1000 hours - August 27th, 2005

Camp Delta, GITMO

I hate Guantanamo Bay.

Maybe, hate is too weak of a word. I wish God had made me a poet. Had I been a poet I could be better equipped to elaborate and expound upon my unspeakable diatribe for this deployment.

This duty station. My hate. My boredom. I never wanted to be here.

There is this line in Blackhawk Down (one of my favorite movies), where Specialist John Grimes explains that he is essentially cursed with a rare skill. He knows how to type. This skill meant he wasn't able to go out on missions.

In the same respect, the Army recruited me into journalism directly from college. A smart choice. College is supposed to be a place where the ability to type, write, interview and make rational decisions are standard. A skill most soldiers do not have. With this skill they identify me as 46-Quebec. The Army's military occupation code for Print Journalism.

While I have the ability to type, write, interview and make rational decisions. I am not a word smith of extraordinary precision.

The Army gave me an AP style guide and a thesaurus.

If I could write a beautiful sonnet instead of using my thesaurus for similar words to "hate." Words like "loathe" and "despise" give no understanding of the despair of my entanglement.

I wasn't even supposed to be here.

I joined the Three-Two-Six public affairs detachment in the fall of 2004 in the midst of the eruption of violence in Iraq. We were supposed to go to Iraq in a year.

The country was falling apart as an enormous sectarian war was breaking out. The military failed to prioritize civilians in their equation of operations and the entire country fell apart.

Thousands were dying. The distracted coalition forces were trying to remove the last vanguard of the Iraqi military and search for weapons of mass destruction and were never prepared for the civil war that came about between the Sunnis and Shiites.

Civilians were easily recruited into fighters because the coalition failed to recognize and provide for Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

The military attempted to transition responsibility to civilian authorities instead of establishing a military government. The United States established a military government not that long. Some of or congressional leaders were foot soldiers during that era. In World War 2, it took nearly 8 years to establish stability in Japan and Germany.

In the modern world everyone expects immediate gratification. Twenty-four hour stores, online purchases, and our wars won and resolved in a week or your money back guaranteed.

General Eric Shinseki and General Tommy Franks both urged for more troops in the initial invasion, specifically for post combat stability operations.

While the United States has the combat power to eliminate not just the next closest world power, but multiple world powers all at once. No weapon system replaces hundreds of thousands to millions of people providing security on every corner of a nation. Not just security of the civilian population but all of the essential services that culminate upwards on the pyramid scale of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

The decision to fuck up the whole country of Iraq and the region was a political one. It was president George W. Bush, the son of a previous U.S. president George H.W. Bush, a World War 2 war hero, and Donald Rumsfeld.

I can only imagine the political decision coming down and the joint chiefs, responding "fuck it." We’ll just invade from the south through Saudi Arabia and blow some stuff up in Iraq; we’ll be praised as heroes by the locals and then just keep driving until we are back in Germany with beer steins in hand. With the right tempo we could make it back in time for Oktoberfest!

I wasn't even supposed to be here. My unit was supposed to go to Iraq. I was supposed to go to Iraq. I wanted to go to Iraq. I missed out on Afghanistan, and they aren't even sending anyone there anymore.

Every drill I talked to the troops who were coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. Most talked about how it was a grand adventure. Some came back with social and psychological issues, an alcohol problem and a disturbing dark sense of humor. They were jaded, proud and surprisingly strong. A lot of them went over out of shape and came back fairly ripped. They said, "there's nothing to do most days other than to work out."

Ah. The Army life.

Those that went to Iraq and Afghanistan come back with combat patches. In the military we call that a resume on your arm and chest. The chest part from awards on the dress uniform. Their right arms were decorated with screaming eagles, for the 101st Airborne Division or a pair of eights, for the 82nd Airborne Division. Although they referred to them as puking eagles.

I selfishly wanted to be jaded. I wanted the right to wear a combat patch. It was embarrassing walking around without one when almost everyone did. But I was 23 and stupid.

In reflection, I was jaded. I was Jaded, about not having a "real" reason to be jaded. I had never seen war.

All of human knowledge of war is that, "war is hell." This fact is probably not lost in the military and that must be why every morning we sing, while we run, of American Soldiers dying in foreign lands. We are being psychologically prepared to accept our death. Accept our fate or more likely desensitize us from reality that it's a possibility most don't have to deal with.

Why do I feel the need to go to war? The more you think about something the more you want it to happen.

Imagine going to school for a decade to become a welder but no one ever let you weld. Or, a professional chef school but you never got to make a meal for someone else.

I wanted to see hell, survive it. I want to see fighter jets scream overhead and buildings exploding in the distance. I want to run alongside a tank. I want to take mortar fire. I wanted to do something so intense that even 40 years later, while watching a movie about war, I'll do nothing but criticize how nothing is accurate. Annoying my family in the process and not giving a shit.

I'm twenty-three and stupid. I don't think men with children in their forties think this way.

I've been in the Army now for five years. How could I proudly call myself a Soldier and have never fought in a war? Some were working on their second tour and I'd never left the country.

How long must I suffer? The shame. How long could I go on without a combat patch on my shoulder? Every drill, I show up and inside I feel like an imposter. How could I seriously take a promotion? Everyone has a combat patch, but me.

I am twenty-three and stupid.

Why was I here?

We know why, does the world?

A soldier flushed a Quran down a toilet, at least that's what they told me. That's what the news reported on TV. Technically, it was impossibility, if taken literally.

A little background in other cultures is important for the next part. Westerners have no clue about this, generally Asian countries use squatter toilets. They stand over and then squat over a bowl with a hole. The ones used in Guantanamo Bay don't retain water, and flush. They were more similar to an outhouse or port-a-john. So if the story of a flushed Quran is to be believed, but not taken literally, it could be that the Quran was thrown down a hole in a toilet. Not flushed.

My responsibility as a public affairs specialist was to tell the government's version of the story to the media. I have no idea if it's true or not, since I wasn't there and have no hard evidence to support it. However, the government's version was that a cage kicker, wait. I must correct my vernacular. A "corrections specialist" needed to urinate very badly and couldn't make it all the way to a public toilet. So he did the next best thing and left his cell block and went outside and peed on the side of the building.

Some of the early camps in Camp Delta had cell blocks that were essentially detention facility mobile homes. They were prefabricated to be about the size of a mobile home, but all of the walls (exterior and interior) were made of a welded metal grid. Since Guantanamo was always hot, the detainees didn't need solid walls to keep out the cold. It was always hot and they were living in a completely metal building. So to keep them cooler, giant fans were installed.

Unfortunately for the United States public image, this soldier, and of course, the detainee. Some of the soldier's pee was sucked up into the fan and sprayed at the detainee and his Quran. Very regrettable, totally a mistake, very easily avoidable. Definitely not a guard or interrogator making a conscious decision to disrespect the man's faith.

The Abu Ghraib torture scandal had rocked the military and they wanted a PR miracle to prevent anyone from dying from this new scandal coming from Guantanamo. Which is why my unit, which was supposed to be in Iraq, was now in Cuba. The Army wanted fresh eyes on this issue and wasn't happy with the previous unit's results.

Whoever the guard was, I hated him. Instead of me being in Iraq, flying around the country in a Blackhawk and being embedded for weeks with troops on the front lines and getting combat pay. I was living in a Groundhog's Day nightmare. Every day was the same. The weather doesn't change.

Instead of writing stories about combat, I was writing about meal preparation for Ramadan and 15 Minutes of Fame for people who didn't do anything even remotely interesting or important. Command information paper is what they call it.

Our mission was to smooth the whole thing over. Run positive stories in our base newspaper which were getting international attention as journalists from every news organization in the world were looking for stories to run in their own organizations.

We ran the press briefings and escorted the media on the ground. I preferred working media escort missions. We were ordered to make sure they had a "good time." A good time meant taking the media to the beach and getting them drunk. If they had a good time here, it was hoped that they would write more positive stories or more precisely less negative articles about what they saw at Camp Delta. It was a good job, and honestly some of the reporters were quite beautiful.

I was twenty-three and stupid.

It could have been worse. I could have been working as a guard. They had to deal with the poo-paw warriors. The detainees attempted to protest in the only way they could. They threw poo. Can I blame them though? Isn't it American policy that a soldier will never stop resisting the enemy and attempt escape at every opportunity? That we are to keep faith with those we are imprisoned with?

My job wasn't terribly bad. It wasn't Iraq or Afghanistan. But I got to meet the international media.

I actually preferred the people from the news groups from the middle east. The Al-Hurras and the Al-Jazeeras. Their people had a mystique. They seemed human. They smoked French cigarettes. I'm starting to hate my fellow Americans. They are either incompetent or toxic. They eat McDonald's like it's, fine food. Listening to the people of the American news groups only causes me internal pain and suffering.

The worst part about being away from home is boredom.

Nothing ever happens in Guantanamo Bay, and it definitely never rains.

Nothing happens, at least for the support side of the task force.

Now if you work in the camp. If you’re a detention guard, you're working with the poo-paw warriors. One day could be fine. The next you could be snickered. Snickered or more correctly, snickering is the act of throwing a handful of feces at someone. It's what makes you a poo-paw warrior.

Poo? Poo. Poo?

Feces! I'll go with that.

Feces is that stuff monkeys throw at each other and later sniff for pleasure.

Hey Google, what's another word for poop?

Poop also known as dung, dropping, doo-doo, muck, stool and midden.

Midden?

Hey Google, what is midden?

A large pile of animal waste that is usually in a heap for a year before spreading onto a field as fertilizer.

That's to PG, how about shit, a log, turd, crap, a brownish yellow foul smelling substance emitted from the rectum of a human individual.

On second thought. The military should instead of saying, shit rolls down a hill, we should say shit rolls down a midden. Shit running down a shit covered hill fits more into one of those, "what's the army like analogies."

God, I'm such a prima donna. Or, is it pre-madonna? I've heard people say both.

Hey Google, what's a prima donna?

A prima donna is the chief female singer in an opera or opera company. It means leading lady. Commonly used to refer to people who are dramatic and not team players.

Hey Google, what's a pre-madonna?

The phrase pre-madonna is a common error. People intend to say prima donna. Pre-madonna is also an album of Madonna's early work by her former boyfriend and former producer Stephen Bray.

Don't get distracted. Where was I?

Everyday is exactly the same as the last. It’s hot and humid by 8 a.m. which is fine if you can wear shorts and a T-shirt, however, in uniform, it's hell on earth.

Which after a long study of the universe, turns out hell was always just earth.

In the military we joke about all the soldiers who came before us. There's "Pa soldier" who fought in Vietnam, then "Grandpa soldier" who fought in World War 2 and last " Great Grandpa soldier" or "Diddy Daddy soldier" who fought in either The Great War or the American Civil War.

When you look at the past, sometimes things we are experiencing today make more sense. Sometimes things were easier in the past, Pa soldier, Grandpa soldier and great diddy daddy soldier could escape the heat by taking off some clothes.

Plenty of photos of army dudes without a shirt on in rice paddies in Vietnam.

However, after they let women in the military, all that ended. Guantanamo has a lot of heat. This place has two seasons. Twenty percent of the year is late spring and the rest of year is summer.

The United States seized Guantanamo Bay from the Spanish during the Spanish-American war. The bay was of strategic importance, it acts as a natural protective barrier for ships in dock from the damage the open ocean can cause during storms and hurricane season.

However, other than that, it's a terrible location for humans to live. Cuba is a tropical paradise, while Guantanamo Bay is in the literal desert. You might think, how does a desert exist on a tropical island? It's surrounded by water in the Caribbean, so there should be daily rain storms. Geographically Guantanamo is surrounded by high mountains. These high mountains affect storm patterns. It never rains in Guantanamo because the rain clouds get pushed around the outside of the mountain range.

Anyone who has been to Gitmo will tell you that it never rains. So basically the place is a huge desert, the only desert on the whole damn island. This my friends is where the American government has the forethought to put the only American base in Cuba.

Seasons lose all meaning here. This place is just a perpetual summer.

The next worst thing about Cuba are Cuban iguanas. Not exactly the animals themselves but their damn endangered status. I wouldn't be surprised if they fully understood their protected status because they strut themselves around like they own the place.

I've seen Cuban Iguanas park their pretty endangered asses in the middle of a busy intersection. All the while multiple cars filled with soldiers are sitting in fear of hitting them just honking their horns for 30 minutes.

Besides seasons losing all meaning, days pretty much have no meaning either. I no longer look forward to the weekends. We get off Sundays and we have half days on Saturdays. There is nothing to do but get trashed in your room and watch television, and we already do that every night during the week anyway.

People get fat at Gitmo, and it’s not because they don’t work out. You're so bored all the time, the only thing going through your head is, “Is it time to eat yet?” You sit, and then you eat. You eat, and then you sit. Later you get trashed and forget where you are, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I hate saying this. Specifically because my biggest pet peeve is people having pet peeves and feeling the need to tell me about it. So I understand that the irony is not lost on me. My biggest pet peeve is that people are always mispronouncing my name. It’s Valenteen, not Valentine. You pronounce Valenteen like Teen-age Mutant Ninja Turtles. It's not Valentine. It's a common mistake, one I live with on a daily basis.

No matter how many times I tell people, they always say it wrong. They even try to correct me. They say, “Don’t you mean Valentine?” I always respond with, “Well, I don’t know, I mean it’s my name and all, but you could be right. I should really call my parents and ask if they can check my birth certificate.”

Sometimes it's hard for me to make friends.

Thinking about making friends. Calling your superior asshole a 'fucking moron' usually doesn’t settle very well. I tend to spend a lot of my time in the front leaning rest position.

The front leaning rest. It sounds kind of nice, but the army is always in a state of misdirection.

If you don't believe me just ask an Army buddy. I say this because dealing with civilians is like six degrees to Kevin Bacon. Everyone knows someone in the military. So if you aren't convinced that the front leaning rest isn't a new yoga position. Just ask them. They will spend a good hour telling you about the terrible things they did that led up to multiple hours of forced yoga.

Front, back, goes. The UN declared that a torture technique.

That my friends answers your question about the military. The universe of suck.

Wait. You didn't ask. Did you? Why am I alone?

Yes, now I remember.

Nothing ever changes in Gitmo. However, that wouldn’t make for a very good story and this is a very good story.

This is a story about my life and how I had to deal with 365 days of ass-clownery.

Ass-clownery. They call that a colorful metaphor.

I guess it could be worse, I could be taking rounds in the chest, or living on New Jersey. There are worse things than death, such as Sgt. John Manson who I will be talking about later.

If I get off track did I mention I have ADHD?

Where did I leave off?

Self-loathing, check.

History lesson on Iraq, check.

Introducing myself, check.

Cuba History lesson, check.

More self-loathing. Yes, that's where I left off, check.

Nothing can mess with me today.

Today, I finally will get promoted. I can cast away the sham-shield and join the coveted ranks of the non-commissioned officer (N.C.O) corps. You can call me Sarge. Just like in all those World War II movies I used to watch as a kid. I used to fantasize so much about being a Soldier. It was the only thing I ever wanted to be. Till I found out you spend more time making sure that the grass is uniform and dressed right and how to march in a formation, then surviving or fighting.

I still have no clue on the proper procedure on room clearing. Luckily for me I’ve seen a lot of movies. Technically you’re never supposed to call a sergeant, sarge. Since a sarge is a whale's penis. That change in military culture coincides with letting women in the military. Times had to change and so did the whale dick.

Sarge.

Whale, dick?

To me, that sounds like flattery. It’s the military, what do you want? Sometimes the biggest fights we battle are political correctness.

Movies… You know Gitmo does have a nice outdoor movie…

A voice interrupts my internal monologue. It's an officer, “Hey, you fucking retard. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Oh. Hello, sir! What are you up too?” I said.

"What am I up to? You look like a crazy person right now. Were you just talking to yourself? You look like you're monologuing," said the officer.

"Just thinking out loud about what I have to do today. It helps me think," I said.

"Well knock that shit off people are going to think you're weirder and you're already are and you're too fucking weird already," said the officer. "And, did I hear something about whale dick? Are you planning on doing something with whale dick?"

"I said that outloud?" I asked.

The officer looked annoyed, "Yes, you did. It's fucking weird, bro."

"Well enough about me. You look pretty angry about something," I said in an attempt to do a little classic redirection.

I’d like to introduce Capt. Julius Baker, he’s a bit profane. Funny guy, but very unnecessarily profane. Not sure if he's funny because he's an officer that curses more than anyone I've ever met. Or, that he’s actually funny. Every other word is shit, fuck, motherfucker, goddamn, sperm-bank, cum-dumpster or any combination of those I just spoke. I guess you can do whatever you want when you’re a commissioned officer surrounded by sham-shielders.

He is a public affairs officer now, but a couple months ago he just got back from Iraq. He was an Infantry officer with the 10th Mountain Division. He says all the time that I'm an eleven-bang-bang baby. Which isn't exactly correct, because as an officer his identifier is eleven-alpha. Not the brightest bulb, but this is the military, nobody is judging your lack of being a Rhodes Scholar.

“These goddamn mother-fucking media shit-heads won’t let up. It’s all allegation of torture this, pissing on Koran that. What I’d like you to do is take that bitch from the Miami Herald and fucking cut off her head. That’s an order,” said Baker.

“Should I execute with extreme prejudice, Sir?”

“Wait. What are you doing inside the wire, anyway?” questioned Baker.

“It’s Ramadan, or as I like to call it Ramada-O-Rama," I said, pumping my arms like a train conductor, “Toot-Toot!”

As I tooted my imaginary horn a detainee walked by me that was being escorted back to his cell. He had the traditional Al-Qaeda long white facial fur force face and a pair of kickin-it-at-the-beach standard issued U.S. Army sandals, he gave me a nasty look. I guess he doesn't appreciate the finer details of a locomotive train whistle in reference to the most important holiday to Muslims.

"So I have to take a few photos of the detainees getting their food. Interview a bunch of people in the food service, a couple guards and all of those soldiers first-line leaders. I might even be nice and let the sergeant major get in his two cents. Best to do it now before he just adds it to the story letter,” I said.

"Oh sorry, Valentine. I stopped listening at; its Ramadan. Look, Valentine, do you think you could lend me a hand with some of these media guys? I have to watch them and it’s just me, today. They keep asking me so many questions and I can’t keep a goddamn eye on those shifty camera fucks. I don’t know what they are taping. I think the one over there is just running his camera on record the whole way through the tour. If you help me now, It’s going to save me a lot of time so I don't have to look at all their video recordings before they leave the island,” said Baker.

“Oh. Sorry, I stopped listening at, ‘sorry, I stopped listening.’”

“Touché,” reluctantly exclaimed Baker, “Well played dark lord.”

I seem to have to explain this time and time again, "Sir, Dark Lord is Mayer’s nickname and my last name isn't Valentine, it's Valenteen, sir," I said my name in the way you speak slowly to a foreigner who doesn't speak your language.

"Is it now? I usually can't tell the two of you apart. You're both insufferable nerds" said Baker. Captain Baker was purposefully being an asshole, he knew my name. "Are you going to help me out or what?"

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"Where's your sidekick?" I said.

"He's been drinking at the office more than usual so the commander didn't let him come," said Baker.

“I can't, I'm here with Lieutenant Guthrie. She is currently managing me and is going to explode into full-bitch micromanagement mode pretty soon. She went to get clearance so I can take photos on a live cell block in Camps Two or Three.”

“Well, there is going to be a pre-hurricane party tonight at the Ole Metzger's residence. Bring some beer, or better yet bring some bitches,” said Baker.

“Bitches?! Who do you think I am? The love child is Giacomo Casanova and Don Juan. This task force has 40 women and 3,000 men. The best I can get you is nachos.”

“Nachos you say, you have a deal, shit-bag. You technically weren’t invited, but I can smooth those details over with the Metzgars with your nachos,” said Baker

“I love you too, Sir,” I said.

Despite my attitude, I actually did like the man, and not in a homo erotic way. More along the lines of the way a fully secure heterosexual man could have a crush on another heterosexual man. Commonly referred to as a man crush.

He was very handsome and tall. Baker emitted, full-blown alpha male. He had all the scare me badges the army allows you to earn, pulsating muscles and chiseled abs and chin. He was the man men wanted to be and I was no different. I was a very basic bitch. He was a spartan and the army culture worships spartans.

Grandpa soldier must have felt the same way. In a foxhole in the cold of winter at the Battle of the Bulge. Pun intended. Just two men huddling together for warmth trying to prevent early death from hypothermia.

Pa soldier, deep in a hole, in the fields of Vietnam. Surrounded by half naked North Vietnamese men popping out of every hole. Pun intended.

Now today, I am on this island with Captain Baker and his hard rock abs. Oh no, What is wrong with me? I slapped myself across the face.

I need to get off this island! They really need to start drafting women into the service.

For diversity. Of course.

As I turned around I felt a disturbance in the force. In a facility filled with murderous jihadist, what evil could set me off?

“Specialist Valenteen, come here immediately. I’m ready,” screams Lt. Amanda Guthrie from across the fence line. The lieutenant walks my way with a cappuccino in her hand and some folders filled with papers under her arm.

I know it’s none of my business (which is par for the course as everyone is always in everyone’s business) but sometimes I wish she would change her lipstick, she wears the color a mom from some bad 50s movie would wear.

I try to like everyone for their good qualities, but sometimes it’s hard to find them. Guthrie is the average expectation of a modern officer. Smug and overbearing and detached from everyone around them.

All the officers in all the old war movies are cordial, warm, approachable, sophisticated and sociable. That and she won’t drink with us or come to any of the beach parties. I know everyone hates me and I still show up.

She’s one of those officers who actually follow the rules of fraternization. Which I guess isn’t a bad idea if you want to protect your career, but I mean she was even enlisted at one time. Usually officers who have been enlisted before they became officers try to keep a close relationship with their troops. There is no better way to keep a close relationship than being drinking buddies.

“Specialist Valenteen, it’s a nice morning isn’t it?” Guthrie looks at her coffee and then back at me, “I can’t deal with a single person, until I’ve had my coffee. Since they opened the Starbucks on base, I drive there multiple times a day. They even serve some now in the mess hall inside the wire,” drones on Guthrie.

I suspect she’s only talking to me at this point because she’s managing me as a direct subordinate for this particular assignment. I wasn’t aware that they put a starbucks in the dining facility in Camp Delta. Not that I could really even afford that expensive coffee getting specialist pay.

“L.T. way to rub in the fact that you have your own car and can go as you please,” I said with puppy dog eyes. I would never turn down a free ride into town.

“Specialist Valenteen, if you feel that way you should buy your own ‘Gitmo special’ and get a commission. I know you’re definitely smart enough to become an officer,” said Guthrie.

“Thank you for the compliment. I might be interested down the road but I haven’t completed my degree yet. And, frankly a car, I don’t have any money to waste and with my luck it would spend all its time in the shop. You know fair well with how long it takes to get parts here, it takes probably three weeks to just get an oil change on this base,” I said as I eyed her expensive coffee.

A Gitmo Special is a car that has been handed down from serviceman to serviceman. It’s a well known fact on this base that Gitmo Specials are a huge money pit. Navy personnel who are part of the main base are stationed for two years as part of their active duty service, which means they can bring all of their belongings from home with them. When they leave, sometimes they sell it to other people who don’t own a car.

The personnel that work for the Joint Task Force (JTF) are deployed to this base and that means they cannot bring their household goods with them. Since they are only being deployed for a year or less the military places them in substandard housing and ferries everyone around with school buses.

The only way someone part of the JTF can get their own vehicle is to be in a command position or to purchase a Gitmo Special from the lemon lot.

The standard operating procedure inside the wire is to avoid speaking with the detainees. Sometimes I have a big mouth that I can’t shut. As the LT and I walked into the secured block she reminded me to hurry.

“Specialist Valenteen, I don’t want to be here long, I just remembered this is where they keep, ‘the bad ones.’ I don’t feel like getting them riled up or getting feces on my uniform,” said Guthrie.

Inside Camp Delta they have four separate camps. Detainee’s are processed and housed initially at Camp 3. The detainees who violate camp rules, such as snickering or attacking guards or acting like a total jihadi-badass stay in Camp 3. Camp 3 is basically where we keep the newbies and the worst of the worst. If they comply with camp rules they move to Camp 2 and then Camp 1. All of the Camps have different levels of amenities; nicer jumpsuits, better hygienic equipment, and various other necessities. If they behave, they can even play board games with the other detainees. If they show that they can follow the rules consistently they are moved to Camp 4.

Camp 4 is where I usually get to shoot. Part of our media plan is to push the optics of Camp 4. The detainees in Camp 4 live in a communal setting, instead of living in little tiny cells. When the day begins they are released from their building and can walk around the entire Camp 4 compound. The compound has a couple soccer fields and a volleyball court. There are multiple pavilions and some areas where they can take a walk. These guys essentially play volleyball and soccer all day.

Unfortunately given our position we tend to dehumanize the detainees. What other choice do we have? Most of them are essentially prisoners of war. But the politicians at this point are essentially making up all the rules. I see them as humans, I know this is not a place I would want to be. They all have families. I wouldn’t want to be away from my family forever.

We get into weekly arguments at the office whether they should be released when the war is over, stay in detention forever or be prosecuted for a crime in federal court.

Part of me thinks about playing volleyball and soccer all day. Sometimes I wish I lived in Camp 4. I mean shit, they choose their food from a menu and it’s brought to them. They wake up in the morning, pray a little and then do some exercises and then play games all day. When I walk up to the camp I always see them talking to each other like a bunch of school girls. On occasion, I even see them chatting with the guards.

They have a bunch of picnic tables that are under a pavilion. There's always one dude who is always jogging. Which wouldn’t be so abnormal, but he’s doing it in flip flops. Guys here like that, you got to be careful around them. This isn’t supposed to be a prison. Which is why we always by policy have to refer to them as “detainees.” All of these men at some level are trained soldiers. Some are more than soldiers. It’s not unheard of for them to act all nice and do everything right to get into Camp 4 and workout every single day. Then when a guard loosens up around them, and one day gets jumped by the guy who decided to stay in shape. Some of the men here are the equivalent of Al-Qaeda "special forces."

Up until today, except for Camp 4, I’ve only ever been on an empty block. The government has one block set aside to walk the media through and show them the living conditions.

For the first time ever I’ve walked inside a live block inside Camp 3. Not until this moment did I realize that all the horrible stories could at this very moment happen to me. I’m completely surrounded by men who would otherwise enjoy cutting out my vital organs from my currently very vital body. Or, otherwise launch a turd at my face. I'm unsure which is worse.

An enormous fan blows air down the block, the sound is deafening. The detainees talk amongst themselves which adds to the confusing level of sonic interruption. For a second, I feel like Bugs Bunny, the moment he realizes that Elmer Fudd is on top of him with a musket aimed for the head. You know the moment where Bugs Bunny swallows and a little bubble pops above his head that says, "gulp."

Once I’ve taken the time to realize they are behind bars and see that they have made a few upgrades as well, my fear drops a few levels.

“Hey LT, they upgraded the cells with shit screens!” I said excitedly.

The LT sighs and face palms.

Shit screens! A little thought popped into my head about Star Trek. For a moment, I thought about a new alien race known as the Pooptar attacking the Enterprise. Captain Kirk orders for ship’s shields to be raised. The Pooptar launch their only weapon, poop-torpedoes, which volley after volley slam into the shields. Each time another volley slams into the shields it makes an audible and nasty squishing sound that can be heard throughout the ship. However, eventually the Pooptar’s find a way around the shields and the Enterprise hull is now brown and dirty. Eventually the hull is damaged and the poop torpedoes make their way inside the ship. In Star Trek fashion, of course the gravity generators fail, because that would be an awkward time to lose gravity.

Back to reality, after snickering became a big problem the engineers installed a wall of clear plastic on the guard’s side of the cell. Making it harder to throw urine and feces at the guards, but the system wasn’t perfect.

As I turn around to continue what I was doing, I begin to laugh. I had been so lost in thought that I didn’t hear what had been going on around me. Ever since I walked onto the block the detainees have been screaming in English at me. They launched idle threats at me, “I kill you American pig,” and “Allah hates you.” My personal favorite, ‘you die American, jihad, jihad!’

Don’t they realize that their futile attempts fuel me? It was like watching chimpanzees in a cage, raging. I didn't feel any fear. Which was their intent. It was only comical to me. Tragically comical.

I turned to the closest detainee, “Do you guys know how cliche you sound right now?” It was like watching a poorly made, made for TV movie or Team America World police. “Have some dignity.”

I walked a few feet closer to the exit but a detainee was waving me down. It looked like the guards already served him his food. He spoke Farsi to me and motioned his hands towards me.

I noticed that this man doesn’t have any grey in his hair or beard. Many of the detainees are older. They come to Guantanamo Bay, instead of our many other detention facilities in the middle east because you’re important and know things. This man was in his mid-twenties and had a dark black beard. His skin wasn’t aged at all, it was tight and youthful. His face was sharp, thin and structured. He had a few blemishes and burns that are reminiscent of someone experiencing the hot desert sun and being exposed to the elements for the first time in his life.

“What’s wrong little guy, your tummy hurts?” said in a patronizing tone.

He has some bread in his hand. I guess he wasn’t happy with what he was served and thinks I’m a guard and responsible for handling him.

“It’s cool dude, I don’t want your bread.”

He shakes the bread in his hand and continues to speak in Farsi.

“Oh! I’m sorry, guy. I don’t speak Pooptar. Maybe, I can get a Pooptarian translator in here to help.”

The detainee responded, “Pooptar?”

Many times, I think I’m funnier than I really am. This was probably one of those times. Even so, I laughed to myself and then looked back at the LT for a second. I thought maybe just for once she could appreciate my childish sense of humor.

“Valentine, don’t talk to them!” Guthrie screams at me. She was annoyed, pissed and looking around nervously, “Let’s get this over with. I do not want poop thrown at me.”

I guess when people are angry they can't pronounce your name correctly.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Would you like me to find Valentine? I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” I replied, thoroughly annoyed that my boss that I had been working with for almost a year had butchered my name.

I walked down to the end of the cell block where the guards were giving the detainees food. I’d hate to be these guys; this job is the donkey's dick.

“Hey guys, let's get some glamour shots!”

The guards looked at me with contempt. I had just enraged the detainees and now I was taking their pictures. I took a few shots.

“What’s the deal with this guy? He doesn’t seem to like his bread,” I said.

“He is new. He was a bodyguard for someone important,” replied the guard.

“Well, it’s been fun guys. You want me to print you out a few glossies? We should do this again sometime,” I said as the guards pretended I didn't exist.

“Specialist Valenteen, did you get all your interviews,” said Guthrie.

“Yes, Ma’am!” I said as we started to walk out.

“You want a ride back to Camp America?” she said.

“No, I feel like walking, but thanks for the offer,” I said.

“Are you going back to the office?” she asked.

“Of course, right away! Where else would I go?” I said.

I lied. I didn't want a ride for a very specific reason. I went back to my room.

When I got to my room, my roommate was already there. Specialist Sebastian Mayer. This is a man who could take anything quick and simple and transform it into long and complicated. Like me he was also full of himself. We had similar interests and got along fairly well. He was my only friend on the island.

For a moment I got distracted with what I was thinking. I felt a little weird and tired. My bed looked really good.

Where was I?

Oh yes, Sebastian.

Unlike me, Sebastian was very smart. I felt like he should have used his brain in an evil genius kind of way and created a real god honest cloning machine. His first clone could be of himself and that way for the first time in history he could be the first person to actually fuck themself.

Does that make sense?

Why did I think of that?

I’m so tired. It’s only 11 am. I’m probably not thinking straight.

I got mononucleosis two years ago. I felt like I had endless energy before mono and then never the same after. Maybe I still have mono? When they say you have mono for life, does that mean it’s actually going to affect you for life?

It was our daily ritual to take our lunch break at exactly 11 am when the dining facility opened up. Nobody really paid attention to where anyone really was. We all work pretty independently, our main responsibility is to interview people and write stories for the paper. So people were always running in and out of the office.

Nobody knew where they were going, and nobody cared. It was the only nice thing about being here. We had a lot of freedom in our job.

Since the dining facility opened at eleven and closed at one; Anyone unable to find us would have to assume we must be at the dining facility eating.

Since whoever was in the office was changing all the time nobody would know when we left or came back from lunch. So we would just grab our lunches to go and take them back to our rooms. I'm fairly sure everyone was doing something similar.

There is nothing like taking a two-hour lunch. We usually played video games together.

Three times a week we had to wake up extra early and do group physical training. Usually on the days we didn't play video games, we went back to the room to nap. This morning was one of those days, my bed was looking so cozy. I started walking to my bed.

"Hey, you want to play Halo 2 with me?" said Mayer.

"I was going to take a nap, but I can't say no," I said.

We played for about an hour and a half.

"Five minutes to one. I think we should head back to the office,” said Mayer.

“I think you should shut up and play, you just want to quit because, I’m raping you,” I said.

“With your skills I doubt it, but we don’t want to be late for our own promotion,” said Mayer.

Fuck! Our promotion ceremony. Probably the only day this entire year anyone gave us a second thought. Probably shouldn't be late for that.

“I waited five years to be a sergeant. I can wait five more minutes to own you like a Russian bride,” I said.

I put a shotgun blast to the back of Mayer’s avatar's head. The game announces the multi-kill, in that particular way that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“I think it’s time for my happy dance." I jumped onto the couch and thrusted my crotch at Mayer's head. "I just made you my bitch! You will be my cum-dumpster, for life!"

Mayer just grumbled.

"I just kicked your ass in some halo and now I’m going to be the most amazing non-commissioned officer ever!” I said, thrusting my arms into the air in victory.

“Is that what you tell yourself to get to sleep at night,” questioned Mayer? "The only person you'll be more amazing than is Manson."

"No, asshole. That's what I tell myself to get up in the morning. I just cry myself to sleep," I said.

I picked up a glass of water and threw it at Mayer's chest. His barely ironed uniform was now completely soaked.

“Looks like you have to change your uniform, bitch!” I screamed as I turned towards the door.

I ran out the door before Mayer had the time to retaliate against my underhanded method to make him late. In so doing, I set into motion an unavoidable situation of him being embarrassed on what could have been an ego raising day. It was better this way; he already had a big enough head to be considered a Macy parade balloon.

This is what it's like to be lower enlisted in the military. A common reoccurrence of cruelty among friends, who only accept this fate as normal out of the heritage of cruelty handed down from grandpa, and pa soldier.

I pranced out the door like a Swedish school girl with a lollipop in her mouth. It’s always my luck to take a great situation and then run into the wrong person. As I turned the corner of the building I ran into my overzealous super soldier physical training nut Staff Sergeant Randy Fallow. He always looked constipated or completely pissed off when he saw me.

“Valenteen! Where the hell is Mayer? The first sergeant wants to make sure you guys are on time for your promotion. We have the commander coming down and you know how he doesn’t like to be embarrassed,” said Fallow.

“I love the first sergeant but Barnoldby wakes up in the morning embarrassed.”

I must have finally cracked the "in" crowd's code. Insult everyone. Normally Fallow hated me more than anyone but for one split second he cracked the smallest grin. He quickly switched back to his normal constipated face.

“Look, just tell Mayer to move his ass,” said Fallow.

“He is moving his ass; he’s just putting on a fresh desert camouflage top,” I replied.

“You know how it works; just tell him so I’m not responsible. I told you and you tell him, that way if someone asks. I did all I could, and he was informed of the impending need to get the hell down to the office,” said Fallow.

“Okay, I will tell him sergeant Fallow.”

I walked towards our room and opened the door. I stuck my head just barely inside the room.

“Sergeant Barnoldby told Sergeant Fallow, who then told me, to tell you, to move your ass or you’re going to get a boot up your anal cavity,” I said trying to keep a straight face.

“This is your fault,” said Mayer.

“Yes, it is but try telling that to the boot,” I said almost about to burst into tears of laughter.

"Wait. Did they use such a colorful innuendo?" asked Mayer.

"No, I made up that part but I felt it was implied, " I said as I slammed the door closed.

I took off to the office walking my best range-walk. The range-walk is the speed that you walk while doing anything remotely important. The military doesn't like people taking their time. So the speed of a range walk is almost a jog but with constant contact or your feet with the ground "for safety." It’s not quite running and it’s definitely not walking.

Their are a lot of things that happen at army basic that they do to slowly torture you. At basic, if they ever catch you walking anywhere you’re a dead man, or woman. But because some places we have live ammunition and then forcing people to run gets potentially dangerous. The range-walk only really makes sense in basic, but like any large organization people have a hard time removing ingrained learned rules that no longer apply.

As I think about it, the range walk is very similar to speed walking, but we can't call it speed walking, because speed walking is for old women.

I arrived at the office, everyone was in attendance. Not everyone was exactly thrilled. Like Sgt. John Manson, he was terrified of our promotion. He barely functioned as section leader; we won’t even speak of his skills in writing. The whole time we’ve been here the only thing he’s had on us is rank. For him, today will change that, no longer will I be his lackey. I will be the same rank. Will that change things? Probably not. However, when he flips out, he does it constantly in an unprofessional manner, at every simple roadblock, I can tell him to fuck off.

We got into formation. The commander came up and took charge of the formation. I always get nervous at this point. As I stood at attention waiting for my name to be called I couldn’t help but worry if I looked like an idiot or didn’t salute correctly. My palms got moist and my mouth started to swell. The LT started to call off names.

“Spc. Juan Rodriguez, Spc. Sebastian Mayer,” announced Guthrie.

Here it comes, don’t mess up.

“Spc. Jack Valenteen front and center,” announced Guthrie.

“Moving Ma’am!” I said with vigor.

I got into line beside my fellow Soldiers. I saluted the commander.

The commander was as hardcore as they come. His name was Colonel James Mathews. However, as hardcore as he was he was as laid back as can be. He believed in getting the job done and screwing formality. That kind of drive must have come from being a former-Special Forces sergeant.

Of course, it could be the drive he has is what got him the Special Forces tab. I guess the man makes the job instead of the job makes the man. However, he didn’t like to talk about why he had to get out.

“Squad! About face,” yelled Mathews!

The LT read off the promotion orders. This kind of stuff makes my legs hurt more as I stand at attention.

Before the ceremony we selected who we wanted to place the newly earned rank onto our collars and cover.

I chose Sgt. Sarah Metzger, Staff Sgt. Randy Fallow and Colonel James Mathews.

Sarah was always nice to me, and as soon as she took over as the editor of our newspaper everything functioned and worked smoothly. She never exploded or got in our way. She let us do our job, and allowed us to watch something besides the news on the TV. I was partial to Scooby-Doo.

Randy was always angry, and I think sometimes he hated me. However, he was always fair and a fine example of a good non-commissioned officer, which sometimes isn’t saying a whole lot about personality and intelligence. He was the way he was, but he always took care of “his” Soldiers.

The commander, well he’s just a badass. I have plenty of good stories to tell about the man. Most of them involve a bottle of Jack Daniels. I have nothing but respect for an officer who can get down and party with the troops. I believe the fraternization policy is just un-American.

The others were already pinned and I was next.

At this point all I could think about was listening to old ex-infantry guys talk about how if you get rank you have to earn it with a good amount of bleeding. The Army has a custom of placing the rank on your shoulders and then proceeding to punch them into your collar. Sometimes they put the grommets on and sometimes they don’t.

Unfortunately for me I was the latter. I tried not to flinch as the pegs on the rank pierced my skin. The commander moved in to whisper something.

“Meeting after the formation, Operation Desert Iguana, don’t tell anyone. Welcome to the club,” whispered Mathews.

After the formation everyone came up to congratulate the brand new sergeants. A few people came up to me and shook my hand.

Manson came up to me for a handshake. I needed to do something since I now had the chance.

Manson extended his arm.

“Hold up, I have to pull this metal post out of my shoulder first,” I said.

Manson laughed and seemed a bit confused.

“What? You mean they didn’t put the grommets on first,” said Manson.

I just looked at him and then down at my shoulder. I placed my hand underneath my uniform and pulled the rod out. Near the end it’s a flared ending. It gave a little resistance but I pulled harder. Only a little drop of blood was on my hand.

“Man, they would never do that in the Navy, what’s with that?” questioned Manson.

“Well then maybe you should have stayed in the Navy. It’s a tradition to give you a little bit of pain, with more responsibility. In the Army responsibility is pain, actually,” I said.

“Really, I enjoy being able to tell you what to do,” said Manson.

“That’s because you misuse your power, you're supposed to use it to take care of us. You're supposed to place your Soldiers before yourself. You're also incompetent,” I said.

“Well in the Navy, once you become a chief you basically just sit around with other chiefs and tell people what to do,” said Manson.

“That’s why they should let you Navy fucks in the Army, especially not at the rank they let you in at,” I said.

“Hey watch your mouth, just because we're the same rank doesn’t mean you can open your mouth to me. I’m still in charge,” said Manson.

“The only thing you're in charge of is taking out the trash,” I said.

“What?!” exclaimed Manson.

“The truth sucks doesn’t; later ass-clown,” I said.

I walked away from him, he was about to make a huge scene, but trusty old Captain Baker distracted him for me.

Slowly everyone disappeared except for everyone who was invited to the secret meeting. We all walked away from the building so no one could interrupt us. Colonel Mathews came in close.

“Gentlemen, this mission has been classified, super-duper, extra-secret, above-ridiculously, top secret,” said Mathews sarcastically.

“Crap, I only have secret clearance, where did you guys get approval for super-duper, extra-secret, above-ridiculously, top secret from? Is that still a Standard Form 86?” I questioned sarcastically.

“Shut the fuck up Valentine,” barked Baker.

"It's Valenteen, dumbass," I said in anger.

"Right you are!" replied Baker. Grinning in a way that indicated he said my name incorrectly just to annoy me.

Baker stood at attention, saluted me and then punched me in the shoulder.

“Congratulations, I just awarded you the clearance. Retard,” said Baker.

We all let out a little giggle.

“If you’re caught on this mission, you're on your own, you have no choice to back out, we are all doing this. So if you screw up and get caught, you're fucked,” said Baker.

“Do we have air or mortar support, sir?” I asked sarcastically.

“No! Retard." Baker paused for a second to breathe, he had to collect himself to stop from murdering me. "OK, so at 2000 hours we will meet at Metzger’s residence for the party. Ground your party gear and bring your battle bag so we can suit up in the desert. We will go approximately, fucking two clicks north, by one click fucking east,” says Baker like he’s giving an operation order brief.

“What is a fucking click?” I said.

“How am I supposed to know, we use GPS in Iraq. I heard them say that shit in a movie once,” answers Baker.

He was being sarcastic. He knew full well what a click was. He may even know what a fucking click was too. You may not know so just for future reference a click is a 1,000 meters. And, fucking click is a painful and difficult 1,000 meters to transverse. It definitely won't be important at all for the rest of the story. Just a knowledge nugget!

“I’m so glad our infantry officers get all their knowledge from movies, let me guess your training included, We Were Soldiers, Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, and SWAT,” said Rodriquez.

“Don’t forget about Gladiator and Braveheart,” I said.

“Real funny, how about either you shut up or I will skull fuck the two of you,” threatens Baker.

“Is that a threat? Sounds kind of nice, just go easy on my eye socket,” I said.

"Any questions?" said Matthews.

"Sir, if Baker skull fucks us on this mission and my eye socket is damage. Does that constitute a LOD?" questioned Rodriguez.

An LOD is a line of duty investigation. It's too determine whether your injury is connected to military service or not. Every soldier wants an in line of duty injury that gets them money for life. The key is to get an injury that doesn't really affect the rest of you living your life.

“Ok, ok, you guys are a bunch of sick little freaks you know that, everyone get back to work and I will see you at the party,” said Mathews.