On Weather....

   When I first got to this part of the world, perhaps the most challenging thing to adjust to was the heat. For something that the majority of people only grant a cursory acknowledgement, the weather really is an important aspect in our lives. Perhaps it is the very uncontrollable nature of weather that makes it so important. Our daily activities lie at the mercy of giant air masses which ebb and flow across the Earth's surface creating a myriad of meteorological phenomena ranging from breath-taking beauty to an awe-inspiring maelstrom. Here at Bucca, I have been witness to several atmospheric events - some pleasant, others not-so. The good news is that the temperature has mellowed dramatically. Daytime highs are comfortable in the 60's, but nighttime can be downright cold. As the sun slinks behind the horizon, the temperatures can dip into the low 30's making one question whether he really needs to go pee that badly.

   Before the cold sets in, though, we are, from time to time, blessed at the end of the day with a picture-perfect sunset. Mother Nature works her magic with a mid-level broken layer of stratus clouds which serve as a backdrop for this event. The sky seems to glow a deep magenta hue, and the edges of the clouds appear as if they are on fire - fueled by the final rays of the retreating sun. The day then slowly fades into the horizon as a brightly-lit and unobscured moon assumes the watch.

   One thing which I have been awaiting with some trepidation has been the "Rainy Season." I have heard tales of this rumored time of year during which sustained rain showers are not uncommon, and they are only interrupted by the occasional torrential downpour. The sand which was once so cumbersome to walk through transforms to a thick, heavy mud which is now impossible to walk through. I have seen a few few thunderstorms in my time here, the first of which was back in October. I had thought that this was heralding in the season of damp gloom; however, it has yet to descend upon Bucca, and I only hope that it waits as long as possible.

   Perhaps the most dominant atmospheric condition here is the perpetual wind. Southern Iraq is flat. Kansas flat. There are no mountains, hills, buildings, trees, or even grass to disrupt the onslaught of the driving winds. These forceful gales are responsible for giant sandstorms which blow in across the desert shrouding everything in obscurity as visibility precipitously drops to mere feet. I have only been witness to one such event, and it was back in September, shortly after my arrival. I had just left the PX (on what was undoubtedly an unsuccessful shopping trip), and was on my way back to the Ole Homestead when I glanced up to my right. Blowing in from the northwest was a giant cloud of sand and dust. Where I stood, it was perfectly calm, but this ominous tsunami of silt was fast approaching. I quickly ducked into the nearest building I could find whereupon the dust storm settled in. The building rattled and the wind howled outside. The fine particulate dust found its way in through every crack and crevice of the building leaving a fine coating on everything inside and the unmistakable taste of dirt in my mouth. It was over in about 20 minutes.

   As unpleasant as one might imagine that to be, it pales in comparison to the extreme unpleasantness of the common prevailing winds. Wind, in and of itself, should be no more than a minor nuisance. Unless you consider that the prevailing winds around Bucca seem to blow from the east. A quick Google search for Bucca should provide you with enough satellite imagery to ask, "What are those dark splotches outside of the Camp?" Those, ladies and gentlemen are great lakes of human waste. And they are situated just outside the birm. On the eastern side of Camp Bucca. The combined excrement of twenty-some-odd thousand people is collected and deposited there. And there it sits. Aside from the natural processes of decomposition and evaporation, I'm not sure that anything else is actually done to manage this waste. But, what I can tell you is this: When those vicious winds pick up and come careening across the flat desert and over this comparatively warm cesspool, they become heavily fragranced with the co-mingled essence of the byproducts of an entire community numbering greater than 20,000 individuals. As one walks eastward along the 1/2 mile road to exit the TIF, this driving wind constantly bathes the body, soul, and senses (primarily olfactory) in an unearthly, gut-twisting stench which I refer to as BuccAroma. If this could be tamed and bottled, the makers of Mace would soon find themselves unemployed for the repulsive power of BuccAroma is unparalleled in the known universe.

   Today, however, is a relatively pleasant day. It's 64 outside, there is a slight breeze (which fortunately is only lightly fragranced today) and a cloudless sky. I hope that things stay this way for just a little while longer....

Merry Christmas From Bucca

   Steve frequently finds himself rambling on in a stream-of-consciousness style (and occasionally in the third person, apparently). Whilst it may seem to be the aimless meanderings of an over-taxed mind, if you stick with it for a while, a couple of things might happen:

#1 You might find yourself amused.

#2 He occasionally makes a point.

Holidays in Bucca . . . .

   There are a few ways to think about this topic (all are almost equally depressing). It seems like life here is on "Hold." It's almost like someone paused the movie of my life to go mow the lawn. Oddly enough, everyone else in it is still moving around. Time here has less meaning, and the calendar is simply an obscure connection to a world in which things change depending on the day and it's important to keep track of what day it is. Fall came and went, and I didn't even notice. Suddenly, it was Thanksgiving, and now Christmas. I know that these things are going on, but there's no real connection. I'll come home in the Spring and try to start living again, and I'm sure I'll wonder what happened to 6mos of my life . . . .

   Someone once asked me if they have the Fourth of July in Britain. The obvious answer to anyone even remotely familiar with history would be, "No." This is, of course, preposterous. They absolutely have the fourth of July in Britain. It comes right after the third - only it seems to pass with little to no fanfare.

   Are there Holidays in Bucca? Of course. We had Thanksgiving. I cancelled the OR - no elective cases. There was an enormous spread in the DFAC including most all Thanksgiving favorites plus some interesting additions - lobster tail? For all of the hype surrounding that fourth Thursday in November and the importance of togetherness that Families throughout the United States assign it, it was little more than another day in Bucca. The day after the fourth Wednesday. With better food.

   Surely, Christmas must demand some degree of recognition! Yes, I presume it does. There was a Christmas Eve Mass held in the Chapel which I attended. Several dozen desperate soulsc crowded into the Chapel and lifted their feeble voices up to Heaven in a meager attempt to squeeze whatever Christmas Spirit they could from the evening. In one sense, Christmas is more pure here. There really is no commercialization of the day. It is celebrated for what it is - the birth of Jesus. And, just like in Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas:

It came without ribbons! It came without tags!

  It came without packages, boxes, or bags!

And he puzzled three hours 'til his puzzler was sore.

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!

"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.

Maybe Christmas . . . perhaps . . . means a little bit more!"

   And so, it is here. Christmas in Bucca. I can't say that I've avoided the hype entirely - I do, after all, have a giant 7-ft inflatable snowman on top of my POD. And, for those who sent packages, boxes, and bags, Thank You very much! While it seems more widely recognized and embraced than Thanksgiving was, it has yet to be more than another day in Bucca. Oddly enough, it's the fourth Thursday in December. While the above might seem like mature insights, don't be fooled. Though I am closer to Bethlehem than I've ever been in my life, I've never felt further from Christmas.

   While the true meaning of Christmas is something more spiritual, I think most people welcome the Holiday Season as a time of gathering. With family in all four time zones, it seems the only time we're ever all together. So, to my family - Mother, Father, David, Michael, and Kim (and however many Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and other relatives are gathered), and to my wife and daughter, Merry Christmas from Bucca!

   

   Now, I'm off to have some Roast Beast.

BuccaSpace

I know, I know.  It's been too long. Kind of like waiting for the new season of Lost to get started. I guess I could always blame it on a writer's strike, or something.

I will now attempt to fill my reading audience in on everything new that has happened since my last update over a month ago.

.

.

.

.

And, that's about it, folks.

I thought, perhaps, that I'd ramble about a few observations that I and my colleagues have made. It all started one night when we were watching Office Space. I have seen this movie twice before, and I remember it being entertaining. But, now I see beyond the hilarity of its dry wit and off-the-wall antics. I can understand the almost universal appeal of this film. Save for the retired, unemployed, or self-employed we all know every character in the movie. They're in the cubicle next to us, or the corner office down the hall. Indeed, every character in the movie exists on FOB Bucca in some incarnation or other. Well, all but Jennifer Anniston's character. And she is sorely missed....

There are many Lumberghs running around. I am not really at liberty to delve into specific instances, suffice it to say that my fellow Providers and I frequently find ourselves casting bewildered gazes at each other and saying, "Ummmmm, Yeah.... We're gonna need you to just go ahead and, uh, . . . . . . ___________"

We have our "Pieces of Flair." 

My favorite is the IBA. The Army refers to it as the Individual Body Armor. I think it actually stands for Individual Burden, Asinine. Don't get me wrong, I wholeheartedly believe in the effectiveness of this product. I've seen how devastating injuries can be without it, and I've seen it save lives. The lives of our boys and girls who roll out beyond the wire in armored vehicles kicking down doors and taking fire and dodging IEDs. The IBA is an invaluable asset in a combat environment. While I'm technically in a combat zone, the closest thing I've seen to combat is a really heated Ping Pong game. Nevertheless, on my trek into and out of the hospital, I must wear my IBA. I really feel safer as a result.

My other favorite is the reflective PT belt. Now this makes TOTAL SENSE. There is a small amount of vehicular traffic out on the LSA. In an effort to make myself more visible to this traffic, and therefore immune to being run over, I am required to wear a reflective belt. But only when in PTs. If wearing the standard Army ACU, no reflective belt is required. Let's think about this.....

The Army spent a lot of money (probably millions) to completely re-design the combat uniform and create a pattern which will effectively camouflage its wearer in a variety of environments - including the desert. It is a tactical uniform, and one key purpose is to allow its wearer to more effectively blend into his/her surroundings thus LIMITING VISIBILITY TO OTHERS such an enemy combatant (or perhaps, even the unwitting driver of an SUV). 

The Army also spent a lot of money (probably millions) to completely re-design the PT uniform. Granted, one impetus for this was that they wanted soldiers to have a stylish get-up that they'd be proud to wear as opposed to the old 1970's version that I'm pretty sure JJ from Good Times had a few sets of. But, they additionally took advantage of fantastic new technological developments and incorporated reflective logos and striping into the new uniform. That's right, the uniform itself has reflective print on it. Built in. In the design. Right there, permanently adherent to the very cloth of the uniform is a big-ass "A" on the back and the word "Army" on the front. Integrated.

I understand completely why there is no reflective material on the ACU. That's not really my question. My question is this:  Why, then, when I need to get up at 2:00am to go pee and I'm wearing my PT uniform with its inherent reflective properties am I required to don my reflective belt? However, at 7:30pm when I'm walking along a road with relatively frequent traffic as I'm making my way back from the hospital after taking out another appendix and I'm wearing my uniform which allows me to blend in with the environment, there is no requirement to wear anything to make me more visible to the SUVs, busses, and Polaris vehicles passing by. Perhaps it's because I'm wearing my IBA, and that will prevent injury in the event of an impact......

This is, possibly, the world's saddest camel. And not simply because I'm sitting on it. The real point here is - notice the bright blinding reflection of the flash from the shirt and also from the shorts. Contrast this highly visible reflective print to photos in previous posts of Steve in ACUs. Note there, the conspicuous absence of any reflective area. 

I am up to my knees . . . .

. . . In appendices. 

The long-awaited Appendectomy Rant.

During my third year of Residency, I travelled to Ft. Bragg, NC for a three-month rotation. This was a splendid time in the life of a young, developing surgeon. After completing two grueling years of subordination, it was a chance to develop my own "style" if you will.  During those three months, I was one of two residents working in busy community-style hospital. We did all kinds of standard General Surgery procedures which would be considered "Bread and Butter" cases as well as a smattering of more involved surgery. While down there, I split call with the other Resident - Blundy*. We basically alternated taking call every other night during the week and every other weekend.

As the Surgeon on call, we were the first to be notified of any potential surgical case. Very few call nights passed without a trip to the hospital. At the time, it seemed that an inordinate number of these trips were for acute appendicitis. I remember thinking that I was taking out a lot of appendices while I was there. To be honest, I don't really remember how many young soldiers' appendices fell prey to my knife, but in retrospect it was probably on par with what one would expect taking care of a population that size. In the remaining 3yrs of my residency, I probably took out an equal number to what I did at Ft. Bragg. I thought appy hunting couldn't get much better than the fertile grounds around Fayetteville.

Then, I got to Camp Bucca. I have now been here just over two months. In that time, I have removed 15 appendices. Fifteen. While this number may not sound shocking to anyone, consider this:

The average annual rate of appendicitis is reported to range from 84-230 per 100,000 population.

The approximate detainee population at Camp Bucca is 15,000.

Some simple math places the expected ANNUAL incidence of acute appendicitis in a population of that size to be between 12.6 and 34.5.  

One might ask, "Why such a large range?" One answer would be that the higher number is adjusted for age and represents the highest incidence that I have found reported. It is the 10-19yr age group. Not knowing the average age of Bucca (though I'm pretty certain it is significantly higher than 19), I use it as the upper limit of reasonably reported data. The only prospectively gathered data I could find put the incidence at the lower end.

Okay, enough scientific blabber. I have taken out 15 appendices in 2 months. At this rate, one might reasonably predict that I should remove a total of 45 before I leave, and that in the span of one year, it would be expected that 90 appendectomies would be performed. Ninety is a much larger number than 12.6 or 34.5. 

The next logical question would be, "Gee, Steve, that's pretty high. Why do you suppose that is?" I do not have the answer to this question. It could have something to do with age, although even when you consider the age group at the highest risk, it's still far less than the rate we're seeing here. It could have something to do with diet; there is a reported correlation between low fiber and appendicitis (apparently fiber prevents any and all diseases related to the colon and rectum. If every one simply had enough dietary fiber intake, Colo-Rectal Surgeons would be out of a job). While the food contains an adequate amount of fiber, I'm not sure anyone can really say how much of that is being ingested. 

While I do not have an answer, I do have plenty of animosity. I cringe when I see the ER docs. Any sentence containing the phrase, "...right lower quadrant pain..." causes an extremely distasteful visceral reaction. I thought that no sound could elicit such a Pavlovian response other than the maddening chirp of my pager. I was wrong. The complex interplay of phonemes which make up the above phrase is exponentially more powerful than the simplistic beep of a pager.

Another thing which I do not understand is why I hate appendicitis so much. It really isn't that much of an inconvenience for me. It's usually a pretty short (30min) case. There is no laparoscopic equipment at Bucca - they are all done the old fashioned way. This should be a great opportunity to do a case that's rarely done back home. After all, prior to arriving here, I hadn't done an open appy in several years! Nevertheless, appendicitis carries an excessively frustrating connotation for me. I don't know if this was cultivated during my time at Ft. Bragg and simply lives on to today, or if there is some more deeply seeded hatred for this worm-shaped organ with no known physiologic purpose. Whatever the reason, I find myself here, in this most miserable of places, taking out an unprecedented number of these most miserable organs.

* - Names have been changed to protect the innocent. But they know who they are. Yes. They do.

A Day in the Life....

...of  a Camp Bucca Surgeon. Is not very fascinating.

It's been a while since I graced this board with "Steve's Thoughts," so  figured it was about time to indulge my grateful fans (all two of them) with a little something new. I've pondered about what subject matter I should address next. After arriving here, my travels were over, and it seems like one day has simply blended into another. Nothing new or exciting happens from day to day, and therefore there was little material to write. As mundane as things might seem to me, though, I'm sure that the question of "What do you actually do in a day?" is still lingering. I shall attempt to address just that query.

Mornings:

I'd like to set up a "routine" but that would require dedication to waking up by around 0600. While I'm fully capable of this, it's nice to actually sleep in until 0730-0800. Nevertheless, there have been days that I got up in the morning and went for a 2-4mi run to start the day. These could be counted on one hand. Most days, I simply get up and go about the standard morning preparations and head off to the hospital. 

There are several ways of closing the 3/4mi distance between "home" and the hospital. By far, the most convenient is to walk. It takes about 15-20min to make the trek over a combination of sand, gravel, and hardpacked mud in 35lbs of body armor, but my feet are always available to take me. The bus, while much easier on the body and a good deal faster, only runs every 50min. From time to time, a kind passerby in an SUV will stop and offer a ride. Most of the time, they simply smile and wave, "Good morning! Hope you're enjoying your walk."

Workday:

My OR days are Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, and things kick off around 0900, so I like to show up a little before that. If I'm actually up early, I'll make sure to round on everyone (usual inpatient census of between 3-5) and change their dressings, etc. prior to the start of my first case. Otherwise, they get seen throughout the morning between cases. I generally schedule three cases per day which allows for the all-too-frequent add on appendectomy, etc....  Wed is my easy day because I only have an afternoon clinic; I guess the mornings are for administrative tasks. Like sleeping.  Friday is an all-day clinic. So, each week I get to see detainees for one and a half days of clinic. Their complaints vary from hernias, lipomas, and hemorrhoids all the way to thyroid and rectal cancer. Unfortunately, Camp Bucca can't really support surgery for low rectal cancer, and Steve - despite doing a large number of thyroidectomies in residency, or perhaps because of it - has a healthy enough respect for that gland to avoid operating on it in this environment without assistance. All in all, most days are done by 1500 at the latest. Again, this can always be delayed by the excessively common appendectomy.*

Evening: 

The evening begins with the walk back to the Pod. See above. Now, here's where things get mixed up a bit. There are a variety of ways to pass the remainder of the day. Relative staples include:

- Dinner

- Gym

- Ping Pong/Pool/Foosball

- Movie night with Anesthesia

If the workday is over early enough, we can sneak in a workout prior to dinner. Otherwise, it's an early dinner then Gym, then movienight (relatively regular at 2000 every night - by the way, feel free to send movies, we're running out). We always leave a little flexibility in our day, though. We've been blessed with other opportunities to occupy ourselves such as Ultimate Frisbee or other sporting activities. If none of these are going on, and it isn't one of the handful of days that I actually got up to run in the morning, I'll top off my day with a run at night.

Shower.

Sleep. 

Repeat x 180.

Weekends are a little different matter. Nothing scheduled happens at the hospital on weekends. So, I get to go in at my leisure and make sure that my folks are all still breathing, etc. Then, I get to try to invent creative new ways to while away the hours. These are typically the Ping Pong days or Other Ridiculous Activity days (i.e. eat 30 bowls of ice cream in 24hrs). 

I hate Camp Bucca. Everyone does. That bond, I think, is what unites us. The majority of the people here are well-meaning folks, and it's the people that make a deployment tolerable. While this was supposed to be the most professionally meaningful time of my life, it really has turned out to be one of the most professionally meaningless episodes. I am thankful that I can share this cynicism with the entire OR staff. These relationships give rise to absurd thinks like the ice cream challenge, and for all of its stupidity, it is one thing that has kept us all closer to sane.

And that's how one spends a day as a General Surgeon at Camp Bucca. For those who care to know, my caseload breaks out to about 50% hernias/hydroceles. 15-20% appendectomies (seriously), 10-15% anorectal, 3% cholecystectomies, and the rest are a mixture of lumps/bumps/etc...

*Appendectomy rant will be available shortly as a Footnote. 

Camp Bucca

   Though the passing scenery was less than stimulating, I consider myself fortunate to have had a window seat for the flight to Camp Bucca. Even though it was no more refreshing than staring into a hair dryer, the constant flow of air perfumed with the aroma of burning Jet-A was immeasurably preferable to the stale, stagnant air in the middle seats. After a short flight, our aircraft gently alighted upon the helipad at Bucca, my new home for the next six months.

   I grabbed an anonymous duffel bag and walked straight out from the helicopter until I had cleared the wide sweeping arc of the rotor before turning ninety degrees to my right to exit the pad. The ground surrounding this was covered in loose rock making foot traffic highly cumbersome - especially when decked out in body armor and carrying a forty pound duffel bag. Just the same, I found my way to the collection point and was eventually greeted by someone from the 115th CSH. My belongings were loaded onto an SUV (Ford Explorer, I think), and I was transported (along with two others) to Billeting.   Those who have Military or other Government experience will find this to be an all-too-familiar scene. The assistance I received from these fine people was about as valuable as a handful of Russian Rubles. They fit the bill of the typical civilian government employee who has a job title which gives him/her dominion over something which you want/need, and they are about as willing to relinquish rights to said item/service as a mother bear is to let you play with her cub. So, after being told that there were no "Pods" available, I was ushered to tent S-3, one of the temporary lodging areas.

   First - a POD (also known as a Containerized Housing Unit - CHU) is an 8x20ft box not dissimilar to one of the containers used by the PODS (Portable On-Demand Storage) company. It is climate controlled and there are two decent-sized wall lockers to store my belongings. I can "furnish" it as I see fit with just about anything I can find/buy/build. I share this space with one other person, and all said it is not significantly different from sharing a college dorm room.

   

   My first accommodations - Tent S3 - were a different matter. This is a huge tent which is partitioned off into several rooms with some slipshod plywood flooring and walls (S-3 is the far tent on the left in the picture). Each "room"has eight bunks (four sets of bunkbeds) and about as many tiny wall lockers. Some unfortunate souls are sentenced to live in these S tents for several months "until a Pod becomes available," (See above comments regarding the Award-Winning Customer Service of Billeting). The light switches in S-3 control the lighting for three of the "rooms." As such, you kind of have to "coordinate" with the inhabitants of the other "rooms" as to when they shall be on or off. This effort had all of the "coordination" of a drunken giraffe.  (Pictured are the "Main Hall" of S-3, and my comfy diggs)

   On the upside, it is air-conditioned. It is comfortably cool at night, cold even sometimes. But, the little A/C unit cannot fend off the heat of the midday sun, and it will heat up to uncomfortable levels by 10:00am. T

his makes "weekend rest" difficult. Fortunately for me, I had only one weekend to suffer through. I was in my Pod in about one week's time. This, no doubt, was the result of much jockeying on my part, and the insistence that the ONLY General Surgeon for the entire camp deserved as much.

   Well, back to 3 Sept. After putting all of my belongings in Room 1, S-3, I was shown where the B Co headquarters were. From here, we were given a quick walking tour of Bucca on our way to the DFAC (Dining FACility). I'm not sure why I made the distinction "...quick walking tour." There really are no "long" walking tours - just not that much to see. The LSA (Logistics Support Area - i.e. the main part of the base where everyone lives, eats, and play) is separate from the TIF, and the hospital is located in the latter.  After lunch, I was driven the 3/4 mi to the hospital where I met with the surgeon that I would be replacing. I was given a quick rundown of the physical layout of the facility with particular attention to where the bathroom was (outside, not air-conditioned, flushing toilet, no sink). After this "orientation" and a short introduction to the DCCS (Deputy Commander for Clinical Services), we returned to the LSA (or FOB - Forward Operating Base. Though I'm sure that there is a clear distinction between what constitutes an LSA versus a FOB, they seem to be used interchangeably around here.)

   I was then left to fend for myself. I wandered around and found my way back to "Downtown" Bucca which is home to the basketball court, the PX, Subway, Burger King, Pizza Hut, a coffee shop, and several services including the Barber Shop, Beauty Shop, and Spa. Yes. Really. A spa. No. I have not availed myself of their services. There are also a number of Haji Shops. One might think that this is some type of racial epithet, but those who are proprietors of said establishments actually call them "Haji Shops." Such is painted on signs in front of the store.

   After wasting sufficient time, I decided to return to the one familiar location - the DFAC - for dinner. Afterward, I wandered some more, but the heat kept me from going too far. I eventually returned to S-3 to find the outgoing surgeon waiting for me. Now, I had anticipated that there would be at least several days of overlap so that I could get accustomed to how things run at the hospital. I cannot describe how thrilled I was to discover that, instead, he was boarding a Blackhawk at 0630 the following morning. He handed me the pager and marched back toward his Pod for his final night in Bucca. Fortunately for everyone, it didn't go off.

   After this fun-filled day, it was time to turn in. After all, I had to find my way to the hospital the following day by 1000.

Camp Buehring

   Ali Al Salem is like the Atlanta of the Middle East; you can't get anywhere without traveling through there. My stay was measured in hours, but during that time I discovered proof that we had indeed won the war in the Middle East. The sweet smell of fried food sang to me like a siren from across the sand and gravel, and the bright shining beacon of the Golden Arches illuminated the night as a symbol of freedom and capitalism. I had the #2 combo.   

   In the regions around Ali Al Salem are a number of encampments, one of which is Camp Buehring. After departing Ali Al Salem in the middle of the night, our hour and a half bus ride finally dropped us off at Buehring. We were ushered to our tent around 0230, and told that training would commence at 1430 that afternoon. I think I finally got my cot prepared and settled in by 0430.

   Our first exercise was to attend HEAT training.

While it might stand to reason that we should be acclimated to the ridiculous temperatures in the region, this is yet another Army acronym which stands for Humvee Egress Assistance Training. We all strapped ourselves into a Humvee mock-up which was then rolled over, and we had to then escape from an upside-down vehicle. True, releasing the seat belt is an essential step in this process, but it should be undertaken with great care. Gravity is a bitch. The HEAT training we had just encountered was indeed very valuable. Apparently Humvee rollovers are a major source of non-combat related injuries in this part of the world. I hope that I never find myself in a Humvee, but if I do, I'll know how to get out.

   Getting accustomed to the extreme temperature was a whole other matter. I grew up in Alabama. Next to the Tennessee river. I had been in Arizona just prior to deploying. I thought I knew what hot meant. I was wrong. The heat here is oppressive. The sun is intense. How ancient cultures came to worship this Vampirous Devil in the sky which literally drains your will to live, I'll never know. The moon is a much more inviting Heavenly body. Night is almost tolerable as the temperatures plummet into the nineties. Daytime highs are in the mid-120s up to 130. How anyone survived in this environment wearing a full chemical suit and protective mask is beyond me. For all of my complaining, I am grateful that the most I had to wear was my uniform with body armor. That was enough.

   I stayed at Buehring for a total of about 3 days prior to heading to my "final" destination - Camp Bucca. Those days were filled with exciting training about IEDs and how to recognize friendly forces and avoid shooting them. Perhaps the most crucial part of the Buehring experience was our trip to the range on Monday morning. Allow me preface this story by saying that we were issued our weapons less than one week previously. We had all been to the range at Ft. Benning 4 days prior and shot 50 rounds to actually QUALIFY with said weapon. I'm not sure what powerful force might have intervened in those 4 days, but there must have been sincere concern that our weapon might have been rendered non-functional by the rigors of

travel. In an effort to avoid this grave circumstance, we were roused at 0400, loaded on - you guessed it - a bus and carted an hour away to the range. Upon arrival, we were given a magazine with 5 rounds which we were to fire in the general direction of an array of silhouette targets.

No one was interested in whether or not we actually HIT the target. This was simply a way of proving that our weapon was indeed functional. We then got back on the bus and drove the one hour back to Buehring.

   In the morning twilight, I gazed out of the window of the bus (for some reason the curtain restriction had been relaxed this day). Between the range and Camp Buehring was a vast panorama of sand. There was no hint of civilization or nomadic herders in the vicinity. I'm fairly certain that if we had simply walked out the main gate at Buehring and fired our weapons in some general direction away from the Camp we could have proven that they were functional and would have caused absolutely no harm to anyone or anything. Although I complain about this foolishness, I will say that I am somewhat happy about it because I did get to see a camel caravan - the only one to date.

   Other creature comforts at Buehring, and further proof of the dominance of American Capitalism came in the form of Starbucks. Right there in Kuwait. 

I could enjoy a little after dinner latte following my 6-pack of tacos from none other than Taco Bell. When dining there, I made sure to wear my IBA and bring the M-9, though! Despite my precautions, Taco Bell in Kuwait proved to be safer than Taco Bell in Atlanta. Go figure.

   On Wednesday, 3 September, it was finally time to leave Camp Buehring. I awoke, ate breakfast, and again gathered all of my belongings. This time, I hauled them to the flight line to await boarding a UH-60 Blackhawk - my ride to Camp Bucca. 

All told, it was about twenty minutes of flight time before we arced in low over Bucca and settled onto the helipad. We had unceremoniously crossed into Iraq about 2-3 miles previously. The sand here looked no different than it had in Kuwait. There were no "Welcome to Iraq" signs down below to denote the transition. I had, nevertheless, arrived in Camp Bucca, Iraq.