FORT IRWIN -- I learned something about myself over the weekend: I was part of the problem.

I’ve always considered the military and I to be like oil and water. Ever since my first conversations with military recruiters back in high school, I’ve come up with every excuse in the book as to why I would never join:

“I have asthma. Really bad asthma. Exercise-induced asthma. I wouldn’t make it past boot camp.”

“I really don’t like confrontation; I don’t even like honking my horn on the freeway. I don’t think I’m the right guy to go fight a war.”

“I’m too overweight and out of shape. They wouldn’t want me. Besides, I’ve got flat feet.”

But in actuality, the real reason why I’ve never considered military service is because of fear. I don’t want to get shipped off. I don’t want to be shot at.

I don’t want to die.

I’m already an anxious person, and the current global political climate certainly hasn’t helped ease that apprehension. I’ve spent many a night with North Korea, Syria, Russia and China on my phone’s web browser, almost certain that World War III would be on my doorstep by morning with my draft notice in hand.

With all that in mind, you might say that my acceptance of an invitation to tour the National Training Center (NTC) at Ft. Irwin was a bit out of character for me.

My Friday morning was spent primarily at Atlantic Aviation in Burbank, awaiting the arrival of the helicopters that would be taking us to our destination.

Slowly, more and more individuals came into the waiting room; they ranged from writers, to teachers, to actors and students.

Then three helicopters swooped down onto the runway. A few minutes later, their pilots and crews filed in.

I walked over to one of them, nervous and intimidated. “What kind of helicopters are those?”

He looked at me, almost looking shocked that I didn’t know. “Black Hawks.”

“Cool,” I replied. Realistically, the thoughts racing through my head were less than reassuring.
“I’ve seen this movie; I know how this goes.”

It wouldn’t be long before we were to jump into the helicopters and start our nearly one-hour flight to the Ft., located 37 miles northeast of Barstow. But before we left, I had to get a sense of what I had just gotten myself into.

I spent a few moments talking with Col. Seth Krummrich, who has 24 years of service under his belt and serves as the Garrison Commander at the fort.

He said they do these types of tours twice a year.

“The main purpose is to tell our story. There’s a perceived civilian / military divide in what we do,” said Krummrich. “We want people to understand that this is their army, this is their post, this is their experience. Whenever we get the opportunity to bring people up to Ft. Irwin and see their army and meet their army, they leave better educated; they have a better appreciation for what we do. Frankly, we’re able to tell that story which is harder and harder to do in the information age with all the different platforms that are out there now vying for people’s attention.

“If we bring you out and have an immersive tour where you’re able to walk in the shoes of a soldier, put on the gear, be part of an operation, you’ll really get a sense and a feel for it.”

I grew up watching people come up to my grandfather – who almost always was proudly wearing one of his Iwo Jima veteran hats – to shake his hand and thank him for his service. I saw it happen so much, that I learned to do the same whenever I saw a veteran wearing a cap.

But before my experience at Ft. Irwin, there might have been a bit of a shallowness behind my actions. I hold great respect for our military, but admittedly I now realize that I didn’t totally understand – and therefore couldn’t fully appreciate – the sacrifice made and the work done by our armed forces.

I was definitely about to learn.

As I climbed aboard one of the three Black Hawks, I took a deep breath. I’m afraid of heights, and I could’ve driven to the fort the day before and stayed in a hotel overnight. I don’t think I’ll ever truly know why I chose the helicopter option.

One clammy-palmed prayer later, we were up in the air.

The first part of our flight was actually quite neat, as we were given aerial views of the Hollywood Sign, Universal Studios, and the Rose Bowl.

The latter part of the flight was a little less eventful. Desert. Lots of desert.

Luckily, I had put myself in a sort of state of “zen” by this point. I’m sure this was easier for me than it would be for someone flying into Iraq or Afghanistan.

We landed at a place called “The Painted Rocks,” where military squads have painted their insignias all over a large cluster of boulders. It was pretty spectacular to see, however we weren’t to stay long.

We were quickly loaded onto two busses. As we boarded, there were several jokes made by our army chaperones about how “You can’t be a soldier without getting on these busses at least once.”  

Ft. Irwin is quite the place to behold, considering it lies in what can only be described as the middle of nowhere; I don’t care what Krummrich said about being “centrally located.”

When first entered, the fort seems less like a place for soldiers to train and more like a little community. There are schools up to every grade level except high school. There are markets and stores, homes, offices, a kennel, a park, playgrounds, a hospital, a hotel; there’s even a Burger King.

However, just outside of this seemingly ordinary community lies the fictional country of “Atropia,” home to the “Donovians.”

In other words, the NTC.

The ambiance immediately changed once we crossed into Atropia. Gone was the cute and calm community. I anxiously looked out the window and stared at the empty, dusty road. I almost expected to come under fire, as if our tour guides wanted to indoctrinate our group through a cruel baptism-by-fire style prank.

Thankfully, no such attack happened. Instead, we pulled up to a small building and were served coffee, water, Gatorades, and donuts before being briefed on the functionality of Fort Irwin.

For many soldiers, Ft. Irwin and the NTC is their last destination and their last opportunity to “get it right” before shipping out to fill-in-the-blank-here.

We learned that the NTC is designed to teach soldiers not how to fight specific enemies, but how to think, react, and respond to various scenarios in a “complex world.”

“What we’re able to replicate is exactly what our near peer competitors are using down range right now,” said Krummrich.

To say that the environment that they create is authentic is an understatement.

I was completely unnerved by the smell in the air of what I was told was chai tea, the ominous sound of melodic Middle Eastern morning chants that seemed to wake our fictional city and prepare it for battle. Light, greyish smoke curled out of buildings like a fog machine on Halloween.

They made us walk through a market, dozens of individuals seemingly of Arabic descent shouting at us in the language of their countries, trying to shove their wares into our hands.

I walked up to one of the soldiers guiding us.

“That was terrifying,” I said. “I’m not overreacting, am I?”

He chuckled.

“No,” he said. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

We then got to witness a group of soldiers run through a scenario where they were tasked with the extraction of a high-value target.

Along with the rest of the tour group, I watched from afar; out of harm’s way.

Shots fired. Humvees screeched around corners. A helicopter flew low circles around the entire scene. It was like watching an amusement park stunt show, only much more intense and not as enjoyable.

With the action concluded, we were told that we would be running a similar scenario after an army-provided lunch.

I have to talk a bit about lunch, since it was just as much of an experience than the rest of the tour.

Lunch kicked my you-know-what. I never expected the army to provide me with some gourmet cuisine, however, what I got was far from expected. The donuts earlier seemed like a set up to the worst punchline ever.

We entered into a room where there were tons of tightly sealed brown bags covering a few tables; the letters “MRE” blazoned across the front.

The few of us who had entered the room attempted to pick out a meal that sounded good; beef brisket and chili mac and cheese sounded the most appealing, yet nothing stood out as my “first choice.”  The mission to find the perfect MRE quickly went for naught though, as the soldiers monitoring the station started to hurry us through.

“You want the real soldier experience? Don’t look, just grab,” one of them said.

I grabbed a packet and scurried to the tables in the next room. I may have cheated a bit; I ended up with the brisket. 

As I sat down, the gentleman to the chair opposite left of me pulled out a knife and started to pull his MRE's contents out: several labeled packets of food, as well as a cardboard sleeve and a blue pouch. I was also informed that the cup of water I was told to grab was not for my refreshment. I felt like I had been just handed a chemistry set that I had never asked for.

Even with all the military personnel around me, I panicked. One of my closer friends in Downey, Ian, is in the Army Reserves and has served a tour in Afghanistan. Instead of asking one of the soldiers surrounding me, I defaulted to him.

“Dude, how do you do this?,” I texted him; my question not only inquiring as how to physically accomplish the task, but how to mentally cope with it as well.

“Cut it open…take a small drink of water and spit it into the heater bag. It’s the perfect amount of water to heat it,” he replied.

I still ended up needing help just to crack open my lunch and prepare it. In all, it took me near 10 minutes to be able to eat anything. The food wasn’t too bad once I finally got into it. 

After lunch came the hard part: we were going to gear up and head into the city of “Razish;” our objective another high-value target.

The gear included a heavy plated vest and a helmet, as well as protective eyewear. None of it made me feel any more secure; I felt more like the kid from A Christmas Story who couldn’t put his arms down.

Already nervous and not sure how I’d react coming face to face with “the enemy,” I volunteered to be one of the four individuals to man the turret of a Humvee.

Specifically, my Humvee was tasked with the extraction of the target. I was trained on how to load and fire my 50 Cal M2.

I asked a ton of questions, some repeatedly. Sure, I was only a “soldier” for a day in a training scenario with no real risk or reward, but something deep inside me still didn’t want to let the two other guys in the Humvee down.

Since we were to retrieve the high value target after the assault team moved him out of his location, we were posted away from much of the initial shooting. My mission started with not-a-whole-lot to do; I took the opportunity to practice how to reload, lest I get caught in the middle of a shootout with a jammed gun. 

Eventually, the call came and we rushed off. I told the soldiers in my Humvee to not hold anything back. I regretted saying that after we took the first quick and hard turn, as I slammed into the side of the turret. You should see the bruise it left.

As we pulled up to one of the city’s alley ways, one of the soldiers leading the assault team moved towards our passenger side back door.

Blam.

The explosion representing a detonating IED wasn’t much bigger in scope or impact as a “safe-and-sane” Fourth of July firework, yet it was close enough behind my Humvee that I jumped and let out a curse or two. I’m sure had this been a real battle with real firepower, I would’ve taken on some kind of injury, if not worse. 

The soldier who had been attempting to open our door was now lying on the ground. His squad, hunkered behind a wall, were screaming, “Medic!” and “Get him into cover!”

My Humvee’s role had abruptly changed. No longer were we the Humvee to extract the objective. We were now transporting wounded.

With our wounded warrior in tow, we once again took off, the soldiers inside the Humvee directing me to keep scanning for enemies.

I never saw an enemy. I didn’t shoot my gun once.

That was still enough time as a soldier for me.

The rest of the day was significantly more mellow, relaxed, and fun than before. I got to climb in and out of tanks, talk to soldiers, and fire weapons (none of which I recall the name of).

Before I knew it, we were awarded certificates and loaded back onto the helicopters for the flight back to Burbank.

My head hit pillow at around 9:30 pm that night after I got home. Sunburned, bruised, and exhausted, I slept nearly a full 12 hours after.

I know I still don’t fully comprehend everything our military goes through. While my tour was about as authentic as it could get for a civilian, I was never in any actual danger (at least, as far as I’m aware). However, there is definitely a deeper respect and admiration than what was there before I stepped onto Ft. Irwin.

I now understand the rift between civilian and military that the folks at Ft. Irwin were trying to mend with our tour.

I think it’s fair to say that many if not most of us hold some manner of respect for our men and women in uniform. However we need to remain diligent in making sure that our thanks and appreciation aren’t given empty and said and done “because we have to” or just “because it’s the right thing to do.”

Coincidentally, I saw my friend Ian just a couple of days after my Ft. Irwin tour. I don’t think I’ve ever squeezed his hand in a tighter handshake.