'Worst duty' for Seabees - latrine detail
By Dani Dodge
April 18, 2003
BAGHDAD, Iraq - Someone has to do it.
Thursday, Builder Constructionman Adam Helschein, 25, and Steelworker 3rd Class Olivo Guerrero, 19, get the task: Taking care of the latrines.
"The first time," Helschein of Las Vegas says, "I almost threw up."
Getting rid of human waste in the war zone is probably one of the most unglamorous jobs the Seabees do. John Wayne sure wasn't given the mission in the movie "The Fighting Seabees."
The Seabees from Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 4 have been moving so much during this war that often the only restroom they have had was the hole they dug in the sand. But once they set up camp, one of the first jobs passed out is building what the battalion's chaplain delicately calls the "burnouts."
Much of Battalion 4 is in Baghdad building its third bridge of the war. Some have been in their current camp, an Iraqi Republican Guard training facility, for a week.
It's the longest they've stayed anywhere since the war started, plenty of time not only to build men's and women's bathrooms, but also to scrawl graffiti in them.
Typically, the latrines are boxes about the size of a normal bathroom. The bottom 3 feet of the walls are plywood, while the top is a see-through screen. Inside is a plywood bench with four holes in it.
Usually, there are no barriers between the holes, so it invites conversation, much like a bus stop. Under the holes are oil drums that have been cut in half.
Helschein and Guerrero open small doors on the back of the plywood box and slide the drums out. The waste sloshes around. A cloud of flies swarms around them.
"Everyone has to do it," says Guerrero, a Santa Cruz native. "Well, anyone (rank) E-4 and below."
They take two barrels from the women's restroom and two from the men's, even though someone is busy in the stall. Two other Seabees join the crew.
Helschein pours diesel into the barrels and throws a match in the first. It sizzles and dies. He lights a small piece of paper from the ground and tosses it in. It sputters and is out. He lights cardboard from an MRE box.
Throws it in. Nothing.
Helschein ignites the edge of the cardboard still a quarter-inch above the muck. It catches. Flames dance in the wind.
Helschein's friend offers him an Iraqi cigarette. Helschein takes it from the pack. He puffs.
"This might be important, but it's not the job of everyone's dreams," he says.
Helschein talks about how he misses pizza and his cousins, Doug and Anthony Brill.
Guerrero complains: "I could never do this the rest of my life. I only did it for a college fund."
Helschein retorts: "It's a job. It's not supposed to be fun."
As the barrels burn, get stirred, need more fuel, and burn some more, Helschein grabs another cigarette. An hour or so later, all that's left is brown sludge at the bottom. The men drag the barrels to the camp's garbage hole and tip them over.
Helschein carries the barrel back to its hole on his shoulder. Guerrero puts his E-tool through the handle and drags his.
Then, Guerrero summons the next four Seabees to finish the other barrels. He has written their names on his hand "so they won't skate" on the assignment. One is "Tiamzon."
Jason Tiamzon, 22, of Vallejo, kicks the dirt when he hears his assignment. He puts a Mandy Moore disc on his compact disc player, sticks the ear buds in his ears, and sets about his task. As he pulls the drawer open, flies pour out.
"I know someone has to do this," he moans, "but it's the worst duty ever."
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