"We're not in Kansas anymore..."

The oddest part of this whole experience has been how different my background is from nearly everyone else I've met along the way. I don't mean this in a bad way, it's simply reality. I didn't realize nor even consider the disparity until the 1st day of DSAC. The class began with everyone having to stand up, give their name and a brief synopsis of their background.

The answers from the rest of the class were something along the lines of "My name is such and such and I've spent the last blankety blank years with..." (enter the name of a government entity here). EVERY single person in my class of about 30 was either former military, Department of Defense (DOD), Department of State (DOS) or some other government agency with an acronym of it's own. Being the back of the class kind of person that I am, I heard almost everyone else's story before it was my turn. As the verbal baton of truth moved closer towards my seat my mind raced. Am I.....in the wrong class?.....a victim of mistaken identity?.....about to be uncovered as a government fraud?

The people around me all had backgrounds that actually applied to where we were about to go and what we were about to do. They understood how the government "works", how to bob and weave through the bureaucracy and most of them knew what all the acronyms whizzing past my head actually meant. There were times the instructor would speak sentences that were 50% acronyms. As I'm looking around panicked, trying to figure out what the hell this guy was talking about everyone else is nodding and smiling in agreement and recognition.

Then it was my turn....I stood up, swallowed hard and decided to shoot from the hip.

I gave my name and position at the Embassy and said "I spent the last 15 years working in television. Considering everyone else's background I'm not really sure what I'm doing here. Maybe someone made a mistake, I don't know. But, um, I'm excited to be here and call me crazy but I can't wait to get to Baghdad."

That brought some laughter out of the rest of my classmates and since no armed guards came in and escorted me out of the room I figured I was in the right place. For the rest of the 10 days of training people who couldn't remember my name just referred to me as "The TV guy." I figured, fair enough.

Throughout the initiation and training to get to Baghdad there was one thing I feared most. It had nothing to do with an aircraft tragedy or IED (Improvised Explosive Device). It was getting here, being on the ground and having no one there to meet us and absolutely no idea where we were going.

That is exactly how our arrival began...then it got worse.

The Blackhawk drops into the LZ (landing zone) like a stone, but lands like a feather. We scrambled to heft our luggage to the ground and move quickly away from the whirling blades of the chopper. We were all wearing 35 lbs. of body armor and helmets and trying to lug a year's worth of gear across the tarmac. The Blackhawk lifted off again and the thud-thud-thud-thud-thud from its rotors faded into the sky.

As the silence washed around us we started looking around the LZ. It was just a giant paved parking lot surrounded by tall cement barriers (T-Walls). So there we stood. We'd come halfway around the world in 4 days. We finally made it to Baghdad and there was no one even waiting for us. Never one to overlook the obvious I said, "Where the hell are we supposed to go?" There were no guides, no one to ask for directions, not even a sign with a big arrow saying "This Way ===>". So we moved toward what looked like an opening in the T-walls and hoped for the best.

We found a street and headed in what we thought was the general direction of the Embassy. There was a lot of cursing as we rolled and dragged our luggage down 3 blocks of broken, crumbling sidewalks.

While we were in Washington, DC we each got government ID's called a CAC ('kak' - Common Access Card). These are supposed to get you access to certain federal sites and facilities...we found out a little too late that does not include secured U.S. Embassies. The gate security at the Palace is handled by guards for a contracting company. Most are Peruvian or some similar South American origin. They are all extremely nice guys but their English is no muy bueno. They took one look at our CACs and started shaking their heads. One guard raised his eyes and started looking past us as if he were gazing across a distant horizon. He shifted his feet and adjusted his grip on the M-16 draped over his shoulder. His body language spoke volumes. He had chosen to ignore us. The other guard at least acknowledged our situation. He tapped his finger on the CAC I was holding and said, "Nooo good...no embuzzy batch." Feeling a little testy I said, "So what are we supposed to do?! We just got here." He just shrugged his shoulders. I'll never be sure if that meant "I don't know" or "I don't know what you're saying."

We finally persuaded the guards to get their American supervisor to come out. He was a big guy with a bad attitude who made it exceptionally obvious he could care less if we got inside the Embassy or not. The problem was our Point Of Contact (POC) wasn't there to meet us and we had no way of getting in touch with him. We eventually convinced the supervisor to call his office, so they could call our POC's office and tell him to come get us. When the supervisor hung up his cell phone he pointed a beefy finger at the sidewalk across the street and said, "Wait over there."

So there we sat, three exhausted white guys in body armor with a small mountain of luggage. It must have seemed quite humorous to all the people walking in and out of the Embassy compound. They didn't hesitate to stare and smirk at the fresh fish who couldn't quite seem to make it into the pond.

An HOUR of humiliation later our POC shows up. He was a short, round and balding Pakistani. His thin moustache accentuated his rough sense of the English language. "You're here early," he said with a smile and handshake. I just bit my lip because I would probably have regretted what I wanted to say. One of my co-workers said flatly, "Umm, no not really." Our POC ignored the reply, kept smiling and said, "OK, let's get you inside." That was about as warm a welcome as we'd get.

His plan was to put all our luggage inside his van and drive us into the Embassy compound. That's a multi-step process involving badge checks, bomb sniffing dogs and massive metal barriers. It's VERY important to follow the procedures and obey the signs, particularly the one that says STOP at the first checkpoint where you have to wait your turn. Our POC was too busy nattering away to my coworker next to him in the front seat and rolled right through the stop sign. Even a newbie like me knew this was a bad thing. So I said bluntly, "Hey, stop." He didn't hear me. He continued chatting, not paying attention and moving forward. By that time the guards were moving toward us with their hands raised. I said louder, "Hey STOP!" It still didn't sink in. As we continued slowly rolling forward the guards ahead raised their guns at us and snapped into firing position. I finally grabbed the guy's arm and yelled "STOP!" Knowing how this kind of situation progresses, my next move was to hit the floor. Reality finally hit this guy upside the head and he slammed on the brakes. With their guns still raised one of the guards yelled in a deep hoarse voice, "Back up! Back up the vehicle!" Our driver became suddenly flustered, apologized profusely and slowly reversed his van back to the stop sign.

So, in Baghdad less than 2 hours and we were almost shot by our own troops because of some other guys lack of "situational awareness" as we were trained to call it. When I retold this story to some new friends later, I was told to consider myself lucky. At least the American guards fire warning shots first. The guards at other embassies shoot to kill with no questions asked. An American contractor was shot to death by Australian guards just a few weeks earlier in a very similar situation.

You learn quickly here in the IZ, it's the little things you need to be thankful for.

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Next up...A sign from above and sleeping with body armor.

Tinman
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