The Volunteer Sailor

It has recently occurred to me what a strange concept “turnover” is to civilians. I am involved in a turnover. But what does that mean, and what does it entail?

Turnover is the process by which responsibility and ultimate accountability are handed from one person to the next. At its highest level it culminates in a Change of Command, or CoC. The Change of Command is a time-honored tradition in the Navy where the outgoing Commanding Officer relinquishes to the incoming all the authority, responsibility, and accountability that are both inherent and explicit in the job he is undertaking. There are few, if any, true examples of this in the civilian world, with the exception perhaps occurring on civilian sea-going vessels.

The Commanding Officer, in the charge of his command, has ultimate authority over personnel, equipment, and mission. He reports to a higher authority, of course, but what sets him apart is the level of trust and ultimate accountability that he holds. At this level, there are no excuses for mistakes, for failures in mission, for debacles. No matter at which level of the command structure these may occur it is the Commanding Officer that is ultimately, personally responsible. The buck stops there. Allow me an example. When the Commanding Officer of the USS Santa Fe arrives to board his submarine, an announcement is made on board using the 1MC general announcing system, “Santa Fe, Arriving.” Notice that the announcement was not, “Captain of the USS Santa Fe, Arriving.” He IS the Santa Fe. That ship is his in a total and complete way. It is an awesome responsibility, and a burden.

The Commanding Officer is affectionately referred to as the C.O., the Charlie Oscar, Captain (regardless of rank), the Skipper, the Old Man (but never to his face!), and probably others that I have failed to mention. He can rule like a benevolent king, a ruthless tyrant, or really anything in between. The structure of the entire organization in his charge must bend to him: his goals, his desires, his personality, and his quirks.

He must be understood—and quickly—for his time is short. Perhaps most amazing is that the Skipper changes at regular intervals. On board ships, a new Skipper may arrive every two to three years. In my world, the Expeditionary (land Navy) world, the terms are much shorter: sometimes less than a year. Imagine trying to gain the full scope of a job, a whole organization, and to learn all its moving parts inside of two weeks, and then assume a level of responsibility at which your career and liberty could be jeopardized by any number of failures.  In order to do this he must equip, trust, and delegate to those that are in his charge. They, in turn, must learn his expectations and how to meet them. It is dynamic, to say the least, but it is also exhilarating.

Now, we have arrived to the place where I fit into the grand scheme of things here in my new life. As one of those that the Skipper has delegated authority to over a particular operation and group of people, I am learning the job itself from my predecessor while simultaneously learning the direction in which our organization must now go. I have had less than two weeks to learn an organization of which type I have never been a part of, a job for which I have never been specifically trained, leading people which I have only just met, and reporting, ultimately, to a Captain whose very existence as such may very well depend on how well I do my duty.

I’m ready.

I sometimes pick up on things. I like details. That is where you find life…in the details. So I often find myself observing people and places. I try to pick up on the mundane as well as the extraordinary. And this place could fill whole notebooks. A concise way to reveal some of my initial observations may be by listing them, in no particular order, of course:

1. Toilet Paper for your hands. Paper towels don’t seem to exist here. The latrines, and every other place you’d find a sink has a commercial size dispenser out of which comes a never-ending stream of toilet paper with which you dry your hands. It is about twice the width of the stuff used in the U.S. and has the consistency of Scott Tissue. It tends to clump up and ball up all over your wet hands. Sometimes I find TP boogers on my hand later in the day. Go figure. No explanation on this oddity.

2. The Harley Davidson Shack and the Bizarre Bazaar. Aside from what many of you may think about my remote and troubled existence in a faraway land, there are many comforts here at Arifjan. We even have a bazaar made up of aluminum sided shacks, somewhat resembling those you might find in backyards for lawnmower storage. Some of them are even quite nice inside. One of these will sell and finance Harley Davidson’s. Buy them here tax free and ship them home. Now there’s an idea. Here are some others. Buy new cars and trucks. Oakley Shop. Beauty Salon/Spa—pedicure and massage, anyone? Tailor Shop. Hookah Shop (not even kidding). And others.

3. Starbucks Goes to War. Ok, so we have a Starbucks. And if you are inside the thing, you would swear you could be in Anytown, U.S.A. It’s quite remarkable actually, and so are the prices. $26 dollars for a mug, anyone? $5 for a piece of cake? Or how about $4 for coffee? Oh wait, people pay that back home. I still think it is a lot pricier here. I brew my own, and save my moolah.

4. The Colonel versus the DFAC. Ok, I’ll get into this in another entry, but the Dining Facilities (DFACs) are pretty outrageous…and they’re free. There’s a saying here, “You can go home a stud, or you can go home a muffin.” I believe it. Anyway, if you just gotta have it, then you can get KFC here on base. Along with Pizza Hut, Pizza Inn, Nathan’s Hot Dogs, Taco Bell, Burger King, McDonald’s (I think), and some others. Are you kidding me? I live and work in a tent!
WARNING: Complaints of funky taste. Ingredients are reportedly not always genuine. May not taste exactly like the real thing. Have not verified this, and don’t plan on doing so anytime soon. Would you like (goat) cheese on that (camel) Whopper? Have it your way!

5. The George C. Scott Salute. Reveille plays at 0600 every morning. It bellows out of the many speakers that seem to be secretly hidden next to my head. Although I’m usually dressed and heading toward breakfast at this time, I have found it interesting that after playing the Reveille music (whilst which we all stand at attention and salute the nearest flag) they play the theme song to the movie, “Patton.” How’s that for motivation? Get some!

Inevitably, there will be some type of adjustment to Army camp life in the desert, even for those that have been here before. It might be extreme to call it shock, at least in my case, but it does take some getting used to. As mentioned in a previous entry, there are many things that are taken for granted back home, particularly with respect to convenience and time.

For instance, taking a shower at home is a relatively quick and easy task. Your toiletries are all in a familiar cabinet, located in your very own bathroom, which is usually adjacent to your bedroom (or just down the hall). Some type of (relatively) clean, permanent flooring beckons your bare feet. The air temperature is easily controlled, as is the water temperature. Your towel hangs conveniently within reach. A toilet and a sink, for convenience are in the same room. And most times there isn’t even a crowd in there (unless you have young kids). Yes, showers are pleasant and easy at home—so much so that, depending on my activity level, I often took two (or more) a day. Nothing like freshening up! I realize that this is a very American thing, and that we have perhaps gone overboard with personal cleanliness. 

Taking a shower on Camp Arifjan requires knowledge of the Latrine/Shower trailer system. There are Latrine (Head, for Navy sakes!) trailers, Shower trailers, and Latrine and Shower combo trailers. They like hanging out together in big clumps. Think single-wide trailer park and you’ll kind of have the picture. These are usually a short walk from the tent cities where many of us live. They are fairly well maintained and operable, however they tend to have the worst qualities of a hot steamy bathroom and a porta-potty wrapped into one. The A/C units have been dumping more hot than cool lately, perhaps because it is winter here (although NOT by my standards!). They tend to be bustling places during all the usual times, i.e. first thing in the morning and just before taps.

The process for taking a shower involves something like this: Put PT clothing on. Gather towel, toiletries, shower shoes, and undergarments. Walk 300 feet through gravel and sand to hot and steamy trailer. Commence with taking shower, ensuring that clean clothing has ample space on a bench so as not to end up trampled on the wet dirty floor. Get dressed in aforementioned PT clothing (with fresh undergarments, of course). Shave and brush teeth, if that’s your thing. Walk back through gravel and sand 300 feet, while avoiding wet skin and hair to be exposed, as it attracts blowing sand (i.e. dust) and creates thin film of mud. Enter tent. Undress out of PT clothing. Re-dress into uniform and boots. Hang accoutrements to dry, lest they become hideouts for mold and fungi. Depart for chow.

After all this rigmarole, you can see why most of us just aren’t going to be taking a lot of extra showers. Besides, from what I’ve heard once the heat turns up and into the 120’s and above we will forget about feeling cool and clean (of perspiration, anyway). We might as well get used to it.

It would be a brief six and half hour flight to Shannon Ireland for our only stop on the trip. Most slept, but I stayed awake all but about an hour. Trying to ensure that I could adjust to my new time zone was a priority consideration. Back to back movies played while flight attendants attempted to gorge us with food service. I don’t think I have ever seen that much food served on an airplane. We ate two hot meals and several snack services just on the first leg. A couple of hot towel treatments and we were in Shannon.

A very short layover of about 45 minutes had everyone scurrying through the airport to pick up souvenirs and to take pictures of each other in Ireland. I was one of the last ones back on the plane, walking through the airport with a couple of the Chiefs and Officers to round up stragglers. We left quickly and unceremoniously. The whole thing was rather abrupt.

The final leg was just over six hours—shorter by a third—than I had expected. Again I didn’t sleep much at all, but chose to read, listen to music, and watch a movie. Oh, and eat. And eat. And eat another time. Before I knew it, we were landing in Kuwait City Airport (KCIA). Debarking was organized and coordinated by the folks we are relieving. Many of them were there to greet us—thankful that their reliefs were there and anxious to prepare for their own departure.

My first impression of Kuwait: something very similar to the barren areas surrounding El Paso, but without the mountains. The air was somewhat thick with dust, and believe-it-or-not, fog. It was slightly humid and cool (high 60’s)! Having gathered us together in a staging area we mingled with some of the Juliet group (we are Kilo) and were addressed by their Commanding Officer (CO). Departing for Arifjan gave me my first opportunity to see just how crazy driving in Kuwait can be. More on that another time.

Upon arrival at the base, we gathered in a very large tent (think warehouse sized) and issued some last minute gear (i.e. sleeping bags), and given a quick indoctrination. By that time the trucks with our gear had unloaded our belongings to be carried to our 14-person tents. Army style. While resembling something from an episode of M.A.S.H. they are actually pretty accommodating. They have air conditioning units, and bunk beds, and plywood floors. We nicknamed our tent, “The Sand Trap.” I live with five other officers, for now anyway. Once we have relieved Juliet and sent them home, then we will inhabit their former home: the PCB’s. They are pre-fabricated concrete buildings, providing open-bay (or close to it) berthing to the masses. I haven’t actually seen the inside of one of them yet, but they are supposed to be decent.

More on life in the desert to follow, but I’ll finish by saying that we have it very, very good here compared to some of our Bubba’s in Afghanistan. NO COMPLAINTS! It’s disrespectful to them for what they have to endure.

The final days eked by, anticipation building, preparations being finalized. On the final day at the Williamsburg Marriott we had a series of weigh-ins and many meetings throughout the day for various people and for various purposes. We did, however, get to start the day about two hours later than usual, which was very much needed. The next couple of days would be long.
What does a weigh-in entail, and why would we need one? Well, unlike commercial flights, this flight would be filled with a group of common origin and destination, dressed alike, and carrying tons (literally) of gear. As with any flight, a loadmaster has to determine the weight being carried by the craft and ensure that it is properly stowed and distributed. A group such as ours has a baggage issue—that is—there’s lots of it. Much of what was carried onboard was required, issued gear, while some of it was personal. A 75 lb. limit on one checked bag and a 70 lb. limit on the other would make most baggage agents at airports balk; however, our gear is required to be with us at all times and it is quite heavy. This includes: Individual Body Armor (IBA), Kevlar (Helmet), Chemical Biological and Radiological Defense (CBRD) Gear, and assorted other issued gear and uniforms. Is it overkill? You bet. And it’s gotten better than when this engagement first started. You should see the load out that the Army Bubba’s get. It’s ridiculous. 

A meticulous process of weighing each individual in uniform, weighing each checked bag (a Seabag, and a Kit bag…both green and military issue) as well as one carry-on bag (under 25 lbs.) took a great deal of time. We were allowed to stuff our pockets with as much as we could to be included in our individual weight, which incidentally had no limit. Some people took this to a rather obscene level. They even let you carry your laptop so that it wasn’t included in your carry-on bag weight. This allowed for some absurdly over-burdened and jangly people—with things stuffed everywhere and hanging off of every hook and flap so that they looked like some uniformed junk-dealer. Fortunately, all of my bags came in substantially below the limit.

Most of our personal belongings were shipped via USPS in trunks affectionately referred to as “Gorilla Boxes.” These come in various sizes and are made by numerous manufacturers and are each individual’s responsibility to purchase, load, and mail. I sent two medium boxes forward containing things like a set of sheets, pillow, a couple of towels, limited civilian clothes, flashlights, and other odds and ends. Again, some have really gone a little overboard: big screen monitors, huge desktop external hard drives, whole libraries of books, dvd’s, knick-knacks, and patty-whacks. All I can say is, “wow.”

After a last meal with some of the other JO’s (junior officer’s) at a local Thai restaurant and some final phone calls, I slipped my Blackberry into a prepaid envelope and dropped it at the front desk to mail home. I got to bed at 2230.

At 2355 I was up and getting ready for my 0015 muster. Muster, bus load out, and transport to Langley and we were waiting in a hangar at sometime before 0200 awaiting a 0630 flight. Some slept (in impossible positions) while I and many others milled about talking, drinking coffee and eating Krispy Kreme donuts provided generously by the USO. Time stopped. I must have checked my watch every five minutes all night long.

Finally, sometime after dawn, we had to arrange ourselves alphabetically and load onto buses that drove us onto the flight line. The cold was penetrating. We waited, lined up, single file, to get onto the chartered DC-10 for what seemed like an eternity. On-board the plane there was controlled chaos. While the process was very well organized there was the inevitable buzz of chatter, the stowing of lots of carry-on bags and gear, the situating of oneself, the changing of seats, etc. At long last, we were loaded, sealed up, and rolling.