows.
We spent this afternoon (03 April) doing convoy drills. The most important is
the, "dead driver," drill. Which is what we will do if I get shot. The
drill is simple, my seat belt is undone, and I am hauled into the back, while someone else drops into my seat. The LT will be steering while this happens. If I am
rational enough, I will pull the throttle lock, if not, we will slow down.
Sobering, and a tad on the uncomfortable side. To make the training more
effective I have to be as close to dead weight as I can manage, while being
dragged over a metal sill, my back against the coaming. I will be wearing body
armor so I'll be more rigid, and my spine shan't drag, but comfort is not a
factor. Then it's patch me up, and drive on, if needed call for a medevac.
My crew worries about silly shit. Stuff that doesn't matter. The designated
driver (should I get clipped, or worse) was trying to figure out how to
drag her rifle to the front, so she could shoot while she drove. That was easy
enough to stop. We just repeated, again and again and again, until she accepted it, that she was NOT going to shoot, she was to drive, just drive.
The other bits are harder to deal with. They don't seem to realise that at,
25-40 mph they will have slightly better odds of hitting a stationary target
than they have of getting home in a month. So they are wargaming silly things,
things that are so far beyond their control as to be not worth worrying over.
They don't believe me when I say the mission is simple, shoot back if we get
shot and drive, just drive.
When it is over with (and we weren't even shot at) they might realise that it
was that simple. Maybe if they had been shot at, at least once, they would
realise it is that simple. Until then they seem to think it is complex.
Perhaps I need to recall that the simple is not always easy.
This morning I saw an unusual Chinook landing. I wrote that helicopters
can take-off in a manner not unlike that of a plane. It is called a ground-effect take off. It is usually used when a chopper is so heavily loaded it can't pick
itself all the way up. By moving forward, the compression of the air against the ground generates more lift (roughly speaking) and the bird can slide forward until the forward motion translates to real lift and it can rise.
One of the Chinooks (I know not why) chose to do this in reverse. It slid down
the sky, and then along the ground, disappearing behind the farthest tents, a
huge tail of dust rising up; for dozens of feet and hundreds of yards.
The other just pulled up, above the back of the dust cloud and waited,
until all was clear. She then drifted forward and made the usual straight descent to the ground.
Mail, in all its glory is starting to come. I have (at long last) gotten some.
It arrived with all dispatch, frustrating in the extreme to get a piece of
mail only five and-a-half days old, when Maia writes e-mail asking if messages three weeks in the queue have arrived (which they have not). My gratitude is
tempered with annoyance. Others have had things sent, all on the same day; from the
same place, arrive over the course of five days.
People share their packages, Easter candy, and home-made cookies, chocolate
truffles and birthday cards, baby-wipes and pictures are passed around for all
to take, or read, or look at. Home comes closer, less painfully distant.
Better than e-mail, it is concrete. We can touch it, smell it, feel it. We can
take it with us when we travel.
Concertina wire acquires a sad look if left untended. The only way I can think
of to describe it is as a gill-net for trash. So the plants grow in the wedges
of sand between the resting sections, and bags, paper, odd tatters of decrepit
plastic hang from it; plates, ice cream wrappers and napkins, fluttering
in the wind as though they might break free.
Tending it, on the other hand, is a detail which requires a fair amount of
attention. Concertina, for those of you who have not encountered it is a
serial set of loops, which can bee pulled apart, to stretch across someplace which
needs to be blocked, sort of like a slinky, or a concertina. To make it more
effective the links are also equipped with evenly spaced pieces of sharp
metal. Reaching in to remove the odds and ends which take refuge in it means not
touching it. Which is a touch and go thing.
Once, on an exercise I had a member of the squad I was leading step into
an old piece of concertina. His trousers got stuck, somewhat like Brer Rabbit on the
tar-baby, he made a strangled noise, and, with his arms windmilling
futilely for balance, crashed to the ground.
We continue to prepare for our eventual move forward. Convoy preparation, load
plans, battle drills, fields of fire, recovery plans; in event of a disabled
vehicle, or driver. We have soft-sided HMMWV (High Mobility, Multi-Wheeled
Vehicle, i.e. humvee) which means our only organic defense if to return a
fire, as massively as we can. With sandbags on the floors, and rucksacks on the
outsides we look like the gypsies we are, and have some measure of increased
protection.
The most difficult part of all the planning is the duty positions of the
personnel. I have the honor of driving. This causes me some concern. In the,
unlikely, event we get contact I am to drive. Just drive. Stray from the road,
neither to the left nor the right. Just drive.
On the one hand this is flattering. I am seen as cool-headed enough to do
that. Given that I am one of the few people in the company who has ever been shot at
(long time ago, I was in the right place at the wrong time) I tend to share
Churchill's sentiment on the subject {There is nothing so exhilarating as
being shot at, and missed,"} without his enthusiasm for ending up in such
circumstances).
On the other hand, I am one of the best shots here, and the best in my vehicle
(as it is presently crewed). Not that any of us have much chance of hitting
anything from a humvee when it is doing 40-50 mph (and I guarantee I will be
doing that if we are being shot at). I also have no real desire to shoot
anyone.
It goes with the job, and I don't feel any reservation at the thought (none of
us knows how we will perform at the moment of truth) and the Army has done
after action studies which show modern training (and perhaps an all volunteer force)
leads to about 90 percent of soldiers who get shot at returning fire.
In WW2 this number was never better than 25 percent.
So my being behind a rifle is not really any advantage, and my driving might be. But one feels more in control when one can take an aggressive part in the
defense.
Not that the odds of anything more than random harassment is likely to
occur, so I am chasing after shadows.
We spent this afternoon (03 April) doing convoy drills. The most important is
the, "dead driver," drill. Which is what we will do if I get shot. The
drill is simple, my seat belt is undone, and I am hauled into the back, while someone else drops into my seat. The LT will be steering while this happens. If I am
rational enough, I will pull the throttle lock, if not, we will slow down.
Sobering, and a tad on the uncomfortable side. To make the training more
effective I have to be as close to dead weight as I can manage, while being
dragged over a metal sill, my back against the coaming. I will be wearing body
armor so I'll be more rigid, and my spine shan't drag, but comfort is not a
factor. Then it's patch me up, and drive on, if needed call for a medevac.
My crew worries about silly shit. Stuff that doesn't matter. The designated
driver (should I get clipped, or worse) was trying to figure out how to
drag her rifle to the front, so she could shoot while she drove. That was easy
enough to stop. We just repeated, again and again and again, until she accepted it, that she was NOT going to shoot, she was to drive, just drive.
The other bits are harder to deal with. They don't seem to realise that at,
25-40 mph they will have slightly better odds of hitting a stationary target
than they have of getting home in a month. So they are wargaming silly things,
things that are so far beyond their control as to be not worth worrying over.
They don't believe me when I say the mission is simple, shoot back if we get
shot and drive, just drive.
When it is over with (and we weren't even shot at) they might realise that it
was that simple. Maybe if they had been shot at, at least once, they would
realise it is that simple. Until then they seem to think it is complex.
Perhaps I need to recall that the simple is not always easy.
This morning I saw an unusual Chinook landing. I wrote that helicopters
can take-off in a manner not unlike that of a plane. It is called a ground-effect take off. It is usually used when a chopper is so heavily loaded it can't pick
itself all the way up. By moving forward, the compression of the air against the ground generates more lift (roughly speaking) and the bird can slide forward until the forward motion translates to real lift and it can rise.
One of the Chinooks (I know not why) chose to do this in reverse. It slid down
the sky, and then along the ground, disappearing behind the farthest tents, a
huge tail of dust rising up; for dozens of feet and hundreds of yards.
The other just pulled up, above the back of the dust cloud and waited,
until all was clear. She then drifted forward and made the usual straight descent to the ground.
Mail, in all its glory is starting to come. I have (at long last) gotten some.
It arrived with all dispatch, frustrating in the extreme to get a piece of
mail only five and-a-half days old, when Maia writes e-mail asking if messages three weeks in the queue have arrived (which they have not). My gratitude is
tempered with annoyance. Others have had things sent, all on the same day; from the
same place, arrive over the course of five days.
People share their packages, Easter candy, and home-made cookies, chocolate
truffles and birthday cards, baby-wipes and pictures are passed around for all
to take, or read, or look at. Home comes closer, less painfully distant.
Better than e-mail, it is concrete. We can touch it, smell it, feel it. We can
take it with us when we travel.
