“Baghdaddy” is what my sailors called me.
Behind my back.
Since every single one of the sorry SOBs volunteered to go to Baghdad with me, I figure the name fits. I was “daddy” and “mommy”, I was the good guy who made sure they got a good deal and I was the @sshole who made their lives miserable. I figure the name fits and is a lot nicer than some of the names I had for my chiefs.
To my face, they call me Chief. Still do even though I retired. Even over beers at the house.
The pic is me in 2004. I’m the good looking one. At least, that is what my wife says.
The sandbags behind us were added after a rocket attack put shrapnel through all our spaces. No US casaulties but I am a lot more sensitive to the sound of rocket engines. Exploding mortar shells tend to get my attention too. Rocket and mortar fire was a multiple times a week event. None of my sailors were hurt but it definitely kept us on our toes.