Sitting on a pleather-bound sofa, reading, as a theological discussion unfolds in the next room, and rocket attack warning sirens blare over the base intercom, the surreal situation unravels into a discussion of acceptable ways to die in a war zone. With many of the guys in the crowd waiting to fly home at the end of their tour, the first unacceptable mode of mortality is determined to be in a rocket attack, on your last day in country, while walking to the donut shop, which one only finds on a built-up base like Kandahar. We laugh, the sirens give way to the all clear, and then he excuses himself to head out for coffee and donuts.
And so it is in neo-colonial warfare, where support bases blossom into a desert oasis, with boardwalks and coffee shops. Where you can sit down with your coffee, a bagel, and a book and soak up some early morning sun, while French and British accents fill the air with discussions of going home, or just arriving, but little about the war outside these walls. And who can blame them with all the comforts of home within these confines, and all those without wanting in, or just wanting us out, so they can figure things out on their own. Instead, the great nations of the colonial days of yore are trying their hand at a new version of the old game. Living in the country, but not within the means of the country. Shipping in as many comforts of home as we can for our morale, and then wondering why no one seems to be rushing to get out.
My experiences in combat zones have seemed a bit like 'warfare lite,' when I compare them to the books and films about the conflicts of American history. It is possible that the comforts of war may not make it into the history books and movies, but I find it more likely that today's wars are not quite comparable. Vietnam may have had some comforts for the top brass in Saigon, and the same may have been true for the commandeered headquarters on the European front in WWI and II. But, when I think about the soldiers in combat, in foxholes, relishing an occasional shower and change of clothes, I think we have really gotten soft. Now hardship is limiting your daily shower to 2-5 minutes, having to do your own laundry -- or having to wait more than a day for laundry service to return it -- and limited Internet access.
Back then, the Infantry marched into war, now we drive. Statistics can be twisted, but a startling statistic comparing our fuel consumption per soldier, then and now, calculates a rate of 1 gallon per day per soldier in WWII and 15 gallons per day per soldier in today's conflicts. I assume that accounts for all the aircraft and vehicles' gas consumption, but I'm not sure if it also counts all the generators burning fuel to power the operation bases. Plus, the large bases have a whole fleet of civilian SUV's, or in military terms NTV's (Non-tactical Vehicles), to drive around the base, to and from the office, shopping center, or dining facility. When and if fuel supplies are limited, I might just have to walk, or catch a bus, because they even have bus routes on big bases. War would be hell, if I had to walk the three blocks to pick up a dozen donuts for the office.
Back then soldiers suffered frostbite and trench foot living in the foxholes. Now, we spend $20 billion a year on air conditioning and live in 'housing units.' Twenty billion for the AC, and who knows how much we spent on all of the housing units. One might argue that living in a Shipping container turned into a house is still a hardship, but they've actually become 'Industrial Chic' and people are paying good money to live in them in major urban areas around the globe. Seriously, google it. I actually just moved into one of these housing units -- after 'roughing it' in a tent for months -- and as everyone moved in, the crowded halls, the bunks, and wall lockers, meeting new roommates or neighbors, it actually felt like a college dorm on the first day of school.
Six months into my first deployment in 2004, I took my mid-tour leave, and met an older gentlemen dining alone at a local restaurant. We invited him to join us, and in the course of the dinner conversation I learned he was a WWII vet from the Pacific campaign. Since I was on leave, he told me about his 'mid-tour' leave. He headed home, three years after departing for the front! It took him about three months to get back to the states, riding on supply ships and warships back across the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I had covered about the same distance to get home on leave; however it took me less than a week. And, I had complained about having to wait two days in Kuwait to catch a commercial flight. Yep, I think we have gotten soft. Speaking of which, I think they still have some soft serve ice cream left in the dining facility. I better go get some now, or else I'll have to wait four hours until they open for dinner.
And so it is in neo-colonial warfare, where support bases blossom into a desert oasis, with boardwalks and coffee shops. Where you can sit down with your coffee, a bagel, and a book and soak up some early morning sun, while French and British accents fill the air with discussions of going home, or just arriving, but little about the war outside these walls. And who can blame them with all the comforts of home within these confines, and all those without wanting in, or just wanting us out, so they can figure things out on their own. Instead, the great nations of the colonial days of yore are trying their hand at a new version of the old game. Living in the country, but not within the means of the country. Shipping in as many comforts of home as we can for our morale, and then wondering why no one seems to be rushing to get out.
My experiences in combat zones have seemed a bit like 'warfare lite,' when I compare them to the books and films about the conflicts of American history. It is possible that the comforts of war may not make it into the history books and movies, but I find it more likely that today's wars are not quite comparable. Vietnam may have had some comforts for the top brass in Saigon, and the same may have been true for the commandeered headquarters on the European front in WWI and II. But, when I think about the soldiers in combat, in foxholes, relishing an occasional shower and change of clothes, I think we have really gotten soft. Now hardship is limiting your daily shower to 2-5 minutes, having to do your own laundry -- or having to wait more than a day for laundry service to return it -- and limited Internet access.
Back then, the Infantry marched into war, now we drive. Statistics can be twisted, but a startling statistic comparing our fuel consumption per soldier, then and now, calculates a rate of 1 gallon per day per soldier in WWII and 15 gallons per day per soldier in today's conflicts. I assume that accounts for all the aircraft and vehicles' gas consumption, but I'm not sure if it also counts all the generators burning fuel to power the operation bases. Plus, the large bases have a whole fleet of civilian SUV's, or in military terms NTV's (Non-tactical Vehicles), to drive around the base, to and from the office, shopping center, or dining facility. When and if fuel supplies are limited, I might just have to walk, or catch a bus, because they even have bus routes on big bases. War would be hell, if I had to walk the three blocks to pick up a dozen donuts for the office.
Back then soldiers suffered frostbite and trench foot living in the foxholes. Now, we spend $20 billion a year on air conditioning and live in 'housing units.' Twenty billion for the AC, and who knows how much we spent on all of the housing units. One might argue that living in a Shipping container turned into a house is still a hardship, but they've actually become 'Industrial Chic' and people are paying good money to live in them in major urban areas around the globe. Seriously, google it. I actually just moved into one of these housing units -- after 'roughing it' in a tent for months -- and as everyone moved in, the crowded halls, the bunks, and wall lockers, meeting new roommates or neighbors, it actually felt like a college dorm on the first day of school.
Six months into my first deployment in 2004, I took my mid-tour leave, and met an older gentlemen dining alone at a local restaurant. We invited him to join us, and in the course of the dinner conversation I learned he was a WWII vet from the Pacific campaign. Since I was on leave, he told me about his 'mid-tour' leave. He headed home, three years after departing for the front! It took him about three months to get back to the states, riding on supply ships and warships back across the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I had covered about the same distance to get home on leave; however it took me less than a week. And, I had complained about having to wait two days in Kuwait to catch a commercial flight. Yep, I think we have gotten soft. Speaking of which, I think they still have some soft serve ice cream left in the dining facility. I better go get some now, or else I'll have to wait four hours until they open for dinner.
this blog never gets old. love it.
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