Greetings from Scotland

Profile: Life in the Armed Forces, Feb, 2004

Hey

Just got sent on assignment to Scotland, crazy huh? anyways, thought you'd like to see what it looks like and what your big brother's doing in the military. Say hey to mom and dad for me and take care of sis.

love ya kiddo

I sat at my desk checking my e-mail when I noticed I had received one from a superior. I don't usually get mail from higher-ups, so I opened it with some trepidation. The first thing I read was: "Pack your bags, Bubba, you're going to Scotland."

It was Sept. 12 when I set off to Scotland to provide international support for NATO exercise Northern Light '03. My assignment was to work with the Royal Navy writing a story about the event and run media-escort missions. It turns out the journey surrounding the exercise was more eventful than the story I was to cover.

After several flights and a bus, train and cab ride later, the team consisting of seven sailors and myself--the lone Marine--arrived at our bed and breakfast in Helensburg. After a quick shower, we put on our uniforms and went to the media center to meet our Royal Navy counterparts. This is where we received our first 'cultural briefing'. Upon arriving, the first thing they noted was that we had been in public in our uniforms. Apparently, this is frowned upon by the British military due to troubles with the Irish Republican Army.

Things were slow in the beginning, but after a few days there was finally some work. Four team members went to cover events in southern Scotland while the rest of us headed north. One of us, Chief Petty Officer Gary Boucher, would be escorting a French journalist, and Petty Officer 2nd Class Robert Shalk, a photographer, and I were to go to a briefing that our British counterparts assured us was only a three-hour drive away.

Since I had lived in Japan for a year and was used to driving on the left side of the road, I was the designated driver for the time being. Even though the United Kingdom uses the metric system, they still use miles instead of kilometers. So while everything else was different, the road signs and the speedometers were almost the same as home.

Driving north into the highlands was almost indescribable. Heather was dying off that time of year leaving the slightest shade of purple covering the downs. The other colors of the rainbow were represented by wildflowers sprinkled across the rolling hills, and rock formations randomly jutting out of the countryside like spiked thorns. There were tranquil streams, gushing waterfalls and mysterious lochs to contrast the land. Even ancient man was represented as castles poked up out of the forests every now and then. I half expected to see trolls and hobbits along the side of the road.

Five hours into our three-hour journey, I decided to call and make sure I was on the right path. In this area "path" is more than a figure of speech. The roads are tiny, well-marked onelane affairs where one is always on the lookout for errant sheep. Traveling on these roads seriously tested my driving ability, having to pull off for oncoming traffic, but I must have passed because Robert never leapt from the moving car. Minutes later we arrived at our destination, the sleepy little town of Aultbea, which is nestled along the shore of Loch Ewe.

We ran into Gary there. The French journalist went to one of the ships offshore to see some of his old friends in the French Foreign Legion. Gary stayed behind to wait for our arrival so he could brief us on what we missed.

The next morning Robert and I went to the shore to cover a Non-combatant Evacuation Operation exercise involving French and Ukrainian troops as well as some of the local citizens. This is where the job became a challenge. Robert was running all over taking photos of troops coming ashore, helicopters landing and patrols moving through the fields. I began gathering information for my NATO story. I started with the Ukrainians, but there was one problem: none of the Ukraines spoke English, and I couldn't speak Ukrainian.

Undaunted, I went on to search for a Legionnaire whom I might persuade to give me some information. I found one. Let me remind you that I was here to write a real story about the exercise, not the scenario. The interviewee answered every one of my questions; however, thinking I was part of the exercise, rather than writing a real story, almost all of the information was fictitious.

I spent the rest of the day driving too and fro, crossing Ukrainian checkpoints and visiting different locations where I might get the scoop. I finally found an observer who had done most of the groundwork in organizing the opposition forces for the exercise. Royal Marine Maj. Reginald Turner provided me with enough information to fiinsh my story.

After an exhausting day of running around the Scottish Highlands, I was informed we would be staying another night and heading back to Helensburg in the morning. I was worried about getting the story out that night, but Gary put my mind at ease by informing me not to worry about it; without internet or fax, it would have to wait. So, we spent another night with the locals.