There has always existed a certain friction between the soldier on the front line and his counterpart in support, between the grunt who fires the bullets and the supply personnel who provides the bullets. For these rear-echelon types not involved in the actual fighting, perhaps ensconced at a cush desk job back in the Green Zone, life was usually no more exciting or risky than at Fort Drum or any other army base stateside. Vietnam-era GIs coined phrases and terms such as “Remington Raiders” or REMF (rear-echelon motherfucker) to express their contempt for—and perhaps envy of—the soldier who slept under clean sheets every night and whose greatest danger lay in breaking a fingernail on his typewriter.
As for the REMFs, while thankful not to be in the thick of battle, they were also a little resentful and jealous of the “real” soldier. They often got back at the dirty, scroungy, war-fighting infantrymen every chance they got through rules and regulations more applicable to the peacetime military than to a combat environment. All too often, it was also the rear echelon in their clean uniforms and striking military appearance who defined the soldier and set the army’s image, for better or worse.
As a result, the army sometimes suffered from poor image modeling and indecisive leadership—high-ranking officers who sent men into harm’s way while they remained safely behind in the comfort of their air-conditioned offices; grossly overweight commanders who bragged about how their units were secure behind walls and were going to stay that way; pogue-bait NCOs riding out their combat tours in the relative safety of the rear; Pentagon-level generals on “fact-finding” missions who breezed in and out of the war zone, experienced it superficially, then returned to report to politicians . . .
Like most combat leaders, Colonel Infanti expressed little more than contempt for such men and was quick to defend his soldiers against them.
“Before you lay crap on my men,” he warned, “you need to get on the ground and get some American blood on your hands. Fight your way out of a couple of ambushes, hold a buddy’s hand while he dies, then come back and talk to me.”
It seemed to him that many high-ranking brass and civilian leaders back in the States relied on the mainstream media for most of their information about the war. A dangerous habit, in his opinion, since he regarded the media as biased and quick to present a prejudiced, superficial, and downright fraudulent version of events occurring in Iraq. It seemed reporters were always present to televise clips of American “atrocities” or to imply that American was losing the war by showing Iraqis celebrating U.S. casualties by jumping around and waving frantically while American Army vehicles burned in the background.
Precious few journalists dared stay long enough in-country, or delve deeply enough, to get the story right. They arrived in Iraq with skeptical my-mind-is-made-up-don’t-confuse-me-with-the-facts attitudes. Politicians and, too frequently, high-ranking, rear-echelon military officers ignorant of what was really going on played right into their hands.
A Pentagon-level general officer accompanied by some politicians and TV and print reporters showed up one morning at Yusufiyah to tour Colonel Infanti’s Delta patrol bases on Malibu Road. The transport into the zone was twice as large as usual and heavily armed; heaven help the commander who let a politician get hurt.
Although Battalion provided what amenities it could to make life easier for the dogfaces in the outposts, life remained nonetheless Spartan. There was, after all, a war going on. Several reporters expressed dismay about how soldiers could live like this for long periods of time. The general either revealed his complete ignorance of what combat was like in Iraq, or he was attempting to create a more palatable image for public consumption back home.
“Oh,” said the general, “they don’t live out here all the time. They come out for a week at a time, then go back to the rear to rest up.”
Infanti couldn’t let that pass, even though protocol dictated that a colonel never publically contradict a general. He stepped forward.
“That’s not exactly accurate, sir,” he said. “My men are out here all the time. This is rest for them.”
Friction existed between the front lines and the rear at all levels. And at all levels, leaders were willing to speak out to protect their men from the “chickenshit” REMFs attempted to dump on them.
It sometimes took months for Delta Company soldiers to escape Malibu Road for a quick “refit” in the rear. When they got there, they were in no mood to take crap from the pogues.
Near the end of the winter rains, Sergeant Victor Chavez took his squad to Camp Liberty in Baghdad for its very first refit. He had been here in 2004-2005 when Camp Liberty was still called Camp Victory. This was the twenty-five-year-old’s third combat tour—once in Afghanistan, now twice in Iraq. The members of his squad were excited at the prospect of a fairyland in the middle of the desert where they could acquire a Big Mac with a double order of fries, a Burrito Supreme, or a Whopper with an ice-cream shake.
The Post Exchange was huge and stocked like a Super Wal-Mart back in Kansas or Texas. The men parked their two humvees in the big lot, secured their weapons, posted a guard, and headed off in high spirits to the PX. They had arrived in Iraq some six months ago wearing crisp new ACUs. They were now stained and frayed; their helmet covers and gloves worn as threadbare as their nerves; their vehicles dented and twisted, dimpled, chipped, and pock-marked from battle. They wore unshorn mops of hair, and their uniforms were rancid from poor hygiene and the normal grind of battle. They looked what they were: combat-hardened warriors.
Chavez looked around at all the other neat, Army-Regulation-type soldiers. Then he looked at his Joes. Man, we’re a mess. Somebody is going to say something.
Sure enough, a bright and shiny captain from the 3rd ID blocked the entrance to the PX. Chavez, who had lagged behind, walked up to ask him what the problem was.
“Are these your guys, sergeant?”
“Your uniforms and hair are not within army standards. You’re not allowed to use the facilities until you make corrections.”
Chavez had to muster restraint to keep from bum-rushing this pompous, overbearing asshole across the lot and ramming his to-army-standards crew cut into the side of one of the hummers. He took a step into the captain’s space and locked his eyes on the officer’s. He spoke in a low growl so no other passing officer would overhear.
“Sir, this is the first time in months we’ve been to a place with something other than MREs and army chow to eat and water or coffee to drink. I can see that’s not true for you, sir. You get this shit all the time. I want you to listen to me carefully, sir. My men and I are going in there to refit. Then we’ll go back to fighting the war to which you’ll never get any closer than you are now. So unless you want to take this further, you’ll get your soft white ass out of the way of real soldiers. And we know where the barbershop is, too.”
Obviously, the captain hadn’t been around too many combat soldiers. Chavez and his squad pushed past him and entered the PX while he stood there, speechless.
“I wanna be a rear pogue just like him when I grow up,” Matt Moran jeered. “How about you, Sergeant Reevers? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Deadpan, Reevers replied, “Alive.”