Last night in country

My last night in Iraq was much like the first. Once again we found ourselves sleeping in a shack filled with cots. The weather was the same also, cold and rainy; the ground covered in thick mud. Only this time my feeling of unease was not caused by the uncertainty of what lay ahead, but by the knowledge of what I’d be leaving behind.

Lt. and I decided that we’d better walk across the camp to the trailer pods to visit our interpreters. Kimo and Dash are both Iraqi men in their early twenties. I first met them during the week leading up to the Parliamentary election. Patrolling local routes and villages for up to twelve hours at a time necessitated that we have a terp on hand to help us communicate. Kimo and Dash took turns going outside the wire with us, and after such long hours together we became very close. I developed a deep respect for them both, and we soon became close friends. These men risked their lives everyday working with American forces in a combat zone. Each time they came out on a mission they risked being identified by insurgents or disgruntled Iraqis; putting their lives in jeopardy.

Dash is one of the friendliest people you could hope to meet. He almost always has a smile on his face and will often break into uncontrollable laughter at the slightest provocation. He has lived his entire life in a small village of a hundred or so people. When the war is over he plans on going to the university (though he really wants to study in America) in hopes of becoming a lawyer. Dash has a Kurdish girlfriend who lives in Northern Iraq. He mother does not approve of him dating a woman from a different sect of Islam (he is Shia), but Dash explained to me that inter-tribal relationships like his are necessary if the people of Iraq are ever to transcend the divisions that have historically plagued them.

Kimo is a bit more shy and reserved than his childhood friend. The first time I met him he was accompanying us on a night mission to patrol a nearby village. He sat quietly in the back seat, speaking only when asked a question, reluctant to share his thoughts or reveal much about himself. Over the next several days I slowly prodded him for information trying to get him to warm up and feel comfortable with us. It didn’t take long before he opened up, finally feeling part of the team and not just an army asset. Kimo and I spend long hours talking about his family and his village. He did his best to help me improve my pitiful Arabic conversational skills, and I’d answer his questions about life in America and my feeling about the war and about his country.

When my unit finally complete all of our missions to begin packing up to return home I didn’t see much of my terp brothers. They were attached to a brand new unit and we were busy preparing for the end of our time in Iraq. Every now and then I walked over to the trailer that the two of them shared and spent time hanging out, watching TV and talking. They always seemed sad to see me leave; asking when I’d be back and why I couldn’t stay just a few minutes longer.

On that last night in country Lt. and I bundled up against the cold and walked over to see them. I had recently learned that, though they had worked on the camp for some time, neither of them had ever been to the recreation center. We signed them both out with their supervisors and headed over.

For about the next two hours we did nothing but play some serious games of foosball. We decided that if Lt. and I won that the boys would have to come to America and see us. If we lost then we had to stay in Iraq and hang out with Kimo and Dash for another year (sorry boys but I’m pretty sure I was bluffing on that one.) Thankfully we stomped them every game but two. It was hilarious. Dash would scream and yell with excitement as the ball went back and forth. Every time Lt. and I scored a goal he’d look over at Kimo and shout, “That was yours!” Somehow, in Dash’s mind, it always seemed to be Kimo’s fault. Kimo would look embarrassed and yell back that if Dash would just score a few goals he wouldn’t have to worry about how Kimo was playing. It was so much fun. That might have been the most fun I’d had the entire deployment. I don’t think any of us have laughed as hard in our lives.

After Lt. and I finished stomping the snot out of them at foosball we walked them back to their trailer. I gave them a note card with my address and phone number on it and told them to write or call any chance they got. I gave Kimo a phone card and told him to let me know when it runs out and I’ll send him another. Lt. and I gave them hugs, shook their hands, putting our hands to our heart, and said goodbye. The last memory I have of their faces they’re standing in a doorway waving goodbye to us with tears in the eyes. It was a sad moment. I remember on the walk back to our shack hoping that one day I see my terp brothers again.

For real this time

Alright folk, I swear I'm no liar, there are several more posts on the way. I've been very busy (and as I've said, very lazy) but there have been quite a few twists and turns since I've been home that I'd love for you all to hear about. I PROMISE that this week I'm going to get on it and post. Thank you all so much for continuing to check back with the site. Cut me a little more slack and I won't dissapoint. Take care.

A few appetizers

Please forgive my long absence. I'd love to say that I've just been too busy to update this site, but the truth is that, for the most part, I've celebrated my new freedom with a large dose of laziness. I do have much to report, though it will have to wait until later posts. I've written about my last night in Iraq, the long trip home, seeing my family for the first time, our final ceremony, and my adjustment over the last two weeks back to civilian life. To tide you over until I can get those stories up on the web, here is an article written by my local paper (embarrassingly flattering I must admit) and here is an editorial describing our demobilization ceremony.

Also, my Lt. is creating a documentary detailing our experiences in Iraq. Many of the adventures and situations that I wrote about on this blog were captured by his video camera. It should be really great (For purposes of full disclosure, I am involved in the project also). He recently created a website on which he posts updates on the films progress. The site also has the first version of the movie trailer, a short (but amazing) video of our shoe distribution efforts (all of my kids star in that one), as well as still photos and a description of his film.

I promise to write more soon. I'm trying my best to contact Elmo and Rafudi and will let you know how it all works out.

So long Iraq

We have spent the last few days cleaning up our rooms, packing up gear and readying the buildings for our replacements. All preparations for the trip home are complete and now we are just waiting… waiting for a flight out of here, waiting to finish our final paperwork, and waiting to see the faces of our loved ones. We sleep in one giant room; our bags packed and ready to go. There isn’t much to do but we fight off the boredom as best we can with books and card games.

There isn’t the feeling of excitement that you’d expect from soldiers about to head home after a long deployment. I don’t think it has fully hit us yet. Also, there is the fact that we still have several hurdles to jump before we’re free and clear of this thing. When that plane finally carries us away, one more trip outside the wire, we’ll realize just what it means. We’re finally going back to our lives we’ve put on hold for the last year and a half.

I remember when we first arrived in Iraq. We looked at units that were on their way out realizing just how long it would be until that day finally came for us. Well the day has just about arrived and I am very ready to leave. There is a surprising sense of sadness about it though. Iraq has been my home for the last year. Many of the people and places are very familiar to me, and I leave here knowing that I will likely never see them again. Even if I never return I know that a part of me will always be connected to this place. This is where I’ve experienced some of the most intense emotions of my life and build memories that will never leave me.

While cleaning up my room the other day I came across a copy of my will. A document that I wrote in a somber mood, thinking of my own death, now seemed hilarious to me. All of my petty knick-knacks meant for one friend or family member or another. I remember just what I was thinking when I wrote it, that I might not make it out of this and that I wanted one last way to tell people back home that I love them. I’m not really sure why that seems funny to me now. Maybe because I did make it through and that a particularly large weight has been taken from my shoulders. We no longer have to worry about people trying to kill us. We’re going home. Now the only thing I need to worry about is the infamous "ironic death." We’ve survived a year in one of the most dangerous places on earth; now we just need to avoid choking on a hotdog back home or getting hit by a garbage truck. Other than that, the ever present feeling of danger and uncertainty has taken its leave. Now I can concentrate on less weighty issues like the high price of fuel or the girl drama that I will inevitably get my self into. Back to life as usual and damn does it ever feel good.

Most of my life I’ve been interested in politics and philosophy. During our train up for our part in this war I had myriad opinions and criticisms. But to paraphrase a line from the book "Jarhead," once you’re here politics and opinions don’t mean a thing. I witnessed both the terrible and the grand. I learned of the compassion and generosity of the Iraqi people and the beauty and innocence of their children. My personal barometer of success in Iraq no longer relied on the larger picture of a stable government, reduced troop levels, or number of dead insurgents. My goal has simply been to leave my little piece of this country a little better than when I found it. And by that standard I can say with pride that we accomplished our mission here. Not only have we been able to affect the lives of many people but they have had an enormous impact on us. I remember first thinking how different Iraqis were from us, how strange their behavior and customs were from what we’re used to. Now I see just how similar we are. It’s cliché but true. The children are just as cute and playful as any others. The men and women have the same dreams that we all have; to provide for their families and live happy, fulfilling lives.

Over the last few weeks I’ve done a decent job of wrapping things up. I’ve said my goodbye’s to the kids and to a few of the Iraqi interpreters who have become my good friends. I leave without loose ends or regrets. This has been an amazing experience, one which I am thankful for being a part of. One more chapter in this story is closed, leaving only one more to go; my return home.

We finished out our last combat mission a few days ago. No more looking for bombs and bad guys. This morning, however, was my last personal trip outside of the wire, and without a doubt one of the most successful missions in all the time I've been here.

It would be difficult for most of you to fully appreciate the enormous amount of candy, clothing, shoes and toy filled boxes I've received from families and friends. Try as I might it hasn't been easy to give all of it out. Even after the last big giveaway at the primary school we still had another fifteen small boxes of stuff left. The Lt. and I planned one more trip outside to see the kids, give them some gifts, and, most importantly, give me a chance to say goodbye.

Last night I spent a few hours separating the remaining items into bags. I prepared fifteen of them, knowing that most likely there would only be a few kids. Normally I only get a chance to see five or six of them at a time. That is just the way it works. If Elmo is out then Rafudi is home sleeping. If all of Elmo's sisters and brothers are there then Jasmine and Nicoma aren't. The mornings have been so cold lately I wouldn't have been surprised if all the kids stayed home and snuggled around the fire instead of going out to play. But the second our truck pulled past the barriers and I saw the children I knew my assumptions were out the window. There were already twenty kids out in the lot playing and more on the way. Every single one of my kids was there.

When they spotted us they went berserk. They ran to the road and danced and cheered as we drove toward them. Rafudi was front and center as usual. He stood in front of the vehicle yelling, "I love you! I love you!" I got the feeling that he and many of the other children thought that I had already left without saying goodbye to them.

As I stepped out from the door Rafudi rushed up and threw his arms around me. The other kids rushed up, and I shook the hand of each, many of them several times. Nicoma and a few of the other girls had red pen on her eye lids. The girls are always trying to apply make-up, often using dirt, pen or anything else they can get their hands on. They must have known that today was a special occasion.

The most pressing questions the kids had were, "Where have you been?" and "When are you leaving for America?" I told the kids that this would be my last visit, and I was flying back to America very soon. Apparently they considered that the wrong answer. They yelled "No! America no good! You stay here!" Elmo and her sister Irjoey told me, "Father and mother say 'Joey no leave to America. He stay here.'" I took that to mean that they were sad to hear that I was leaving also.

It took more than an hour to hand out everything to the kids. Luckily I brought an extra role of plastic bags and divided the toys so that each kid received a nice size bag of loot. Everyone was very happy and they jumped around, sang and shouted for my attention. They put on their new shoes and socks, tied bandanas around their heads and shoved handfuls of candy into their mouths.

After all of the goodies were gone and I had to start saying goodbye, Rafudi and a few of the other kids became quite. Elmo became very shy. I don't think she wanted to say goodbye. I took her hand and then placed my hand over my heart, as a sign of respect and friendship. I told Saham that this wasn't goodbye forever, and that I would talk to her again soon. I told the kids that I was going back to America, but that I would think about them often. I thanked them for being my sadiqis (friends) and for all of the small gifts they have given me over the months. Many of the younger kids did not understand that I wouldn't be coming back. They were all so happy about the new toys they had gotten that they couldn't focus on much else. They asked, "You going to America tomorrow?" I would answer that I was. They followed up with, "You come day after tomorrow and give me shoes?"

Packing up the truck to leave I gave out tons of high-fives and shook many hands. Lots of the kids ran up and hugged me. Rafudi told me to call his father's phone when I get home and be sure to ask to talk to him. He stayed quietly by my side, holding my hand as long as he could. He probably gave me five hugs before I finally closed the door to my truck and drove away.

I drove away with my window down and the kids chanting my name and running along side the truck. Ali asked through the window if I would wave to him from the plane as I flew away. Ronda agreed that this would be a good idea and asked me to do the same for her. I promised I would. The kids ran with the truck until we entered the gate. As the Lt. and I entered the camp I looked in my side mirror and saw the kids standing in the middle of the road watching us disappear from view.

It was sad to say goodbye. I'll miss those kids. They have made this deployment so much more fun than it otherwise would have been. I have three sisters and a brother back home that I have been without for a long time. In Iraq I had twenty little kids that thought of me as family. Saham and Rafudi were like a little brother and sister. It's been great to watch them grow this past year. I remember meeting them on my first trip outside the wire. They seemed so young then, and when I think of them now they are completely different people. I'm glad that I got the chance to see them one last time. I have been worried for the last few weeks that I'd have to go home without explaining or saying goodbye. My last visit with the children could not have gone better. While the fact that I might not ever see them again nags at me, I know that I'll be able to send them letters and gifts from home. Every once in a while I'll call their father to check up on the family and let them know that I'm doing well. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to come back here under different circumstances and see them as grown men and women. They are great kids and I know that they'll do amazing things with their lives. I look forward someday to seeing what they have become.

Photo taken by Lt. Paetz

My little sis.

My little bro and I.

Today was the last big giveaway of shoes, toys and clothing. We dropped by on a school unexpectedly and told the teachers that we would like to give the children some gifts from America. We piled several boxes of goodies on top of a table in the court yard and watched as the teachers had the kids stand in lines facing us. As a guy who has never been able to convince Iraqi children to remain orderly for long, I was impressed. SSG. B. walked around the line and gave every child a pen and pencil. Then we had them walk up to us one at a time while Brian and I handed them each a stuffed animal. We did not have time to hand out the shoes because we had to complete our patrol. We gave the boxes to the teachers and asked them to distribute them for us. It was at about this time that the chaos, more than familiar to me, ensued. Some of the adults made the mistake of leaving a few boxes on the ground. The children swarmed around, each yanking as many pairs out as they could grab. It was a free-for-all. I admit that it did make me feel a little better to know that even teachers can't get the kids to behave when shoes are at stake.

Brian stands outside of another Sheik’s house pulling security. The Sheik wasn’t home so we did not get a chance to meet him. We did, however, get a chance to pee in his bathroom. It isn’t every day that you get to use the “facilities” in a village leader’s house. I might get an appearance on Larry King for this one.

On one of my last missions in Iraq I went to see the Sheik of one of the villages we are responsible for. We came to introduce him to soldiers from the unit that will be replacing us and to ask if there is anything that can be done to make the area safer. We sat together in a large room lined with plush, decorative chairs. The Sheik’s men served us tangerines and tea as he spoke of conditions in his village and the surrounding areas. He was a very eloquent, well educated man, and it was interesting to hear what he had to say about the progress of his country. He was concerned about the violence prevalent in many other villages, but had a generally optimistic view of Iraq’s future.

Photo taken by LT. P.

Testing the limits of Humvees until the bitter end. (This one wasn't my fault.)

A few weeks after the elections many walls still bear torn campaign posters.

After hearing a series of gunshots we rushed into a nearby village to see what was going on. After checking out the area and talking to some locals it became evident that the shots came from somewhere else. Dingo took a minute to buy an umbrella for his one-year-old son.

Jimmy was a kid who we often saw while patrolling our old battle space. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without his bicycle in hand and a grin on his face. He was one of our favorites in the area and he’d often leave us loaded down with gifts for him and his family. Every once in a while Jimmy gave us, and a few other units, information about insurgent activity in his village. He wasn’t looking for payment or gifts he just wanted his family to be safe and to live without fear.

A few weeks ago we learned from the intel team that Jimmy and his ten year-old little brother were brutally murdered. He was killed by insurgents for cooperating with Coalition Forces. Their bodies were dumped along the fence-line of the camp as a message to any who would dare defy them. It was a boastful act saying, “Look what we can do right under your noses. You cannot protect these people from us.” The terrible fact is that it is true. No matter how hard we try, no matter how many patrols we conduct, we cannot be everywhere at every time. Though we want to very badly, we truly are unable to protect them.

I cannot believe that anyone is capable of doing something like this. Jimmy was such a kind and polite young man and it just doesn’t make sense to me that his life was taken from him at such a young age. He just wanted to protect those he cared about and to make Iraq a better place to live. He became a friend to many soldiers and wanted to keep them from harm also. My heart is greatly saddened that we could not do the same for him.

Our efforts to secure Iraq rely heavily on brave men and women who, like Jimmy, are willing to stand up to the insurgency. I have immense admiration and respect for them; knowing that the information that they provide saves the lives of men just like me. Both the Iraqi people and American soldiers owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Jimmy and the others. They are the true freedom fighters of Iraq.

Dingo looks out over the Tigris.

We spent part of an afternoon patrolling the banks of the Tigris river.

While on a patrol we decided to visit the house of the “Mad bomber.” This old man and several of his sons were collected and sent to an Iraqi prison for planting bombs on the nearby roads. A few of them have already spent time in prison for their crimes, and one or two are still incarcerated. When we stopped by (conveniently) none of the men were home. We spoke to the previously convicted Bomber’s wife and children and searched the house for any illegal items (turning up none). I took a moment to capture a few photos from the roof of the man’s home. Before we left we gave a few boxes of candy and toys to the children.

Happy Holidays from 1st Platoon, Fox 82nd.

What about my nail clippers?

With the end of the deployment is sight, many of us have begun packing up our things for the trip home. To help us expedite our departure, and keep us out of trouble, our leadership gave us a military customs list which detailed what items can and cannot be brought on to a military airplane. Below is a number of restricted items.

ice axes/ice picks
meat cleavers
swords
bows and arrows
ski poles
spear guns
animals, endangered or parts thereof
body parts, human
articles of medicines for abortion induction
pornography
dynamite, blasting caps or projectiles
hand grenades
tear gas

I’m not sure what sort of souvenirs they think we’re collecting over here, but I think they have the wrong idea. I guess I’ll just have to leave Ned, my pet Jackal, and my new set of Iraqi ski poles behind. Pity. The funny thing is that these items are probably on the list because at some point someone tried to bring them on a plane.

I’ll give you shoes if you promise not to shoot me

Our new battle space is working out well. It expands our area of responsibility by a few more villages. Some of them are very pro-American and friendly. Others, not so much. In the so-called “neutral” village, the smile to scowl ration is not very encouraging. I admit that I don't feel very welcome at all. The plan is to shower the children in this village with shoes, toys, and candy. This mission has a twofold purpose; it brightens the day of the little kids, and it makes some of the adults feel less inclined to blow us up. Man I love my job.

Well it's funny to me

During the last year and a half I have observed a common characteristic among combat soldiers. Nearly all of us display a certain grim, sardonic wit. An outsider would probably describe it simply as a morbid sense of humor. Often, as we prepare for a mission, one of our friends (who have the day off and are staying behind) will call after us, “Dudes, if you get blown up out there then I get your laptops.” We all chuckle, sock him in the shoulder and continue on our way. Other times we’ll engage in such seemingly tasteless debates as over which body part we could most afford to lose in a blast (I’m a left leg below the knee kind of guy myself). So much of our humor tends to make fun of our mortality and the uncertainty of our future. We have even written elaborate songs about being killed (my favorite being “Death Month,” which we sang last October as Ramadan, elections, and Saddam’s trial loomed over head). There seems to be no end to the number of dark and foreboding one-liners that stream out of our mouths.

It isn’t that we truly think death and crippling injury are particularly funny. Many of us have known other soldiers who have lost limbs or have been killed here. Believe me when I say that few people understand more than we do how serious the job of a combat soldier really is. Few (aside from the families) feel the loss of a fellow soldier more personally than those of us here.

To understand how we can laugh and joke as we do about such terrible things you have to understand how we have lived for the last year and a half. During our training back in the States we were repeatedly told of the dangers we would face when we arrived in Iraq. Military experts went into great detail to describe to us the myriad techniques and tactics that insurgents would employ to kill us. We’ve listened to casualty statistics and examined pie-charts, each slice representing a different cause of death. It often seemed that any effort to survive would be futile. For every roadside bomb that we could see and identify there would be twenty more that would go unnoticed until it was too late.

After only having lived in Iraq for a short time several additional difficulties became obvious to us all. For example, there is no way to differentiate a friendly Iraqi man from one who wished to harm you. There is no way to know whether you are traveling toward harm or away from it. No matter how many times you have driven down a road you can’t know from day to day whether it is safe or whether, on this occasion, there is something deadly waiting for you.

It is living with constant uncertainty that wears a person down. You no longer feel as if you’re in control of your life and your destiny. Everything is a matter of luck. If today is the day then there is nothing you can do about it so you might as well stop worrying. I think that’s why we joke about our own deaths so often. It’s a sort of relief from the tension of our work and the reality that most situations are beyond our control. Since I can’t do much to affect the situation, I might as well make light of it. It doesn’t seem real when you joke about it. After all, jokes are only jokes. To laugh about death and disfigurement just makes it seem that much less likely that it will happen to you. We strip death of its ability to scare us by wrapping it in humor.

Through the occasional slip in judgment I have found that most people back home do not appreciate our morbid jokes. (Mental Note: never sing the chorus of “Death Month” to your ex-girlfriend no matter how funny you think the song is; it will make her cry.) For those who are offended by our dark humor and cavalier attitude I apologize, but that’s how we’ve chosen to cope with life in a combat zone. Believe me, there are worse ways.

The election went really well. We got through it without being blown up, which is always a plus. There was a huge turnout among the Sunni in our area, and the day was marked by relatively little violence. As usual, there were reports of assorted roadside bombs, but I haven't heard anything about any major attacks.

We spent some time near a voting station watching a constant flow of people come and go. There was a feeling of excitement in the air among the Iraqi voters. After casting their ballot, groups of people gathered in tight clusters to laugh and gossip. I had the sense that the day was more like a holiday, a time for celebration, than a political event.

The last several days of preparation have been grueling. Twelve hour missions and very little sleep did not make for a good time. After working all day to secure the roads and villages we were responsible for we were rewarded for our efforts with a huge sandstorm this evening. The task of securing democracy is not an easy one with a handful of dirt in your eye.

The strangest thing was trudging in late tonight after the mission to find an email from my father congratulating me on a successful election. I brought up a news website to find that my dad was correct. Before I was even able to take a shower after working the election, people back home already new about the high voter turnout and effective security measures.

This was my last election mission and I'm very glad that it was. I hope to sit on the couch with my father and watch the next one on CNN. Apparently it will give me a better idea of what's going on than actually being there.

Hopefully not the last time I see them. (Random note-The kid on the right that's hugging me; I have no idea who he is.)

Photo taken by Lt. Paetz

Saham's little sister thanks us for the new bandana.

During the vehicle ban we had to stop, question and search anyone found on the road. While I talked to the driver of this car Johnny searched the inside. Suddenly, after opening the trunk, he calls over to me, "Joey, come here! You've got to see this." I thought I was going to look back there and find a stash of weapons. I was surprised to instead find a severed cow head, three or four legs, and a giant pile of intestines. The terp was busy talking to someone else, so I have no idea what the driver's explanation was. Could be food, could be fertilizer. I have no idea what the deal was with the whole "brutally murdered cow" thing, but it was pretty nasty. This is a photo of Phil checking out the carnage.

Shopping at the mini mart.

A photo from my meeting with Elmo's dad.

Photo taken by Johnny River

Meeting Mr. Elmo

Despite the long hours, today was a pretty good day. I got a chance to meet Saham (elmo) and Rafudi’s father. Our mission today was to secure the area in preparation for the election and make sure that there were no vehicles on the road. He drove with his wife (one of the two) and a bunch of his children and was stopped at one of our check-points. One of the soldiers from my platoon recognized a little girl in the back of the truck as one of my kids and told her father that “Joey” was just up the road. They all drove up to visit, which was pretty fun. Elmo’s father is a very nice man. He told me that he has seen the picture and that he really liked the letter that I sent him. He told me that I am often a topic of conversation at the house. One of Saham’s (Elmo to you) little sisters was in the truck bed and kept interrupting her father to call me over to chat. Also in the back were a few of Saham’s older sisters who I hadn’t got the chance to meet.

Thankfully we had an interpreter with us on this mission so communication wasn’t a problem. I explained to the father that, with his permission, I’d like to send the kids stuff from America and check up on them from time to time. He thanked me and said that he would like that very much. I got his cell phone number (many people from the local villages carry cell phones as their only means of communication). I also described to him my system for sending packages and letters. We shook hands and said goodbye as he headed back home.

When I was home on leave family and friends often asked me if I had met Elmo’s parents. The situation here is difficult to describe, so many people don’t realize that a visit to their house would have been nearly impossible. I did not expect that I would ever meet the rest of the family and was surprised and delighted that they ended up finding me. For the last few weeks I’ve wondered whether I was going to leave Iraq without having accomplished a few of the things I set out to. Now I feel like all loose ends have been tied. It’s a good feeling.

Lightbulb

I think I’ve found a way to send letters and packages to my Iraqi friends. I can’t describe the process in detail for fear of causing trouble. With any luck it should work nicely though.