::::::
Ill winds mark its fearsome flight,
and autumn branches creak with fright.
The landscape turns to ashen crumbs,
When something wicked this way comes.
-Lexus, 1997
::::::
By the time we mustered for movement into Iraq yesterday morning, word had raced through the squadron that our regiment had already been hit: the supply convoy for FIRES squadron got ripped by an IED (improvised explosive device) and 4 of their connexes (shipping containers) burned to the ground right outside the gates of Camp Taji, their new home in Iraq. Taji is maybe 10 miles north of Baghdad proper and also happens to be our new home in Iraq, too.::::::
At 0034 hours local time this morning, we were lifting off out of BIAP (Baghdad International AirPort) in a Chinook. The bird's gunner scanned the ground with his NODs (night optic devices) from a chair bolted to the back ramp, which was open--you could walk off the damn thing and fall 300 meters to the ground like it was a fucking plank. His machine gun swiveled menacingly at the empty streets of Baghdad.
The WHUP-WHUP of the Chinook's twin rotar blades vibrated through my body. I was shaking--we were all vibrating--from the bird's path through Baghdad's night sky. There was a fucking loud electric screech, like constant feedback from a microphone next to an amp, that lasted the entire flight, but no one cared. We were all soaking in our sweat and amazed we had survived getting onto the bird. A Chinook looks something like a blimp held aloft by twin spinning rotar blades. Entry is through the back ramp, but that's also directly in the path of the bird's turbine wash--the stream of hot air blowing from the Chinook's dual turbines.
My chalk of 12 had lined up at the edge of the helipad, each of us in full battle rattle (weapons, body armor, magazines, helmet) and carrying a full duffel bag and assault pack. When the Chinook touched down and dropped it's ramp, we dashed for the red glow of the bird's open belly. The rotar blades blasted hot, summer air in our faces, and our bags slowed us to a hopping run. One of the flight crew stopped us 10 meters short of the ramp and motioned for us to wait. The roar of the rotar blades deafened us, and the turbine wash roasted us.
I dropped my bags and brought my arms up to shield my face and any exposed flesh from what felt like an invisible stream of fire gushing from the open ramp. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. I wasn't wearing gloves, and pretty soon my hands hurt, like I'd been holding them over a bonfire. I backed off to the end of the chalk to put as much space between me and firestream as possible. I'd spent the past two weeks acclimatizing to the Arabian sun, so I was fine with the 100°F night air. But the turbine wash easily hit 150°F. I turned away from the Chinook and tried to fixate on the rhythmic thump of the rotar blades slicing through the hot, thick air. When I realized that'd been angrily yelling, "FUCK!" I tried to think of the turbine wash as just a breeze. A withering breeze that gave my flesh the smell of bacon! I've never wanted to quit so badly in my life as I did right then and there. I was ready to throw my weapon, abandon my bags, and run away, man, I don't know why I didn't. Probably because someone might call me pussy.
Over two minutes! One-hundred-twenty-seconds! we cowered and burned behind the Chinook. They made us pass our baggage forward onto pallets, and finally we were allowed to board. By red light, we crowded into the seats along the sides of the bird and strapped ourselves down. The crewman that had stopped us dragged an iron chair onto the middle of the ramp and locked it down onto the ramp. He went over to a panel, flipped a switch and ramp began to raise. The ramp stopped when it was parallel to the ground. Then the crewman brought out his machine gun and strapped himself to the bird. The Chinook lifted steadily into the air, and as we bobbed and floated across the night sky, I gazed down at Baghdad and wondered if I was staring at the same streets I would be patrolling.
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