Back in June, Youserved radio had Colby Donaldson of Survivor fame on the show talking about his new game show called Top Shot.

The show did so well, they are starting the second season on February 8th.

If you watched season 1, you would know that it can be very exciting. They do a lot of historical weapons and it looks pretty dang challenging. There was only one woman last year, but this season has two, so we all know who I will be rooting for to win. And a lot of the contenders have some sort of military background.

I also think there was some bet made between CJ, Troy, and Marcus about whether the final winner last season would end up being a Marine or Soldier. I’ll have to go back and listen to the show and remind the loser to pay up!

Anyway, if you’re someone who enjoys weapons and a lot of historical context, check it out this week.

Thursday will mark the 30th anniversary of the release of the Iranian Hostages. 444 days in captivity and we are still at loggerheads with Iran.

I read this article and found this quote by the youngest hostage, former Marine Sgt. Kevin Hermening, to be quite true:

“Since the United States did not respond with military action, our nation was seen (by Iran, and most other nations, especially in the Middle East) as a paper tiger,” he wrote to one girl from Kutztown, Pa., recently.

“Negotiation is very important, but it requires two honest brokers; Iran has never been one, even now. And so it makes our government look ridiculous, whether it was negotiating for the release of the 52 Americans held hostage in Iran from 1979-1981, or attempting to get Iran to end its current pursuit of nuclear weapons. Peace is best achieved from a position of strength and, with regard to Iran, we most frequently find ourselves in a position of weakness.”

Oh, and if you read that article, don’t read the comments. We are in Wisconsin and rewriting history and doing weird leftist non-sequitors has been raised to an artform. It will only make you mad.

If you are in the West Point area, maybe you could sneak in and shake the hands of some of those former hostages. I wish I could do so. I met one, years ago, in Virginia. COL Leland Holland was the base commander of Vint Hill Farms Station in the mid-80s. In my weird teenage-y way, I idolized him. He and his wife were always gracious and friendly. Every year, in the late fall, they’d host a hayride/party at their big southern style mansion that was his quarters on base. When the book 444 Days came out, the author did a signing on base and the COL was nice enough to autograph books also, even though we could all tell he was very uncomfortable with the hoopla.

He passed away a few years later and I was so sad to hear the news. Somewhere in one of my boxes, I have his COL rank that he gave to me for some reason or another.

I am just at the age where the hostage crisis made a huge impact on my view of world at that time. I hope we never forget the actions that Iran committed all those years ago. They continue to take American lives through materiel and financial support of terrorist organizations throughout the middle east. It would behoove Americans to remember.

Mrs. Behenna has let me know that Michael can receive letters, magazines and books, but the magazines and books have to be either directly from the publisher or from a distributor like Amazon.com.

—————————–

Michael Behenna’s mother made a moving plea for those of us on the outside who support her son, to please write him a letter and let him know he’s not alone. Her interview can be heard on the Youserved Podcast by downloading episode # 121 (the episode can also be downloaded for free on iTunes here). Michael Behenna was tried and convicted for killing Ali Mansur, a known Al Qaeda operative. If you want to read a very compelling story about how LT Behenna’s trial was a miscarriage of justice, please read this article.

I have looked around online for a guideline on what is and is not allowed to be sent to Michael and cannot find much, so to be safe, please just write him supportive letters.

If you would like to mail Michael a letter, please contact me at wendy@youserved.com.

Thanks the generosity of Troy Steward (who is a really good dude, by
the way), I recently had the pleasure of getting a sneak peak at the
upcoming documentary television series Sarah Palin’s Alaska, which is
scheduled to premiere November 14, 2010 at 9/8c on TLC. The show looks
to take viewers into the country’s ‘final frontier’ through the eyes
of one of its most famous citizens – Sarah Palin.

Produced by Mark Burnett Productions, I knew that the show would be
extremely well made and that it would engage the audience. I was not
disappointed. But I was not prepared for the truly awe-inspiring
beauty of the Alaskan landscape. Sweeping shots of glacial mountain
ranges. Emerald waters in which Sarah and her daughters fish for
salmon. Grizzly bears in the rugged, undisturbed wilderness. After
the first five minutes of the show, I was wishing that I could hop on
a plane with a rucksack and a few weeks off to go and see it for
myself.

Along with the heavy dose of Alaskan beauty, we also get a glimpse in
to the lives of Sarah and her family, including a discussion of the
unauthorized biographer who moved in next door to her and her family.

The producers of the show are embracing the world of social media and
launching four blogs and a podcast to accompany the series. Each of
the blogs, described in TLC’s own words below, deals with a different
aspect of the show.

Directors Cut: Behind the Scenes
http://behindthescenes.SPAlaska
Directors Cut will provide additional, and in some cases exclusive,
access to details relating to the production of the show.

Fishbook Road: Culture
http://culture.SPAlaska.com
The destination for all things ‘culture’ in, and around the show.

Broadhseet: Media
http://media.SPAlaska.com
The destination for news and information about the show.

Not Taking Sides: Politics
http://politics.SPAlaska.com
This blog will support and in some cases facilitate “non-political”
political conversations about the show.

Talk Back: Podcast/Live
http://podcast.SPAlaska.com
A twice-weekly podcast featuring reviews, analysis and commentary, as
well as an opportunity to call-in and discuss the show live.

For more information, visit www.SPAlaska.com

NOTE-Mike Scotti is the creator and filmmaker of the critically-acclaimed documentary Severe Clear. If you have not had the opportunity to see the movie yet, you should.

Rickety Boat by Todd Huffman

We recently opened YouServed.com for contributions from all Military members and Veterans. SGT Hovertank, a nine-year Army Reserve Veteran and now a VA Mortgage Center.com Loan Officer, is our first taker.

This final installment concludes “Day at the Beach,” a retelling of SGT Hovertank’s various first-hand stories and observations from GTMO. Read parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, & 7 of the series.

This week: Fun and mishap off the Cuban coast during R & R

Sometime in early March we finally got a holiday. We still didn’t have appropriate manpower, but at that point the military element cell had gone 36 days without a day off and I suspect LTC Buckhammer feared a mutiny. It ended up being a half day; we got off at about noon on a gorgeous Sunday. Although we had reserved a boat well in advance, because we didn’t arrive until afternoon all of the best crafts had already been taken and there was only one option remaining. We went ahead and checked out our ride before our skipper got there.

We had decided at the last minute to include a PFC that none of us really knew because he was licensed to operate the vessel and swore he was an experienced boater. Our cumulative experience with water craft was limited to me and Danny drinking and jug-fishing. The attendant at the marina was a rather high looking Jamaican in flip-flops. He wore cut-off jean shorts and a fishnet muscle shirt. The multi colored stocking cap perched on his pile of dread-locks did nothing to dissuade our confidence in his expertise while he briefed us on the boat. When we told him we were still waiting for our skipper he just shrugged at the tardiness and explained that “da puumpa ‘as been a litteel tricky, boot nut ‘tin to fear mahn.”

Whatever. We weren’t about to let a tricky puumpa dampen our spirits. Our skipper for the day arrived and none of us saw fit to repeat our pre-board briefing. The ten of us boarded our eight passenger craft along with two coolers of beer. The boat was kind of a twin beam fiberglass pontoon. It had a covered seating area in the rear and space on the front for lying in the sun or in our case peeing into the ocean from. The deck sat about 18 inches out of the water. I don’t believe Magellan was ever more proud of a ship than we were of this little jewel. We all popped the top on our first cold one and toasted the Jamaican skipper as we idled out onto the bay. He smiled and nodded as he lit another suspicious looking cigarette.

We mostly just putted around the bay in our underpowered skiff getting drunk and puffing the Cuban cigars that we had managed to spirit on to the base. We weren’t supposed to talk about work and nobody really wanted to anyway. It was impossible to ignore the beauty of our surroundings. We swapped stories from home while we guzzled our beer and Danny told us all again the story of how he accidentally dated his cousin. At about 4:30 we noticed the first signs of trouble. Our craft was riding a little low in front and the warm Caribbean waves began to break gently over the bow. No problem, we just slid the considerably lightened coolers to the rear of the boat. At this point we weren’t outside the bay, but had wandered into an inlet near the perimeter. When readjusting our load didn’t have the desired effect we decided it might be time to head towards home. Our captain for the day told us he would just flip on the bilge and that would help.

“Hmm,” he said. “That’s the quietest bilge pump I’ve ever heard.”

“Bilge pump?” Nine tipsy voices sang in unison.

“Is that anything like da puumpa?” One of my beered up confederates snickered.

“I guess,” he says. “It’s what pumps out the water that gets in the boat and weighs us down.”

It turns out the bilge pump or puumpa (tomato/tomoto) was worse than tricky, it had completely shot craps on us!

So there we were. Ten soldiers on a rapidly sinking pontoon boat less than 200 yards from communist Cuba. We voted to make our first distress call when the water was about knee deep in the boat. Come to find out the radio was feeling a little tricky itself. Determined to make the best of the situation we took another vote and determined to get out of the boat. We had no idea exactly how far it would sink and Ziggy Marley back at the marina really hadn’t addressed the insurance policy. Fortunately, after we deployed the lifeboats (read ice chests) and took turns belly flopping in to the turquoise waters the boat seemed to reach a state of neutral buoyancy. With nothing else to do we floated next to our ice chests and continued drinking in the scenery mixed with equal parts beer and saltwater. Occasionally one of us would dog paddle into the boat to sound another distress call.

Around 20:00 while we were discussing flare gun options, our distress call was answered and Ziggy promised to send help. In retrospect we probably should have been a little more worried about our predicament. Under the circumstances, however, we were content to enjoy our island holiday and celebrate the purchase of the coleman coolers vs. the cheap Styrofoam ones available at the commissary. Finally at around 21:00 two Coast Guard scarabs arrived. They wanted to be angry, but I think the absurdity of the situation made it difficult. Ten sunburned crackers bobbing in the tide like so many redneck high schoolers on a float trip. We tried to hide our girly giggles behind our beer cans while they discussed how the hell to get a half sunken pontoon boat 2 miles back to the marina.

This concludes “Day at the Beach.”  Yes, there is no neat, traditionally wrapped, morally righteous ending.  You Served hopes SGT Hoovertank’s tales from GTMO are like nothing you’ll hear, see or read from you typical media provider.

Blue Iguana by by ^riza^

Cuban Hutia by Silvain de Munck

We recently opened YouServed.com for contributions from all Military members and Veterans. SGT Hovertank, a nine-year Army Reserve Veteran and now a VA Mortgage Center.com Loan Officer, is our first taker.

Each week we post a new part of his article, “Day at the Beach,” recounting the Sergeant’s first-hand stories and observations from GTMO. Read parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, & 6 of the series.

This week: Aggressive Cuban wildlife

As far as duty assignments go, Guantanamo Bay was cherry. We learned from the FBI that you could rent boats and go fishing in the bay or up Guantanamo River. Kayaks and fiber glass john boats were also available. For those with the time and money you could also be certified for SCUBA diving. A shallow shelf about 300 yards south of the bay provided one of the finest diving destinations in the world. Probably the best part, however, was the island wildlife.

Guantanamo was home to a staggering population of the endangered Blue Iguana. Whoever is responsible for the endangered species list obviously never visited Cuba, because the nasty lizards were everywhere. A privilege of their protected status was a heavy fine for any soldier caught injuring or killing an iguana to include while driving stolen trucks. Ugly they may be, stupid they are not! Someone evidently tipped off the iguanas about being protected because they walked like they had an invisible force field. It was not uncommon for them to surround an indiscriminate picnicker and hold them hostage for french-fries. They are not classified as poisonous; but like a lot of their cold-blooded cousins they are scavengers and feed primarily on rotting flesh. Their saliva is toxic to humans and most other animals. I once witnessed a gang of them ambush an unsuspecting pigeon. The attack was so brutal it should have been narrated by Marlin Perkins.

There was also an oversized rodent called a banana rat. The correct name is Hutia. Regardless, these extroverted relatives of the possum had set up shop in the abandoned neighborhoods of GTMO and could be very territorial. I found this out first hand. I was walking home alone one night at the end of a long day. The FBI agents who pretended not to see me had just sped past in their ghetto-fabulous ride. I was strolling down a quiet street in an empty neighborhood when an angry rat came boiling out of a culvert snarling through bared teeth. My first instinct was to begin evasive maneuvers (read: run like hell) and I always heed my instincts. Presently I looked back only to see that he/she was following me. I began wondering how fast Hutias could run and if this particular Hutia had any staying power. Eventually I got around to wondering what our hard-core Marine counterparts would say if they happened to see a soldier running from a possum. With this in mind I determined to turn and make my stand. My balding assailant wasn’t deterred in the least. He must have heard from the iguanas that soldiers taste like pigeon.

As he bore down on me I aimed a kick for his needley teeth and missed. The sudden attack brought him up short, but he was no quitter. He feinted a couple of times, but I held my ground, biding my time. When I saw an opening I took it. Mia Hamm would have been proud. I caught the little devil in the rib cage and sent him head over teakettle in the weeds. I was so proud you would have thought I had just fended off an attack of a rabid mountain lion. Regardless, word travels fast and the Hutias stepped pretty careful around me after that.

Next week: “Day at the Beach” concludes with fun and mishap off the Cuban coast during R & R.

FBI Emblem by cliff1066™

We recently opened YouServed.com for contributions from all Military members and Veterans. SGT Hovertank, a nine-year Army Reserve Veteran and now a VA Mortgage Center.com Loan Officer, is our first taker.

Each week we post a new part of his article, “Day at the Beach,” recounting the Sergeant’s first-hand stories and observations from GTMO. Read parts 1, 2, 3, 4, & 5 of the series.

This week: Detainee processing and an influx of intelligence agencies

To aggravate the situation in Guantanamo we had no computers. Everything was done in black ink on yellow legal pads. It was a nightmare. Each detainee was delivered to us with a dossier created by the MP’s in Afghanistan. All of the possessions they were captured with were placed in a zip-lock bag whose contents almost never matched the inventory sheet attached. Each folder included a couple of sheets with a biography that could have been written by an 8 year-old and a lock of the detainee’s hair for future DNA purposes. The new biographies generated by the in-processing sessions were added to each detainees file and we assigned each a priority for follow up interviews.

Our first brush with notoriety came early in the second week. SPC Marty Bear and I were handling the dossiers for that evening’s in coming delivery of detainees. It was well past midnight and Marty Bear was looking concerned, “Umm, you better look at this Hover.”

He had been thumbing through the pages of a daybook taken from a detainee and found what appeared to be chemical symbols and a schematic. Having barely completed Chemistry 110 in college myself and having only rudimentary knowledge of chemical weapons I still agreed we were looking at the symbols for some dangerous compounds. We immediately went to the phones and that particular detainee was never in processed at GTMO.

From the beginning, the members of the fledgling task force had the distinct feeling that we were a part of something bigger than we had ever seen before. The feelings only got stronger when the alphabet agencies began showing up in force. The first to arrive was NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigation Service) and then CID (Army Criminal Investigation Division.) Next we welcomed the CIA. Because of the compartmentalization of intelligence services imposed largely by the Clinton Administration the CIA had to come disguised as the CTC. That was a neat trick I learned also. Rest assured, just because some pencil necked bureaucrat makes an arbitrary rule; does not mean anyone in the intelligence community intends to follow it. Then not to be outdone the FBI rolled in.

I got a bad tasted in my mouth for the FBI right off that bat.

Up to this point, if we didn’t have access to the liberated flatbed we were thumbing rides off of the Jamaicans who staffed most of the base’s civilian facilities. It really was a neat little community. We learned upon arrival that because of the scarcity of automobiles everyone helped each other out with rides. It was considered extremely rude to pass a pedestrian with empty seats in your vehicle and not offer them a ride. We all benefited from the system. By the end of the first month JTF-170 consisted of about 30 individuals sharing 3 Dodge Dynasty’s and the (still) stolen truck. The FBI arrived with two brand new, jet black, pimped out, 7 passenger hummers. Though there were only four agents total, they never saw fit to give anyone a ride anywhere.

Countless times during our deployment, military intelligence personnel with enormous help from the CIA made ground-breaking discoveries. It never failed, however, that a FBI Agent dressed like Magnum PI on safari would arrive after the fact. They’d write their own report on our findings and then that night on CNN we’d have to watch our work reported as an FBI breakthrough. The CIA, NIMA, DIA and NSA were constantly sharing resources with the military and receiving little or no credit. The FBI on the other hand contributed little and got a footnote every time they took a piss break between SCUBA diving sessions. You always knew when you saw them too. They evidently were all given a gift card to the GAP upon assignment. Every time I saw a self-important douche bag in khaki cargo pants, Oakley’s, and a black polo I felt an overwhelming urge to stuff a banana rat in their pants.

Next week: Aggressive Cuban wildlife.

GUANTANAMO BAY, Cuba by JTF Guantanamo

We recently opened YouServed.com for contributions from all Military members and Veterans. SGT Hovertank, a nine-year Army Reserve Veteran and now a VA Mortgage Center.com Loan Officer, is our first taker.

Each week we post a new part of his article, “Day at the Beach,” recounting the Sergeant’s first-hand stories and observations from GTMO. Read parts 1, 2, 3, & 4 of the series.

This week: Briefing and debriefing interrogators and demoting an outranking interrogator

Day one was fast and furious. In January of 2002 the Department of Defense was feverishly trying to move all detainees from detention centers in Afghanistan. We were receiving a flight of thirty to forty detainees every other day. More than once in those first two weeks we all slept in our uniforms. So much for sunbathing at Club GTMO.

We were up at 0500 each day, retrieved the flatbed from its hiding place, pick up the officers and report for duty by 0530. Our office turned out to be a 600 square-foot play room with newly installed bars on the windows. My desk was a kidney shaped reading table that would have hit me at about the knees if I hadn’t been working from chair made for an 8 year old. I ate my lunches every day on a swing set next to a intimidating looking satellite dish, or did until the Navy communication guy showed up one day to adjust it. I noticed he shut it off before even coming outside.

He saw me and said “Dude,” with a very serious look on his face. “You don’t sit there very often do you?”

I lied, “umm, no…why?”

He said,”Just never ever sit there again. You’ll probably be ok though.”

I didn’t have the stones to ask and I still have no idea if he was serious or joking.

Every day was the same and the hours flew by. By default I was named NCOIC of the Analyst cell, which at the time meant absolutely nothing. As the deployment progressed this would become more important. Each analyst spent an hour pouring through 3 files to brief the interrogators and linguists who would begin their sessions at 0700. The interview sessions lasted until between 1200 and 1300 depending upon how cooperative the subjects were and then we debriefed the interrogators; rinse and repeat. Second sessions usually ended by 18-1900 and we wandered home by 2200. It was a true Charlie Foxtrot.

The number 1 goal was to establish a baseline for all detainees. Where did you come from, why, and how did you get to Afghanistan, and whom did you meet on the way? It sounds simple I know, it turned out to be anything but. They were all innocent. All of the detainees captured in Afghanistan were Koran salesman, cloth distributors, carpenters, or missionaries. At least a few of them were telling the truth which made it all the more difficult.

As I’ve already explained, the interrogators we were assigned also fell subject to the 80/20 rule. Four of the original interrogators were truly fine representatives of what the world’s greatest military has to offer. One, however, had obviously spent several years pissing off someone at Southern Command.

SFC Setemphree was a 5’6” blond chick and from the looks of her struggling BDU pants hadn’t been on a run since basic training. I know that you could find her today behind a desk at some Social Services Department or one of those tax payer funded jobs where you can manage to be useless for a lifetime with full benefits. You’ll know it’s her because her car will 4 different types of hope and change stickers. Why people like that join the service or how on earth they’re able to stay in is completely beyond me. Every day she yawned her way through our initial briefing and returned for debriefing with a single sheet of paper for each detainee’s file. Her results were often only four words, “He didn’t know anything.” Unfortunately, like everyone else I was to work with for the next 6 months, she outranked me.

As NCOIC of the Analyst Cell; I was in a terrible situation. She was Marty Bear’s interrogator and as such he had to deal with her every day. He was looking to me to deal with her apathy, but I had very little ammo. I was certainly no expert on the Middle East. I had a decent grasp on the difference between Sunni and Shia and I’d read a couple of books on the Taliban, Al’Qeada, and Osama Bin Laden. By and large, however, I was woefully ignorant of the cultural strife that was taking place in the area of operations. After a week of her belligerent approach to any type of productivity, Marty Bear was threatening mutiny if I didn’t do something. I took it to the acting commanding officer.

Lt. Colonel Don J. Buckhammer was your standard issue Marine Corps officer. Well over 6 feet tall, buzzed haircut, and steely eyes. Not a pumped up steroid freak, but hard. I had not managed the courage to say anything to him since I’d arrived except my daily greeting, “Morning, Sir.” When he looked at me I was certain he knew that 90 days before I had been selling life insurance to suburbanites and that one false move and I’d be cleaning latrines for the duration of my stay. Swallowing my fear, I stepped into his office and said “Sir, we have a problem.”

He was right in the middle of a planning meeting with the brand new Executive Officer and one of the constantly fluttering butter bar 2^nd Lieutenants that were worse than the dengue fever carrying mosquitoes that plagued the island. He informed me that they were busy and asked if it could wait. I told him I didn’t believe so. I explained to him the problem we were having with SFC Setemphree, including my belief that her obvious bias and was a detriment to the mission. He looked at me over the top of his spectacles and the stare he gave me almost sent me screaming from the room in search of a mop bucket and a toilet brush, but I decided to stand my ground for at least a couple more seconds.

“What do you propose I do about it, Sergeant?”

I have a terrible habit of verbalizing the repetitive thoughts that do hot-laps inside my skull, and I answered him without thinking.

“Sir, I’d bench her ass.”

“Very well, that will be all Sergeant”

“Aye aye, Sir” (I’d already learned that’s what they say in the Corps.)

I completed my finest about face to date and hot-footed it out of there. I didn’t even get halfway down the hall before I heard LTC Buckhammer’s booming voice, “Sergeant Setemphree, front and center.” I didn’t hear the conversation, but she was relieved of her interrogator duties that day and served out the remainder of her tour as a statistician for one of the myriad of alphabet agencies that were camping out in the day care with us. I do not believe she was invited to re-enlist.

I learned an important lesson about the way things ought to be that day. I didn’t know it at the time but LTC Buckhammer did not place a lot of emphasis on rank. Don’t misunderstand; if you saw an officer you better dog gone well salute and treat all superiors, NCO or otherwise with the respect their title deserves. His primary concern, however, was always the mission. In his eyes I had done the exact right thing that day by diagnosing a weakness and prescribing a remedy. To this day, I’ve never met a person I respect more than that man. I had at one time susptected that Major was the highest rank any officer could ascend in the military without any regard for politics, I learned that day that is was Lieutenant Colonel, and I was never to meet a full bird that proved me wrong.

More important than my lesson, LTC Buckhammer set a precedent for JTF-170. First, as long as he was in charge the mission came first. Second, don’t screw with the lower-enlisted drinking buddies from St. Louis.

Next week: Detainee processing and an influx of intelligence agencies.

Youserved podcast had a guest, Dr Peter Vincent Pry, several months ago addressing the US vulnerability to EMP attack. Part of the discussion was about how we are outsourcing manufacturing more and more, which leaves us in a vulnerable security situation.

It appears that the government is also taking notice of the situation. As I recall, one of the arguments Dr Pry put out there was that parts made cheaply in China are most likely not EMP hardened. And who would use a form of weapon that could cause EMP problems? Ummm, China. And they pinkie swear to do it jussssssssst right. M’kay.

So what do you think? Do we need to take national security into consideration for manufacturing? How do we entice companies to produce here in the US and still maintain a free market society? For those of us who are rabidly anti-”bailout,” how do we justify any kind of help or benefits to companies in order to keep domestic production of certain manufactured goods?

If you have any ideas or opinions, sound off.

GTMO drive by USMARINE0311

We recently opened YouServed.com for contributions from all Military members and Veterans. SGT Hovertank, a nine-year Army Reserve Veteran and now a VA Mortgage Center.com Loan Officer, is our first taker.

Each week we post a new part of his article, “Day at the Beach,” recounting the Sergeant’s first-hand stories and observations from GTMO. Read part 1, part 2 & part 3 of the series.

This week: Arriving, heavily armed, to settle into a new “Intelligence Facility.”

Our military education began almost immediately. After rescuing all of our equipment from the belly of the C-17 we walked to the hangar where we were promptly informed that no one was expecting us and we were not allowed to even proceed inside the tiny concourse until our presence could be accounted for. We responded like seasoned soldiers by grounding our gear, posting a guard and falling asleep on the tarmac on the lovely island of Cuba.

After a three-hour nap someone at Southern Command in Florida confirmed that we were indeed the much-anticipated soldiers of JTF-170. We were finally allowed to move down to the beach where we were informed a ferry would be along presently to carry us to the leeward side of the bay. With some rest under our belts we were once again the bright eyed crew that had left Ft. Hood, TX one very long day ago. We crowded against the rail and gawked as we floated across the impossibly blue water. It was truly gorgeous. As the salty spray from the bay water wet our faces I could feel my thousand-yard stare creeping back on to my face, but I quickly stifled it. I was intent for the time being to simply be a privileged tourist soaking up the Caribbean sun and 90 degree heat in January.

Thirty minutes later we landed at what appeared to be a picnic site at a roadside park. There was a brick cabana complete with iron grill and stone fireplace. After another 2-hour wait our ride arrived. Major Joseph Diego could not have been more authentic had he been the result of a year long casting call. He was a short, stocky, Italian man with a deep tan and cocky walk. He would quickly become one my favorite people ever. I don’t know what I expected him to do upon meeting us, but I was shocked when he removed the unlit cigar from his teeth and began laughing uncontrollably. There we stood, armed to the teeth in full battle rattle. We lacked only the face paint. We had our web-gear complete with two full canteens and our gas masks. We were all packing M-16’s and the officers had their side arms. To top things off, as one of our company’s gunners, I was also packing a rather conspicuous looking M-249 crew-served machine gun. When he stopped laughing and wiped the tears from his eyes Major Joe asked while stifling sobs, “What the F#ck! Did you guys think we had to take the place back from Castro, first?”

We all clambered on to the flatbed 2-ton truck that we would later learn Major Joe had liberated from the Navy’s auto fleet without permission and had held incommunicado for a week. I could still hear him laughing out the window as he sped up the winding road that would eventually lead to our temporary office.

We arrived at a building that had previously been used as a day care and preschool for the children of permanent party Navy and Marine Corps personnel. The building had sat abandoned for 2 years until Major Joe requisitioned it as the new site for JTF-170. Evidently Joe had balked at the idea of sharing our previously arranged office space with the “Gawd Damned Jarheads” from JTF 160 that we were here to relieve of control. After skidding to a halt in the gravel parking lot in front of our “Intelligence Facility” he hopped down from the cab and tossed me the keys. “Sergeant! Go park this around back in the trees so the Base Police won’t find it.”

After meeting the other 10 soldiers from Southern Command already assigned to JTF-170 and giving them an opportunity to laugh hysterically at us (which as it turns out was the only reason for our stop) we were assigned barracks. Once again I was given the keys along with directions to our new home. Again, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I found.

Prior to President Bush and Secretary Rumsfeld declaring GTMO the “least worst place” to build a detention center, Guantanamo Bay had been undergoing a serious downsize. The Naval Base was whittled down to essential personnel only. The place was flirting with ghost town status. The neighborhoods looked like a Florida suburb after the rapture. One cul-de-sac after another of pastel painted town houses and well maintained lawns without a soul in sight. We pulled up in front of a sky blue two-story four-plex with twin palm trees guarding the front walk. Our second story apartment was complete with brand-new fridge, oven, built-in microwave and washer and dryers. Of course there wasn’t another stitch of furniture in the place. We quickly got over the absence of Lazy-Boy recliners when we noticed the 200 square foot balcony outside our living room. We wandered through the glass doors in amazement and continued to be awestruck when we noticed the banana tree growing within reach of the railing. This was not going to be an ordinary deployment.

Next week: Briefing and debriefing interrogators and demoting an outranking interrogator.