Incoming Rounds...In Context

My family and friends back in the United States have obviously been worried about my safety during my tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

After all, the news is full of “insurgent attacks” of one form or another, so it’s easy to understand why they send messages urging me to “be safe.” I understand their fears; the idea of a lump of lethal steel falling from the sky is a terrifying thought.

I greatly appreciate everyone’s thoughts and prayers. They’re a reminder that people back home want me to return in one piece.

I want to take this opportunity to blog about the realities – in this case, my reality – about the threat I face from insurgent attacks as well as the likelihood something nasty could happen. My goal is to allay everyone’s fears so hearts don’t stop the next time the television screams of casualties in Afghanistan.

My war is not the war people back home see on television. I don’t venture into the countryside and expose myself those awful road-side bombs, known here as “Improvised Explosive Devices,” or “IEDs,” which have caused a majority of the casualties here. May God bestow special protection on those whose job takes them outside the wire.

My war is working 12-hours a day, seven days a week. I am a “fobbit,” a condescending term from front-line soldiers describing others, like me, whose job never takes them outside the “Forward Operating Base,” or “FOB.” The term “fobbit” became popular among GIs after the “Lord of the Rings” movies for the troll-like characters with funny walks.

My threat comes from “incoming rounds,” namely, mortars, artillery and rockets. I live and work inside well-protected buildings, so I don’t usually hear about the attacks until an alarm sounds or somebody tells me. My usual reaction is, “well, OK then,” and I go back to working.

I’ve been on one post or another during a couple dozen rocket strikes during my five months in Iraq and Afghanistan. In that time, I’ve had to throw my 230-pound body on the floor only twice after hearing an explosion or alarm.

But I shouldn’t get too complacent. I had one spooky moment in May when a rocket struck a Baghdad building roof exactly where I liked to smoke cigars at night. That lunch-time rocket -- I was several floors below the impact; I thought somebody was moving furniture -- struck 15 hours after, and eight hours before, I had been on the roof enjoying views of the Tigris River.

Few people were ever wounded in these rocket attacks. I don’t believe anyone was ever killed.

I’ve been in the US Army and US Army Reserve for 28 years. Whenever something big happens, whether it’s an attack in a war zone or an accident in the United States, commanders instantly want to account for all their people.

This means everyone, even if they’re asleep, has to be physically seen to ensure they’re all right.

For me, since I work nights, that means I have to go outside, and knock on doors, to talk with my section’s soldiers even though there is no obvious damage to their room.

(I’ve always wondered while making those night-time rounds: Which is more unpopular? The incoming round or the guy who wakes you up in the middle of the night to ensure you’re OK?)

If anyone comes up missing, the commander will sound the alarm bell, and keep it ringing, until everyone is accounted for.

I am safe. I am so safe that I feel guilty. I always thought a war zone would be more dangerous than this. In fact, I’m more concerned about my wife and son driving an Interstate-10 rush hour in San Bernardino County than I am about a rocket falling on my head in Afghanistan.