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From: Lance Cpl. James W. Clark Unit: 1st Battalion, 6th Marine
Regiment Location: Marjah, Afghanistan Counting the close calls
FORWARD OPERATING BASE MARJAH, Helmand Province, Islamic Republic
of Afghanistan – I’m not an infantryman, far from it. I’m as much
of a Pog (meaning person other than grunt) as one can be, but with
the Marine Corps being what it is, even Pog’s are afforded the
opportunity to see combat. While in Helmand Province, Afghanistan
with 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, I’ve nearly been shot
several times. I’ve wound up pinned down in a muddy canal by sniper
fire and have watched stunned as a rocket-propelled grenade
spiraled through the air, bounce of a doorframe and skid to a halt,
ten feet away. After the first time you take contact, the elation
and excitement starts to fade. The next time you don’t smile as
wide or laugh as hard, and soon after that you’ve stopped grinning
entirely. Without ever meaning to, I find myself making a mental
checklist. Small-arms fire? Check Sniper fire? Check RPG’s? Check
IED? Blank You stop looking at what has happened and begin to
wonder about what will happen. Based on what you’ve gone through,
what do you have left? How many more close calls do you have in
you? Will there be enough? With this realization, you begin to look
at things differently. You take stock of yourself, of what you have
accomplished and what you still need to do. In an effort to better
explain this, I spoke with other Marines in the battalion about
their closest calls and the lasting impressions they left.
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An inch to the left – Cpl. Kyle Sutherland Recently, while
conducting a routine census patrol in their area of operations near
the district center in Marjah, Afghanistan, the Marines with 81 mm
Mortar Platoon, Weapons Company, 1/6, took fire. Corporal Kyle
Sutherland, on his second deployment, and present during the
helo-insertion into the city with Bravo Co., 1/6, was hit by an
AK-47 round during the firefight. The bullet impacted his side,
slipping between the folds of his flak jacket and grazing the
bullet-proof plates Marines wear inside of their body armor. The
round came within an inch of his vital organs, but slipped out the
other side of his body armor without ever breaking the skin. “At
the time, I thought we were taking sniper fire, but as it turns
out, an insurgent put his rifle through a hole in a wall and
squeezed off three rounds,” said Sutherland. “I heard the first
crack and got into cover, taking a knee. I waited a few seconds, to
hear if someone was hit, then I heard the screaming. I had to
decide if I was going to shoot back or get to the wounded Marine.
The corpsman was too far away, so I made my way to [the injured
Marine].” At this point, Sutherland says he felt something, like a
heavy pressure on his side and looked down to see a hole in his
grenade pouch. One of the Afghan soldiers ran up and made the “?”
gesture with his hands, asking if he was hit. “I had him check me
for wounds, putting his hands inside my flak and looking for
blood,” said Sutherland. Once he was sure he wasn’t hit, he ran to
provide security for the incoming medivac, falling at least four
times along the way, recounted Sutherland. Looking back on the
incident, Sutherland spoke on the change in perception both during
the firefight and afterward. “Time slowed and the rounds all
sounded far apart to me,” said Sutherland. “During my first
firefight, everyone was just shooting and you could only think to
shoot back. Now you can process a few more thoughts, like what
should I be doing?”
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“It’s been a week in all, but every time we go out, I just wish
we could not do this anymore,” said Sutherland. “I used to be the
point man for our patrols, but the guys got together and decided to
place me on rear guard because I have a wife and a kid on the way
and need to get home to them.” Do they just not like me? – Cpl.
Killian Zahringer Prior to the invasion of Marjah, Marines with the
Personal Security Detachment, Headquarters and Services Co., 1/6
and Marines with Charlie Co., 1/6 went to set up the forward
command center. While providing security, Cpl. Killian Zahringer
found himself in his first firefight. “I leaned down for just a
moment to talk to my vehicle commander, and a round went through
the plates covering the turret, right as I ducked down,” said
Zahringer, who is on his second deployment. “It makes a big
difference, knowing that he’s aiming at you and that you’re not
just at the wrong place at the wrong time, like with an IED.”
Zahringer touched upon a thought that is often expressed among
Marines. The majority of the time, Marines who are providing
security or are on patrol are fired upon, and are forced to react
to the situation, rarely being able to take the offensive.
Constantly being the victims of attacks makes you wonder at times,
whether or not they simply don’t like you, on an individual level.
Do the men we’re fighting have something personal against me? What
did I ever do? Additionally, it is sobering to realize that all it
takes is a few rounds from an assault rifle. “On the news and
television, you always see helicopters, tanks and bombs, but all it
really takes is just some guy with an AK-47,” said Zahringer.
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From: Michael S. Hertzog II, 1st Lt, USAF Unit: CSTC-A CJ8 Title
10 OMA (Combined Security Transition
Command Afghanistan Resource Management Operations and
Maintenance, Army)
Location: Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan These are the first 5
e-mails I've sent home... Don’t Cough Up a Lung: Afghanistan 101.1
Dear Friends and Family, I arrived safely at the Kabul
International Airport on Wednesday night and am halfway through day
4 of my year in Afghanistan. Traveling here was as easy as one can
hope for when one goes the long way around the globe from Japan.
Landing in Kabul was extremely uneventful, although the airport
staff seemed a bit overwhelmed with our relatively large group
(about 200 of us). Who is us? Soldiers, Airmen, spies, contractors,
and a few diplomat types. We spent the night at the airport and
then headed out to the various installations in the capital. The
drive to the New Kabul Compound... When I walked in the Airport
Wednesday night, I was told I was going to be working at NKC
instead of Camp Eggers. I was a bit surprised and trying to figure
out what I could possibly being doing at the U.S. Forces
Afghanistan headquarters. After all, I am still very much a newbie
in financial management and even more so in deployed operations.
Nevertheless, we set out for NKC Thursday morning in an armored
SUV. Looks just like a suburban, but everything is thicker--windows
and doors. The driver gave us the "here's what to expect" talk. My
favorite part was how said that he and I (since I was riding
shotgun) would provide covering fire in the event we had to ditch
the vehicle--I at this point had no bullets for my 9 mm, so if
things did go south, I guess I was going to throw it and my empty
magazines at any would be assassins :) The driver then said, "Feel
free to take out your cameras and click away for the rest of the
drive. I guarantee you'll see some things you've never seen
before." He wasn't
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lying. Downtown Kabul is unbelievable. No one thing is so out of
this world, it is just the combination of people and things in such
a small space arranged so haphazardly and seemingly randomly that
seems to catch you off your guard. Two scenes really caught my eye:
skinned and strung up goats, cows, pigs, dogs, cats, and chickens
all in a row and for sale to the right bidder and a bicycle (as in
pedals) with a sidecar built for 1 transporting 4 Afghanis--now
that's what I call a road trip! We rolled up to the most congested
traffic circle I will likely ever see and sat for about 45 minutes
to go through and there on our right was the NKC. Huge walls and 3
tall buildings inside--that's it. I was already kissing outdoor
strolls goodbye as we rolled through the gates. I dropped my body
armor and bags outside the front door and went to find my office.
Walked upstairs, found Major Clark, a friend of my boss at Kadena,
and was quickly assured the folks at the airport were mistaken--I
would be at Eggers after all. Camp Eggers... So I jumped in another
armored transport and what do you know? I'm riding with the new
inbound civil engineering group commander for Kadena. It is a flat
and small world after all. After we left him at the embassy, we
drove on Eggers. I started laughing almost immediately. It looks
very much like an amusement park with tiny roads, tiny little toy
land buildings, and a row of banners reminding me very much of Six
Flags. And who is the first face I see when I step out? None other
than Clayton Perce, the former 18th Communications Squadron boss
when I first arrived at Kadena in 2007. I met the folks from the
office--great people and way more personality than seems humanly
possible in a group of 7 people. Civilians, Army, Navy, Air Force,
and Marine Corps all represented--as joint as it gets. All but one
will be leaving before me, beginning with Major Memminger, whom I
am replacing, this coming Friday. We're spending a lot more money
than at Kadena ($890M annually vs. $125M), but the pace on the
whole will be much slower because of the relatively high price tag
of each purchase. It really is difficult to get anything here as
there are no direct flights from any major world city and no ports,
as we are entirely landlocked.
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Nights 1 and 2 I slept outside Eggers at an Annex folks call the
Alamo. Just think of it as the ghetto and you won't be far off. I
was one of two Americans in the tent: Uzbeks, Mongols, and Czechs
made up the rest. And talk about cultural inferiority! They could
all converse easily in English and I couldn't return so much as a
"hello" in their language. Would that I had a Greek around! It is
funny to see everyone running around with AK-47s and MAC-10s. I
feel like I am in a movie until I look down and see a holstered
side arm on my hip. We've seen many improvised explosive device
(IED) scarred trees, walls, and people in the short days we've been
here but it is hard to get your mind to associate past catastrophes
and present memorials to them--perhaps it will be impossible unless
I get first hand experience. I'll close for now since this is long
and rambling already. Give me a holler if you have a question I can
answer next time, and I'll try my best to cover it. Also, please
send me e-mail addresses for those folks who might like to receive
these updates. I reserve the right to deny privileges to maintain
operational security :) Much love from Afghanistan, Michael Click,
click, boom: Afghanistan 101.2 Dear Friends and Family, Next to Tom
Hanks, Robin Williams is my favorite actor. He's in so many
poignant films, but one of my favorite is "Good morning Vietnam."
There's a scene in it when he has to say his signature line that he
opens all his radio broadcasts so that people will believe it is
him. I found myself wanting an Armed Forces Network (AFN)
broadcaster to give me a big "Good morning Afghanistan!" this
morning to get me grounded the way Williams does and get the day
started right. Nathan wrote me and told me at least he has heard
the news about the explosion this morning in Kabul. Obviously I
am
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alive and breathing since I'm writing this, and I apologize if
you've been worrying and waiting to hear from me. I will do my best
to let you know how I'm doing after incidents in Kabul, but I won't
always be able to do so immediately because of operational
obligations we have here at Eggers. If you do hear or see news
reports, first look and listen for the area of the city or country
it is in--if it isn't at Eggers, there is a 99.999% chance I am not
involved and am fine. And even if it is at Eggers, I'm still
probably okay :) I do appreciate all your concern for my well
being! So before I launch into thoughts and observations since the
last update, let me address a few of your questions... What kind of
heat are you packing? I carry a 9mm M9 Beretta, Serial Number
1290428 What does a normal day for you look like? Get up at 7, SSS
in the loo, time with the Word, breakfast, brush teeth, head to the
office, open the document control register (DCR) and move money
around. How do you move money? Very carefully :) For me, I reserve
it and obligate it using the Army's Resource Management Tool (RMT),
a web based app that the Defense Finance and Accounting Service
(DFAS) oversees, and "encourage" it to move by coordinating with
real property and vehicle lease officers, contracting agents,
vendors, and customers. Loving acronyms already? 10:30 I hit the
gym so I can hone my soldierly look--after all, looks can kill, and
you want as many weapons as you can get your hands on in this crazy
country :) Shower, lunch, back to the office, fire up RMT again and
go nuts until about 5. Watch a little TV with the guys and then
grab dinner. Who are the guys? Civilian, sweetheart, and sole
female Charlene Weber, roly poly Private First Class Brendon Lyons,
crusty and seasoned Sergeant First Class Thomas Robinson, Reservist
and "Shipmate" Petty Officer Second Class Samuel Borges, the
resource guru and my Air Force homie Master Sergeant Tommy Marin,
the "token Marine" with a whale of a history Captain Heath Ruppert,
and the "any day now" ex- Master and Commander Major Martin
Memminger. Back to the office and wrap up loose ends until 8, 9,
10, and head to bed.
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Olympics? Food? Free time? I finally understand curling! Picture
a Spainish omelet, honey glazed French toast, grilled steaks
Friday, stuffed peppers Tuesday... And you take care of what you
need to take care of when you need to take care of it. Beyond that,
Fridays and Sundays are "reduced operational tempo" days, Friday
for Muslim religious observances (the Afghan contractors don't
work) and Sunday for Christian. But we're here to work! Is there
live music??? Actually, no one asked this but YES!!! There is live
music--bluegrass, to be exact! Last night The Four Horsemen treated
us to some classics and some grassy covers. They're losing a member
in three weeks and are looking for some fresh blood... Pensées for
.2 I think we would all agree with Patty Griffin that "It's hard to
give; it's hard to get, but every body needs a little forgiveness,"
and this week has found me wrestling a lot with the cycle of
forgiveness: a wrong is committed, the wrongdoer becomes aware of
the wrongdoing, the wrongdoer becomes the suppliant, the wronged
one(s) choose to forgive the wrong or cling to it (and not
necessarily in that order of course). There were some big apologies
this week from some big guys: Tiger Woods and General McChrystal.
Tiger apologized for betraying the trust of his wife, family,
friends, and fans. McChrystal apologized for the deaths of all the
civilians that were killed in the Marja offensive. I've seen
Tiger's apology, for the most part, dismissed and dismembered while
McChrystal's has, for the most part, been put on a pedestal.
There's a lot of hurt in the world, and a season for everything
under heaven. I think it is good thing for people like these men to
apologize. But so much baggage gets attached that, it seems to me,
a lot of the power is lost. It is good for a suppliant to be
sincere, but too much scrutiny of sincerity neuters an apology. And
it is a very good thing to apologize for civilian casualties in
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war, but to assume or demand that there will be no civilian
casualties in war is all but impossible. In case I haven't been
clear about where I stand, I think Tiger was as sincere as he could
be, and I think the Marines in Marja did about as good a job of
protecting civilians as is possible for fallen, broken humans in a
time of war. And that those of us observing Tiger and the Marines
should be delicate, so very delicate, in how we think and speak of
what they've done because they could have done oh so much worse. I
only pray that in their stead I would behave half as well. I have
loved hearing from some of you and look forward to hearing from the
rest of you! The other question I have to address before I close is
whether I need anything sent to me. I'll copy what I already shared
with my Comptrollers: I know we like to put together care packages
for our deployers. It is a great way to show we care and stay in
touch. But if you are considering sending a package this way, would
you please read this hyper-linked article
(http://ntm-a.com/news/1-categorynews/127-war-time-humanitarian-relief)
and consider sending an item or two to support the humanitarian
mission Eggers is involved in? I am exceptionally well provided for
here at Eggers and I would love to see more of Afghanistan's people
taken care of like I am. I hope each of you have a wonderful
weekend and week upcoming! Much love from Afghanistan, Michael Eye
for Eye & Life for Life, or Instant Karma: Afghanistan 101.3
Dear Friends and Family, A picture is worth a thousand words--and
often more than that--and I had hoped that I'd be able to send a
little photo album instead of waxing on again as I have in the
first two installments. I am reading Wuthering Heights right now,
and reading my first two updates may have seemed
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to some of you a bit like :"Seventy Times Seven, and the First
of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend
Jabes Branderham" that will eventually render me, as Branderham,
"the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon" :) But not to
worry! I have here in my Sandbox only 52 weeks, and I'll write less
than that, and just maybe, if the interweb fairies are kind, you'll
get at least one picture at the end of this treatise! On the
weather (really my only question since .2)... Washington had his
Valley Forge and Pop and Grandad had their Battle of the Bulge but
it is all sunshine and blue skies for this young soldier (I know,
I'm not a real soldier but this is as close as I'll ever get! So
I'll go on pretending...). I am sure none of you are checking out
Kabul on weather.com every 45 minutes, but don't worry--you aren't
missing a thing. "Winter's come and gone; a little bird told me
so," at least so far as Gillian would have it. Folks here have
described what's outside as Phoenix's climate with Cleveland's
soot. I've heard reports that the air quality is so bad that you
automatically qualify for 10% disability! Looks like I've got a
retirement plan after all... New places, old faces... I already
mentioned seeing Colonel Perce from Kadena here on day 1. I forgot
to mention Captain now Major Gibbs, the head of our inspector
general evaluation team for our unit compliance inspection at
Kadena just before Vanessa left. He's the comptroller at Manas in
Kyrgyzstan, and we got to talk a bit before I left to come down to
Kabul. And about 5 days after I got here, I ran into Captain Buycks
from Hickam, who I'd never met in person but talked with a lot in
e-mail and on the phone, and Craig Poirier, a hilarious guy and
good friend from days in Mississippi finance school. Ask Vanessa
for stories :) And with any fortune at all, Josh will be joining me
here at Eggers in a few weeks! And now for the philosophy, or my
loss of officerly objectivity...
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Dad gave me a great article from Imprimis before I left to come
over here entitled "Classics and War" which struck a lot of chords
with me, not least because it was a great application of a
classical understanding to a modern dilemma. But one thought in
particular Dad and I talked about and I have continued to wrestle
with has been the relative value of life that we who observe and
are involved in this enterprise in Afghanistan (and all America's
engagements for that matter) project on the players. That is,
Americans tend to value American lives more than Afghan lives, and
likely the Afghan people reciprocate that sentiment. It is of
course extremely natural to feel a stronger connection with one's
own than those of others. Parents tend to love their own children
more than other children, politicians represent their own
constituents often to the neglect of those outside their purview,
and so forth. Now I know for a fact that all of you reading this
are not on the exact same page when it comes to valuations of life,
but I think we would all agree with our Declaration that all men
have equal natural rights, if not equal natural opportunities. If
that is true, though, how do we justify the greater concern for own
than that of other? One of my favorite solutions has been the
proximity argument. Any of you remember the Elizabeth Taylor
version of Little Women? The family is discussing giving their
breakfast away to hungry neighbors and Meg, I believe, says in
response to Amy's "what about the starving children in Africa?"
argument something like, "We don't know them, but we do know our
neighbors." Sometimes rephrased as, "Think globally, act locally,"
the angle is to be concerned with everyone and manifest that
concern for those nearest you (whether geographically, familially,
etc.) simply because you can't impact those outside your sphere of
influence. The problem is though that now we live with those
starving children in Africa, or in my case Afghanistan. And how
then do we interact with them, specifically in terms of value of
life interactions? This struggle has made itself evident several
times since my arrival here. Let me tell you about the most recent
episode. The Joint Acquisition Review Board (JARB) is an element of
the Army resource execution process. All requirements whose
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total cost exceeds $100,000.00 as well as all contractual
services and any sensitive technological purchases must be
discussed and approved by the JARB. At this week's JARB, the
options on two service contracts for installation security were
eligible for exercise, and the Contracting Officer's Representative
(COR) was advocating for the options. It was announced in the
course of the discussion, that the contract for internal security
was managed by a British company and executed by third country
nationals (TCNs), mostly from Mongolia, while the contract for
external security was managed and executed by Afghanis. The
internal contract (for security and escorts inside the gates)
provided a third of the manpower at three times the price in
comparison to the external contract. Colonel Rauhut, the former
deputy director for Army budget and JARB president (and a personal
favorite of mine already), pitched the question: why are we paying
a third of the people three times as much money to provide the same
service, simply on different sides of the fence? Additionally,
doesn't our "Afghan First" policy (a U.S. Government effort to give
protection and incentives to Afghan companies that can provide
goods and services that U.S. agents need for in-country efforts)
mandate that we let them provide this service if we do choose to
contract it? Commander Swain (the Navy advisor and administrative
chief of the JARB) said, "Do you see the picture of that girl on
the wall?" pointing to one of over a hundred framed photographs in
a group on the wall of the room where the JARB was held. "She was
shot by an Afghan guard who was working in the Eggers observation
tower as she was walking to the gym. That's why we now have a
British company running our internal security." That's the struggle
right there--we want to think of the Afghans as we think of any
others, but we have so much trouble with it. Americans have killed
Americans--in fact, they do it every day. But the level of trust
the average American loses for other Americans because of each
killing seems to be exponentially less than the trust lost when
someone else kills an American. We don't mourn the loss of life any
less--compare your responses to the Fort Hood tragedy and the
tragedy Commander Swain related. But that next step reveals the
struggle: we are probably more upset and moved to action by the
second tragedy than the first. The British security company
contract is clearly evidence of that.
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I said I was behind General McChrystal's drive to get out of our
armored vehicles and out from behind our fortified compounds to
come alongside Afghans in the effort we're engaged in here. I have
to be perfectly honest though when I say I do sometimes get chills
walking by Afghan guards with locked and loaded AKs. But I still
think I must work on trusting them and valuing their lives just as
I trust and value the lives of those I know well. Because if we
work at all similarly on a human level, and I believe we do, then
mistrusting and devaluing them will bring me no good, no way, no
how. And I'm guessing a lot of you would choose my m.o. in this
endeavor for me: "shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves" :) For
my Tuesday House folks... How hilarious was Wilson in our latest
installment? I was laughing so hard watching it that I woke up a
few neighbors. Guess my walls are even thinner than the
bloggers--oh wait, I have no walls :) I do hope you all are well
and enjoying a March as mild as mine! Good old summertime soon
enough. Much love from Afghanistan, Michael P.S. Grandma and
Grandad, I received your card and the cookies. On behalf of myself
and co-workers, thank you for both. And do not despair of raising a
glass of mead in the mead hall together quite yet! The king is gone
but he’s not forgotten: 101.4 Dear Friends and Family, He's known
to many simply as "The Connection." He's an avid fan of Michael
Scott, both the silver screen and real life version. He is "trading
up" in choosing to fly half way around the world to work 7 days a
week while dodging bullets and bombs. And he is going to join me
here at Camp Eggers any minute now. He's Josh King of Grand Forks
North
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Dakota, formerly of Chatan Cho Okinawa and State College
Pennsylvania. Get excited people because it is about to get crazy
in Afghanistan... Quick Q&A: What does a day in the life sound
like? I really loved this question because I had thought things
would be very quiet out here--a sort of lull peppered with the
occasional explosion. Reality couldn't be further from that.
Although we don't really hear the sounds of the city (Kabul after
all has a population of over 3.5 million), there is almost never a
moment of pure silence. The day starts with the sounds of alarm
clocks, electric razors, and the thump of boots on 1/4 inch plywood
tent flooring. Showers running, toilets flushing, and towels
rubbing clean but chapping skin greet you in the bathrooms, and
vehicles whir to life in the parking lot just down the road.
Everything that isn't paved is graveled to keep the dust down, so
the distinct crunch of stone on stone almost never stops. R&B
in the dining hall keeps the serving staff dancing and in good
spirits, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox broadcasters on office TVs keep the
troops "current" and somewhat connected to the events of home, and
yes, there is the occasional burst from detonation of
explosives--usually controlled and given advance notice of but
every now and then a surprise and slight reality check. But the one
sound I didn't at all expect was the chirping of birds. They are
out in full force foraging for the produce of a new spring,
returning from winter vacation in warmer climes away south. Do you
visit neighboring installations? I do, though perhaps not quite as
much as I would like to. The International Security Assistance
Force (ISAF) headquarters is just out the main gate and to the left
of Eggers. They host an outdoor bazaar every Friday where local
vendors peddle their wares, and if you have a hankering for
European cuisine, the dining hall here is a critical destination.
There is also a very pleasant park in front of General McChrystal's
residence outfitted with picnic tables, benches, and gazebos
perfect for taking a few minutes away from the rat race that is the
hectic operational tempo here. A few hundred meters beyond the gate
for ISAF is the U.S. Embassy. Major attractions here:
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thick green grass, a 4 lane 15 meter pool, a tennis court, and
an assortment of beer and wine at the gift shop--of course, unless
you are ambassador or attaché, "you can look but you can't touch"
:). The New Kabul Compound, which houses the US Forces in
Afghanistan headquarters, is a few hundred meters more beyond the
embassy, but unless you have a craving to see multi-floor office
buildings, there is no particular reason to continue your stroll in
this direction. And in the spirit of, "Take nothing for your
journey; neither stick nor bag," we are currently permitted to make
these outings without body armor if we chose. I'd say it is about
half and half that forgo wearing the extra gear. Of course, unless
you are a civilian, you still have to have your weapon with you.
Mine is finally beginning to feel more appendage than baggage. My
depiction of Kabul may make it seem to be a small city, and it may
also be a small world after all, but there is nevertheless a lot
going on in it--city and world. And with all the activity
transpiring, it is easy to feel like you are either missing
something important or being overlooked. I have been thinking for
several weeks now about the Academy's newest "Best Picture" and its
implications for both Americans and Muslims at home and abroad,
wherever "at home" and "abroad" might be for them. The three
attachments are text files of articles from the New York Times in
response to seeing "The Hurt Locker", relating bits of the
perspectives of some embedded journalists, soldiers, and Iraqis on
the message and implications of this film. After I saw the movie
and read "How Not to Depict a War," I went through a wave of
frustration followed by a sense of vindication. As the author
rightly pointed out, veterans are often sticklers for detail in war
movies. But I ask each of you: is it any different with you as you
view portrayals of your fields of expertise? Dad, I know you've
often chuckled at ridiculous cases in House and Scrubs; Emily,
you've had your fun with outrageous depictions of equine stunts--it
is just human nature to measure the distance between reality as we
perceive it and depictions of reality. The vindication came on
reading Kamber's closing: "It (the war) deserves a minimal degree
of historical accuracy and attention to detail." More, much more,
than Kathryn Bigelow's dedication of the film "to the women and men
in the military who risk their lives on a daily basis" did I want a
film that gave truer testimony to the manner in which they took
that risk.
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But I kept reading and thinking. Arango shared the response of
the soldier in Iraq to Obama's Super Bowl shout out to soldiers in
Afghanistan and Haiti which at the same time left those in Iraq
unmentioned. "That completely demoralized me," the soldier said. I
had to rethink Bigelow's dedication. Because the dedication wasn't
placeless. She finished it: "in Iraq and Afghanistan and around the
world. And may they come home safe." Arango's source might now find
comfort in being recognized on another internationally broadcast
event. And still there was more to read. And more perspectives on
the film to consider, perhaps one of the most important: that of
the Iraqis. And although they too found details to be disappointed
with, I was blown away by the ultimate response. ' "In the future,
when we talk to our children and grandchildren about what happened
here, this is one thing we will show them," Mr. Hassan said.' Talk
about a jaw dropper. A film that casts countrymen, neighbors,
perhaps even family members, as enemies can nevertheless be
appropriated as a tool and means for educating, mentoring, and
relating with progeny. The humility evident in that assertion and
the graciousness to share it hold up the mirror for me to consider
whether my own mettle might ever yield such fruit. And beyond that,
and perhaps the crux of all these things (the film, the articles,
the personal responses to it) is the desire that manifests itself
so clearly, that longing we all feel so deeply--to know and be
known. Don't we all say or think or feel: 'I know the action is
there right now, but don't forget about me here,' or 'for all its
faults, at least a part of the story I've experienced in reality is
memorialized for posterity,' at one point or another? For now,
then, here's to you as you struggle to know and be known--may you
find a measure of each in this season of life. If you connect more
easily with visual media, I've posted a few more pictures on my
facebook page--I wish we had enough bandwidth here for me to upload
some of the videos from the Mongolian martial arts demonstration,
but they will have to wait a few more months I am afraid. I'll try
to continue adding more to that album throughout the year. Much
love from Afghanistan, Michael
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P.S. If you didn't get releases 1, 2, or 3 and want them please
let me know! Aprille with his shoures soote: Afghanistan 101.5 Dear
Friends and Family, Do any of you remember getting a ride to school
with your parents? I know Nathan and I will always remember Bob
Edwards throaty introduction to "Morning Edition" and Chuck
Colson's thick Boston Brahmin "Breakpoint" opening from rides with
Fred Decosimo and Dad. When I was younger, I used to hate listening
to morning radio. The voices sounded so full of energy and so
awake--unnatural, in my mind, for humans up before the sun. As I
got older, however, and realized that in general to be American
meant to be a morning person, I began to take a cue from these
early morning broadcasts--acting like and thinking you were awake
and ready for whatever the day had in store for you helped to make
it so. And, as an added benefit, there were some good things to
learn about and start thinking about that you could pick up if you
listened. One new thing I learned about was the Provincial
Reconstruction Team (PRT). Introduced in Afghanistan in late 2001
and comprised of officers, diplomats, and technical experts in
various disciplines, these teams would assist local governments in
ruling more effectively and efficiently by providing advice and
executing infrastructure improvement projects--water purification,
crop rotation, school construction, you name it. Almost as soon as
I heard about them and the work they did, I knew I wanted to one
day be a part of one. As I found out more about my deployment last
fall and winter, I began to think that this deployment would afford
me little to no opportunity for involvement with a PRT or its work.
That began to change yesterday. The Commander's Emergency Response
Program (CERP) is a program that "provides U.S. Governmental
appropriations directly to operational and tactical forces,
enabling them to meet emergency needs of civilians" (Lt Col Mark S.
Martins, Deputy Legal Counsel to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff). Projects that win approval both employ
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and directly benefit Afghan civilians. And how do the PRTs fit
with CERP? A PRT member will often serve as project coordinator for
a CERP effort. When I arrived at Eggers, Charlene, our chief of
accounting from the Defense Finance and Accounting Service (DFAS),
was handling all CERP funding for the Kabul area. She headed back
to the states last week and Aaron Cohen arrived from Kuwait to take
her place. At first, it looked like he would assume all her duties,
but over the last few days we decided I would take on CERP so that
he could focus on clearing unliquidated obligations. So yesterday I
went back to the New Kabul Compound to get training on executing
CERP requirements, and today I am managing the program. Although I
am not going to have hands on involvement with most of the
projects, assisting with their funding already has me very excited
and has renewed my sense of engagement with the work I am doing
here. Although comprehensive details of CERP are classified, I can
say that there is a great deal of as yet untapped CERP funding that
I am making plans for. That's right--even the most seemingly
insignificant person in the country can nominate a project for CERP
funding. The next step is getting endorsement from an O-5 (Lt Col
in Army, Navy, Air Force and Commander in Navy), which is not hard
to get with good justification for a project and all the required
substantiating documentation (legal reviews, signed approvals
by/proof of coordination with local officials, statements of work,
etc.). I am planning on talking with Yates (one of Conrad and
Emily's groomsmen working here in Afghanistan with Swiss NGO
MedAir) to find out what needs he sees and if any of them might be
met through a CERP project. I am of the hope and opinion that a
robust CERP and adroit PRTs will go a long way in securing
Afghanistan's future and in repairing burned bridges between
Afghans and the West (listen to Karzai’s remarks from the past few
days for more on this), but only time will tell. Many of you are
familiar with Coldplay, heir to the popular music throne
relinquished most recently by U2, the Grateful Dead, and the
Beatles. I have resisted their music for a long time (the reasons
for which it would take a novel to fully parse out), but finally
bought their sophomoric effort, "A Rush of Blood to the Head." The
refrain of "The Scientist" has been much in my mind of late, and
the longing for going "back to the start" has dovetailed perfectly
with so many of the themes that have grabbed my attention in the
book I just finished and highly recommend
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to each of you. It is "AWOL: The Unexcused Absence of America's
Upper Classes from Military Service--and How It Hurts Our Country."
Be not deterred by the long subtitle or the "Upper Classes" it
might seem to target. It is one of the most accessible pieces of
non-fiction I have read in quite a while, and it has something to
say, in fact a lot to say, to everyone: upper, middle, and lower
class Americans, veterans, current U.S. Service members, Americans
with no working knowledge of their military, and those citizens of
other nations who nonetheless experience the impact on a daily
basis from America's military and her national policy. Kathy
Roth-Douquet and Frank Schaeffer make the perfect pair for
broaching such a potentially polarizing and alienating subject.
They have at once experience with living abroad and at home in
America, liberal and conservative perspectives, people with whom
the military is as familiar as life itself, and people who have no
inkling of the difference between a first sergeant and a Lieutenant
Colonel. They write in the same pen stroke with both compassion and
conviction, and the result is a message of which anyone, everyone
can partake. I won't quote it too much because I want you to read
it for yourself, but I have to share a few words from it with you.
They so perfectly and fully encapsulate my hopes and feelings about
my experience here. They are actually not the authors' words but
from a letter that the authors quote. I find these words in many
ways as moving and gripping as those of Sullivan Ballou in his
Civil War letter to his wife Sarah. On the experience of deploying
in war, Major John Thomas writes: None of us can be sure if we
understand, on the grand scale, what actions are right--like our
country going to war. We can trust and pray that our leaders are
acting ethically. But even they have to make decisions without
omniscience, with their human intellect. So we are left, all of us,
not just those in the military, to act as best we can to do good
given the circumstances we are put in. Just like anything else, in
the military it is more a series of decisions. You find
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yourself in a situation and are faced with acting within the
situation. You wake up each day and do your job. It goes something
like this, we think: Is it right to defend freedom? Then we raise
our hands and swear to do so by joining the military. And at that
point we also pledge [in the oath of enlistment] to follow "the
President of the United States and those appointed above us." Is it
right to go to war? No one is asking us. We follow the decisions of
the elected officials who represent the will and wisdom of the
American people. What they ask us to do is fight that war--morally,
without malice, without giving in to evil. We are asked to follow
the "law of armed conflict" by not shooting at medical operations
and by not targeting civilians, and such. We conduct the war and
try to spare lives by ending it quickly. So we get orders to go,
and we go. The right thing is to honor our oaths. The right thing
to do is to make the part of the conflict we touch as good as we
can. To, with prayer, bring good to an evil situation; to cradle
and feed the orphans; to destroy those who are given to evil; to
tend the wounds of an enemy soldier; to smile at a group of scared
civilians; to be a Good Samaritan. What we do even unto the "least
of these . . ." When you're someplace across the world, you don't
feel you're a world away. It becomes your daily life, and you act
just as you might if you were back home and saw someone with a flat
tire and stopped to help, or if someone were trying to kill your
neighbor and you had the means to stop them. You don't think every
minute about the grand scale of things. You do what you can to be
good where you are. That's not so much courage, that's focusing on
doing what you are there to do. You've given your oath. If you
weren't doing it, someone else would be, and you'd rather be there
trying to do good than have someone else there who might not. The
courage comes when having to leave your family at the airport. The
rest is just trying your best to get through the days until you are
with them again. There is so much I could treat in this letter, but
I definitely want to address this: I don't know if it is a result
of shared military experience or something else, but Thomas'
depiction of sense of place is exactly as I feel it. When I wake up
every morning, it is not as though I am
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having an out of body experience where my corporeal self is
getting dirty in the desert while my cognitive self is coolly
observing from a bedroom at Summerfield, a colonnaded campus in
Charlottesville, or even my beloved Halfway House nestled in its
green Awase hillside. I am here, body and soul, doing my best to
live and to love as fully as I can. I do miss the people (like you,
dear reader!) and places that are not here, but not with a sense of
agonizing urgency that would render life here a less than tangible,
gritty, and complete reality. As for the rest of the book, let me
share just a few of my thoughts, especially those centering on
renewal and new beginnings. Back when I was finishing my senior
year of high school, the 5 Hertzogs, for so we were then, took a
trip to Fontana and were sitting on a boat in the middle of the
lake. Dad asked me why I had decided to be a part of ROTC and
pursue a commission in the Air Force. I don't remember my answer
too well now, and I am fairly certain that this is a good indicator
that I did not have a particularly good answer for him. AWOL has
caused me to revisit this question many times even in the past
several days, and has definitely given me many ingredients for
cooking up a robust, meaty answer were I to need one again. AWOL
depicts the military, and all public service with it, as an entity
that, by joining, allows you to be a part of something greater than
yourself. It is a thing that throws into sharp relief the needs of
others, and how they must, for mutual survival and benefit,
supersede one's own. It is, like any other institution, full of
both weak and strong, base and noble, wise and foolish--humans. And
it is a tool. A good tool in its own right, yet one that may be
bent to good or evil ends, and therefore rendering it crucial that
those who wield it do so with the greatest deliberation, wisdom,
and care. And it is you, my fellow Americans, who ultimately wield
this thing, this United States Military. In a very real sense, my
orders are those that you give me. It may seem a sea of bureaucracy
between you and what I am doing, but there is a very real and
unbreakable chain bridging that distance. So I add my commission to
that of the authors: make your voice heard! Let there be no mistake
about what your will and wishes are for your military and the
future of our country. And make all the world your sphere for
service and love--no occupation too small, no task too
-
menial, no person or institution beyond redemption. Leave no
stone unturned. Much love from Afghanistan, Michael
-
From: Sgt. Nate Danger Geist Unit: HHC 2-130 Infantry Battalion
Date: 04/13/2009 Location: Paktya Province, Afghanistan Yesterday
morning, as we were getting ready to leave on the convoy, it dawned
on me that the mission I was about the go on was, in fact, another
dangerous mission. To get to where we were going, I would again
have to get through IED alley (also known as Route Idaho). But it
was another soldier that put the situation in perspective for me:
the soldier, one who was on a mission the day before that got
attacked, said to me, “Hey, at least you’re not going down Route
Virginia!” That’s when I realized that at least that was true:
after all, Route Virginia was probably the most dangerous route in
the area at the moment, as that was the route that the convoy was
attacked on, not to mention that there were two known pressure
plate IED’s placed on the road somewhere, just waiting for a convoy
to be the first to roll over it. The convoy successfully made it
through IED alley and to our destination with no complications, but
while we were there, the command decreed that there was another
necessary mission that had to be completed, and so it was decided
that we would try and complete it on this same day. And so, we
began heading back down IED alley. Except, after we got through IED
alley, we wouldn’t be heading towards Gardez, where we came from.
Instead, we had to head out to a small Afghan National Army (ANA)
base out in the middle of nowhere… an ANA base that was off of
Route Virginia. And so, we trekked down the most dangerous road in
Paktya province as the sun was setting on the day. Riding down
Route Idaho and Route Virginia all in one day was one of the
rockiest experiences of my life. The seat I was sitting on in the
vehicle (known as a Cougar) was directly above the wheel, and every
bump literally sent me flying in the air. Both Idaho and Virginia
are unpaved roads, and so maybe you can imagine how bumpy it was.
If you’ve ever played “break the egg” on a trampoline, then you
have an idea of how it felt to be in that Cougar. Except, in the
Cougar, when I flew in the air, I wasn’t falling down towards a
trampoline; it was instead a hard
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seat, and I was surrounded by bags and weapons that continuously
flew onto me. The trip was like a roller coaster from hell, and it
lasted all day long. It even got to the point that I eventually
learned how to react so quickly that, while in mid-flight, I’d
extend my legs to stand and press my hands on the top of the
ceiling so I could better stabilize myself. Near the end of Route
Virginia, there was a dead body of an Afghan, covered with a
plastic sheet, lying on top of a grave off to the side of the rocky
road. I felt fortunate that, even though today was going to have
its unpleasantness, at least I wasn’t that dude. To get to the ANA
base, we had to travel offroad for a couple miles. We arrived to
the ANA base with no complications, except for the fact that we
didn’t have enough sunlight to make it back to Gardez. And so, we
stayed at this small ANA compound that simply consisted of a 10,000
square foot area that was closed in by some Hesco barriers. We were
out in the middle of a field, literally sharing the space with an
Afghan shepherd and his flock. We were completely exposed with
several mountains off in the distance that mortars could easily be
launched from. There were no buildings in this compound, nor any
real facilities (i.e., flushing bathrooms, chow hall, or lodging).
We were either going to have to sleep in our vehicles or sleep
outside on the ground. There were some cots, but not enough for
everybody. All in all, many of us anticipated getting attacked that
night. To remedy this likelihood, or at least be ready in case it
happened, we decided that everyone needed to pull guard shifts.
Fortunately, because there were so many of us, we only would have
to pull one-hour shifts. We had officially settled in The Middle of
Nowhere, Afghanistan. That night, I laid down my sleeping bag on
the rocks right near our commander, knowing that if we were
attacked, I would dedicate myself to protecting his life. I settled
into my sleeping bag with my rifle and looked up at the stars
above. I acknowledged that, today, I had been up and down some of
the most dangerous (and bumpy) roads in Afghanistan, I didn’t have
any shelter above me, I was very vulnerable to an attack, and here
I was, lying on the ground on top of some large rocks as my bed.
And at that moment, I finally acknowledged how miserable I felt.
No, not miserable for myself, but for you. I felt miserable for
everyone who wasn’t going to fall asleep like I was, able to spend
my entire night watching God’s craftsmanship above
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me. I felt miserable for everyone who has never experienced what
I’ve been privileged to experience. And, I felt miserable that
there were so few moments like this that I would get to enjoy in my
life. I looked up to the sky and prayed that God ensure it didn’t
rain this night, even though it already was cloudless and most
likely going to be a dry night. I also had to pray that He
protected all of us that night from snakes and scorpions. And just
before I shut my eyes, a shooting star shot through the sky. I
smiled and closed my eyes, cuddling my rifle, ready to defend this
base in the case of a likely attack. 0300 hours rolled around, and
the soldier on guard shift woke me up. It was my turn to man the
night cameras mounted in the Cougar. I got out of bed, put on my
boots, and carefully watched the cameras for the next hour. I
scanned for any suspicious activity, searching my zone for any
possible Talibs. When my hour was up, I woke up my relief, and
headed back to my sleeping bag and crawled back inside. A couple
hours later, as dawn broke and the sun began to shine above me, I
felt something poking at me. The night had gotten very windy and
therefore very cold, so I was completely cocooned in my sleeping
bag when the poking woke me up. “What is that?” I wondered. “Is
that a scorpion? A snake?” I poked my head out and saw a little
puppy back away in fear from my emerging face. I couldn’t help but
laugh. That is, until I realized he had my boot in his mouth, and
had already carried it much farther than an arm’s length away. I
yelled at him, “Hey! Hey!” as if he would know I wanted my boot
back. He continued running around with it, and eventually I had to
get out and chase him in my socks on the rocks. I got back my boot
and went back to sleep, but not without first allowing my boots
access to my warm little cocoon. When I finally woke up for the day
shortly thereafter later, I found out that after the puppy got
bored with trying to get my boots, it took the commander’s boots
and dragged them to a ditch. As I got out of the sleeping bag this
morning, I was so extremely sore. I wasn’t sure if it was because
of the bumpy convoy or from sleeping on jagged rocks. I imagine
it
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was a combination of both. But, shortly after we all woke up, we
were all ready to drive back down Route Virginia to get back to FOB
Lightning. As I walked to an area that I could take a leak, the
puppy followed me, biting my boots as I walked. Before we left the
base on the convoy, we were heeded one warning: if anybody was to
see any motorcyclists driving parallel to us, we needed to
immediately call it in, because that cyclist would most likely turn
out to be a Taliban spotter that was following us to blow us up at
the opportune moment. Route Virginia was a little bit different
than it had been the day before: today, there were no children,
which is almost always a bad sign. When there’s no children playing
outside on a warm day, that usually means they were forewarned that
there would be an attack. If that wasn’t bad enough, as we
traveled, the villagers stopped what they were doing and stared at
our convoy as it passed them, as if they knew we were hiding Santa
Claus in one of our trucks. To further raise anxieties, within
minutes of our convoy, the very thing we were warned about
appeared. An Afghan on a motorcycle was waiting for us off the
road, and when we neared him, he began driving parallel to us. When
we stopped, he would stop, and when we sped up, he’d speed up. The
entire time, the cyclist kept his eyes on our Cougar, as if trying
to figure out the timing of the vehicle’s movement. There was no
question about it: we were in the proverbial crosshairs of the
enemy, and he was most likely about to blow us up. But, because of
the rules of engagement, we couldn’t do anything about it because
we had no proof he was a member of the Taliban. As we continued on
our route, a soldier witnessed an Afghan watching us from an alley,
and it was quickly determined that there was a good chance the
Afghan was a spotter in cohorts with the motorcyclist still riding
beside us. The Colonel said over our radio system to me, “Sergeant,
if an IED goes off, I want you to dismount and tackle the guy on
the bike.” This command greatly excited me, and I responded,
“Roger, sir!” Then, the Colonel made it clear he was joking, to
which I made it clear I was not. I explained
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to him that I would be more than willing to do it. He chuckled
and said, “Yeah, I know you would.” As we traveled on, we prepared
ourselves for an explosion, if not from the motorcyclist, then at
least from one of the two pressure plates that we had somehow
avoided the day before. But amazingly, once again, this story
doesn’t end in the expected way. Instead, after a certain point,
the motorcyclist slowed down and eventually faded away in our
rearview mirrors. And from there, we successfully made it back to
FOB Lightning, unscathed. Today, we weren’t blown up as we
anticipated. And sure, there’s a possibility that the jamming
system on our Cougar prevented the explosion from occurring when
the trigger man pressed the button. Or, there’s also the
possibility that everything was a coincidence: the kids weren’t out
today because they were busy with chores inside; the Afghans
gawking at us just moved into town and had never seen an American
presence before; the motorcyclist was intrigued by our vehicle and
just wanted to study it in action; the “spotter” perhaps was just a
man who enjoys dwelling in dark alleys; maybe we got lucky and just
barely missed the pressure plates. Could be. Yet, how can I see all
the evidence and not lift my eyes to God, thanking Him for being
the source of my protection?
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From: Kelly Robinson Unit: 4th ID spouse Location: Colorado
Springs, Colo. War stories are not new to me. I am a granddaughter
of the greatest generation. I just never thought I would be married
one day to a man who has so many combat tales of his own. Often I
am asked if my life is like the show Army Wives. Honestly, I don’t
know. I have never watched it. What I do know is that I am pretty
sure it is much harder than the Lifetime channel ever depicted. The
nights are lonelier. The fear is tangible. The grief of lost life
can be felt in your bones. Anniversaries and birthdays are missed.
Your children cry for their dada who is half a world away. You cry
too. You miss phone calls and panic because inside you are thinking
that one call could have been your last. Your friends with civilian
husbands tell you they could never do it. Most of the time, you
think you can’t do it either. Every time the doorbell rings when
you are not expecting it, you become nauseous. You peek out the
window to make sure a government car is not parked in the driveway.
Unexpected visitors often find a not as warm greeting. You shower
with your cell phone. When a fellow shopper asks you the time, you
tell her the time in Afghanistan. Inevitably, someone asks you if
your husband has killed anyone. You control your rage and tell the
truth. You have never asked. Slowly, there is light at the end of
the tunnel. No, the war is not ending. His deployment is. A
countdown of weeks transcends into days. You actually shave your
legs and blow dry your hair. The house is clean and the kids are
too. Finally, you will find yourself at his redeployment ceremony.
Desperately you search for your Where’s Waldo in camouflage. Your
hands are shaking. You are over-caffienated and did not eat
breakfast. The toddlers are bribed with cookies to stay seated and
quiet.
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They are released. You see him. You can breathe again. For the
moment, you are no longer the Army’s mistress. You are his
wife.
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From: Capt. Benoit Pare Unit: French Army – GIACM Date: July 26,
2009 Location: Afghanistan As a French Army Reserve Officer, I have
served 3 tours in Afghanistan between 2006 and 2009 where I
happened to work with American soldiers. I thought you might find
some interest in my perspectives, Below are extracts of my diary,
that nobody ever read till now Extracts of my Diary 26 July 2009,
Afghanistan 09.15: The Helicopter Flight. Fate decided that I would
be sitting next to the open doors. Besides the pilots, the Caracal
chopper is manned with no less than 4 gunners, two of them sitting
with their legs hanging outside. The gunner who is by my side wears
a beard. He looks Arabic. A week ago, an Air Force Special Forces
managed to shoot himself in the foot while going out of the
helicopter, so I am asked to withdraw my magazine from my pistol.
As the helicopter slowly and almost imperceptibly leaves the
ground, before remaining stable a couple of meters above the
runway, I notice that the French Arab gunner is discreetly praying,
hands open towards the sky. Everyone looks dramatically serious.
Last week alone, 2 helicopters crashed in the South of the country,
without anybody knowing how it happened. This said, I’m thinking
the Muslim gunner probably prays each time he takes off. And I’m
also thinking that his mere presence in our ranks shows that we are
not here to fight Islam, but an extreme and distorted vision of it.
This is good for everyone to remember. And so we leave, and it’s a
fantastic journey, between 5 and 20 metres above the ground. First
I recognize the area where I drove so many times North of Kabul. It
is so much faster with a helicopter. The canyons before N., our
final destination, are magnificent, with the river below surrounded
by trees, contrasting with the dry beige rocks above. Very quickly,
20 to 25 minutes after take-off, I can
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see the base, this FOB (Forward Operational Base) that I am
visiting for the first time and where we land quickly. 10:21 The
Mission Brief As soon as we landed, the CIMIC (Civil-Military
Cooperation) major who welcomes us takes us to his winterized tent
to receive the Mission brief. The objective is multifold: to
inaugurate a pedestrian bridge that we funded. To recce the main
polling centre and to organise a shura with the local leaders. It
is a Battle Group size mission, which means that around 500
soldiers, French, Afghans and Americans will be part of it. Risk
raised from medium to high. Location: the B. valley in the T.
district: Troops have not been there for 6 months. An estimated 200
insurgents in the area. On average every static position is
attacked after 1 hour 45 minutes. We plan to stay there for 3
hours. It is estimated that the most sensitive moment will be when
we leave. "Not a patrol, a combat mission ", said the Battle Group
commander. And we will have to walk along the last 2 kilometres
before we reach the foot bridge. So, an attack on us is almost a
certainty. Yet we will go. My throat is getting narrower. It makes
noise when I swallow my saliva. I do not want the others to notice.
I then wonder: why the hell does it make so much noise when I
swallow my saliva? And why do I feel the need to swallow it anyway?
Even my chief, who came with me this far but who was about to go
back to Kabul the following day, seemed to wonder whether he had
made the right decision to send me there. “Its OK, Paré?, he asked.
The question and the tone of the voice seemed to imply that if I
did not feel ready to participate in this mission, it was still
time to withdraw. “It’s OK”. I replied, trying to sound as
determined and calm as I could. I may be a reservist, when I wear
the uniform, I want to be considered as a soldier like the others.
Instead of sending others in harm’s way for a project I have
largely conceived myself, I feel more comfortable sharing the risk
in person. This mission is a chance for me to recce a part of the
terrain for the major project I am trying to launch, the
construction of 19 security posts for the Afghan Police in this
very sensitive district. 11:21 End of brief The waiting before the
departure planned at 1600:
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And so the moment to leave comes, a few hours later. My chief
appears almost moved to see me go like a soldier and insists to
take a couple of pictures of me with all the warrior’s gear. Before
embarking, I managed to negotiate a position as right rear gunner
in the VAB (French APC - Armored Personel Carrier), which would
allow me to see “my” security posts along the way. As we are
embarked, engines on, ready to go, we hear on the radio that there
is a suspicion of 5 IED’s (Improvised Explosive Device) along the
way till the next FOB. A few minutes later, we hear that 90
insurgents are waiting for us in a village just before our
destination. The departure is delayed as extra intelligence is
needed. We disembark and start to wait. The engineers who were sent
before us confirm at least one IED along the way. It is an
anti-tank mine, enough to blow up in the air one of our APC’s,
killing all its crew. We need to wait till they neutralize it. An
escort is being sent to protect the engineers. But the rest of the
convoy, 12 French VAB’s plus 1 US MRAP needs to wait untill the
road is safe. The atmosphere is pretty tense. The Americans in the
MRAP (US APC), then start to sing some typical military song in
their loudspeaker. That helps to cool down the atmosphere a lot.
Walking by their vehicle, I hear one of them say loud “ IED”. The
way he says it is peculiar. Americans have a history of having been
severely hit by IED’d in the area. Yet, he does not sound too
upset. It is almost as if he was upset to have to wait. His
colleague in the vehicle then starts to play a song from Alice in
Chains which reminds me of my time as a student in LA. It is
called: “Here comes the Rooster”. Nice eye blink, as the rooster is
the symbol for France (as the Eagle is for America), All of a
sudden, the scene becomes surreal to me, these military vehicles in
a camp, with the Afghan mountains in the background, and the US
flag waving in between, all of this being lit with the golden
sunset light. What a video! It is almost beautiful. Memories from
movies about Vietnam come back to my head. This mix of drama and
coolness, somewhere between MASH and Apocalypse Now. Then comes
Hell’s Bells from AC/DC, plus some bagpipe parts, mixed with hard
rock. That later part sounds like a tribute to the French 3r Marine
Infantry Regiment, that is composing the bulk of the French Battle
Group in this province. Indeed, the 3rd RiMA, based in Brittany,
always carries bagpipes on missions to play during ceremonies.
These Americans have taste and manners. I find out that the band
that is playing is called Dropkick Murphies, from Boston.
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From: Captain Peter A. Van Loon, US Navy Unit: Regional Security
Advisory Command - Central and
CJTF-Horn of Africa Date: 03/21/2010 Location: Afghanistan and
Africa Lessons learned going to war at age fifty The military does
not have to make payroll Wondering whether you will have enough
cash on hand to cover your payroll was a continual concern in
several jobs. Ensuring that money was there; by stretching
payments, badgering creditors, but mainly ensuring our business was
viable to generate that cash taught me how to look always for the
best way of doing things. It also demanded ruthlessness with those
businesses that are not performing – either to change them or shut
them down. The US military does not have that defining discipline,
and it shows in its profligate use of people and resources. Beware
the military-industrial complex Eisenhower was right fifty years
ago, and the warning is still valid. The fears raised after 9/11
have given defense contractors and the military a shield. The
support of the American people should not mean free rein. Supply of
“defense” will expand as long as demand is left unchecked. Both the
military and the defense contractors require scrutiny and limits to
ensure proper stewardship. They can not be trusted to be stewards
over themselves. People are the same I want my kids to be healthy,
educated, and free from fear and violence. I want to be able to be
free to do the work I want, and I want not to be dictated to by
anyone. I have come to see those desires as universal – it is the
same for Pashtuns in the Pech river valley, the southern Sudanese,
and I bet everyone on God’s green earth. However, people have
different ideas about work, education and how they want their kids
to grow up. If we think we can get people to change to an American
perspective, I believe we are both foolish and disrespectful.
Civilization can be thin
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Evil exists, and it is not going away. Standing in a church
opened by its pastor to Hutus desiring to kill his Tutsi
parishioners sheltering there, or looking at the shards of a young
boy killed by a suicide bomber outside Kabul because he chose to
sell his wares in the wrong place that day, I have felt a
malevolence that is old and patient. I had felt it strongly decades
ago when I was charged with making nuclear weapons inoperable, but
had to leave many ready to use. The evil remains. Military force is
limited I am proud to be in the US military. I work with all of
America, and we can come together as a force beyond any group with
whom I have ever been a part. But there is only so much we can do.
The military exists to kill people and destroy things as we are
directed by the civilian leadership of the United States, in order
to defend against threats and neutralize those who would harm us.
It is a job that has to be done. However, in the challenges we face
today, military power is not the solution. The twin enemies of
ignorance and poverty are not tamed by superior firepower. We, as a
country, must come to understand that we are going to have to bring
the better angels of our nature to work if we are to safeguard our
way of life. We can not shoot our threats into submission. There
are things worth fighting for I am not a pacifist. I am anti-war;
most military people are and I am a military person – although I
honestly thought I was done with the military a long time ago. I
will fight for the principles our country was founded upon. I
believe America has a role in this world yet. I believe our
Constitution is the best foundation of any country since the
beginning of time, and that we have a long way to go to making it
work like it can. It is worth fighting for, and we will have to
continue. We just have to remember that our military is just one
tool, and a very limited one at that. People are good I have seen
honor and altruism in Afghanistan and Africa in the midst of
violence, death and poverty. If you treat people as you would like
to be treated, they will treat you as you desire. It is very hard
to do this, it can be terrifying, and it takes much effort. Friends
are invaluable
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When you are scared and confused, and I have been both in the
past couple years, you need your friends. Some take care of those
you love at home, others literally watch your back as you watch
theirs, and all of them have kept me oriented towards what is
right. Family is priceless Betsy, Elizabeth and Jacob have had the
tough job the past couple years. I volunteered for this decades
ago, and they were drafted. If I have made any good progress, and I
believe I have, it is due to the foundation of their love. This
lesson has been the one that has been hardest to learn. I tried to
put my family out of my heart, beyond the pain and fear I saw and
felt. It was a mistake. They are tougher than I knew. There is work
yet to do I have been blessed with health and experience in
addition to the love of family and friends. My job is to continue
to put my talents and blessings to work. It is the way to honor all
those who have believed in me; as a father and husband, and as a
leader in business and the military. You do not get the option to
sit back and relax in your old age. There is work to do. God is
with you You may believe you are alone, but you are not.
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From: Captain Peter A. Van Loon, US Navy Unit: Regional Security
Advisory Command - Central Date: 08/29/2007 Location: Bagram Air
Base, Afghanistan The air was cool at 0300 at Bagram, the main
airfield in Afghanistan. I had just left my duty of the past year
as the deputy commander for the Central Region, where we were
embedded with and training the Afghan Army and police. It has been
hot all summer and I was glad for the coolness. I had one more
official duty to perform. I had to put three of our guys, killed
the day before, on a plane back home. The caskets rolled up in
humvees. I marched toward the aircraft with my general. The honor
guards picked up the caskets and followed us. We stepped to the
side to allow them on the aircraft first. The C-17 transport cargo
bay was lit brightly against the black of the night. The red on the
flags was livid in that harsh light. We knelt at each casket as we
made our way through the aircraft. I am usually good at prayer, but
that morning I had nothing to offer and I was too tired to think of
what to ask for. The couple hundred people on the flight line left
once the ramp on the aircraft was closed. For the ceremony, all
work and noise had been suspended and now it started back up. I
stayed, alone, for an hour until they rolled to the runway, and I
saluted as they took off into the morning. Immediately after, two
F-15’s, evident only by their noise and the fire of their twin
afterburners, took off on the first fire support mission of the
day.
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From: Kerri Mullen, sister of Spc. John Michael Mullen Unit:
101st Airborne Location: Afghanistan and Berlin A very wise
therapist once told me that all family visits should be legally
limited to no more than three days. Three days is enough to enjoy,
to reminisce, to wonder why they aren’t staying longer. Four days
and you know exactly why. Michael’s been here for seven days now,
sharing my 37 square meter apartment. It’s not a tiny place –
Berlin isn’t New York – but it’s still a small space for a 24 year
old brother and his slightly neurotic 26 year old sister. When I
walked into my apartment, there used to be a weird burned coffee
smell coming from the kitchen. Now it smells like booze, man body
odor and man body wash. My own odd stink has been completely
engulfed. He’s here, and it hasn’t been so long. It’s now May and I
last saw Michael when all of our family did, at Christmastime,
before he was deployed in February. He received his leave from
Afghanistan quite early and decided to come to Berlin to crash with
me for a couple of weeks instead of going back home. A free trip,
he reasoned, and he could come to Europe for the first time, and so
he did. And now he’s here, and his clothes and laptop/camera
gadgetry really don’t take up that much space, but it seems like
they now physically dominate my apartment the way that thinking
about him, over in a war zone, used to dominate my mind. I tried to
explain it to him, and he’s tried to explain it to me. Why do you
disapprove of me being in the Army, he asks. Why did you join the
Army, and what is it like, I ask. We both start and stop our
answers, shaking our heads in a way that makes us look like
siblings even though none of our features look alike, and say that
it’s hard to explain. Michael Mullen is a Specialist in the Army,
which means little to those he meets here. He’s on leave, visiting
me in Berlin, where friends and acquaintances (Bekannter, an
important distinction in Germany, where Bekannter are definitely
not friends, and so it’s weird to see him
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interacting at a party with people he’s just met who are asking
him about war and whether it’s changed him) come from the US,
Germany, Israel, Spain, Bosnia, Canada. All of them ask about what
it’s like over there. He tells them all, “It’s not as bad as you
think,” and then either they ask more questions or they don’t. Some
questions he’s had include: Are there any Spanish soldiers where
you are? How did you get here? Can I buy you a beer? And the beer
has been plentiful. I greeted him at the airport with a bottle of
Berliner Pilsner, because I can – you can drink anywhere you want
in Berlin, almost – and because it kind of sums up how different it
is to live here and to be stationed there. Also, it was a beer, and
it eased the first moments when I saw him, badly sunburned and
skinny, heavily muscled and red-eyed from 72 hours of helicopter
and airplane travel. And since Michael is not allowed to drink
while deployed, the time he’s spent here on leave so far has been a
bit of a bender. We wrote a song about it, to the tune of Stevie
Wonder’s “Superstitious”: Here comes little brother/He’s a big fat
slob/You’re gonna fail this semester/You’re gonna lose your job. It
may happen – I’ve faked sick both for classes I teach and for
classes I must attend, but how often am I going to have the
opportunity for my little brother to visit me on leave from being
deployed in Afghanistan? I hope it’s just the one time. He’s been
talking about re-enlistment, and at first I thought he couldn’t be
serious. But he explained that it’s a practical decision:
Currently, Stop Loss is still in effect, but will be phased out
completely by 2011. When that happens, it means that after soldiers
do their tours of duty, they go home and finish their active duty
(a total of three years, in my brother’s case) and then have five
years of inactive duty. As long as there is no Stop Loss program in
place, that means Michael gets a regular job, maybe starts a
family, anything he wants to do. But there’s a chance that Stop
Loss could be re-established. At that point, Michael could get
deployed back out to Afghanistan, or wherever, and instead of
receiving daily training for his job, he would maybe be able to
train once a month if he were lucky. The majority of those who are
called back in, or stop-lossed, are drawn back into National Guard
units, which meet up monthly for training, but they still maintain
normal civilian lives. That’s when
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guys get killed, he says. When they stop training so rigorously,
but they have to go back. This was one of the first things he
explained to me, along with some basics on hierarchy and what’s a
unit, what’s a battalion, what do you do over there, where do you
live, etc. And I don’t know whether stop-loss logic is military
spin, trying to get him to re-enlist, or a real risk management
strategy, a lesser of two evils. Probably both. He’s out right now
with friends of mine, at the bars, determined to be doing
something, meeting someone, seeing something, every minute he’s
here. He’s practicing the Spanish he’s forgotten in the three years
since he majored in it at college, before he dropped out. He’s
asking me about German girls, and German guys, and how people meet
people, and how they talk to each other. What do they think of
American soldiers? What do they think about the war in Afghanistan?
It’s so different here, he says. It’s so different there, he says.
It’s hard to explain. It’s good to have him in front of me, at
least trying to explain. It’s good to have him here.
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From: Sgt. Edward J. McCormick Unit: Police Mentor Team
"Warrior" Date: Jan. 1, 2007 to Jan. 1, 2008 Location: Zhari
District, Khandahar Province, Afghanistan Vespers for Baba And
evening growing old, they would leave through the gate. Herded onto
an ATV; its diesel incense exhaust gently wafting across the base,
they would be huddled together. A flock of men and boys, arms and
legs, all piled high atop cardboard and wood-scraps. Foreign hands
would search them before leaving; the char-men clutched whatever
scraps the alien hands allowed them to carry. Plastic jugs, the
colour of tallow, odd pieces of metal used for God knows. Fires
stoked from anything combustible would boil the pots in the mud
houses of loved ones and keep the earthen walls warm on cold
nights. Grazing on fatty sheep and rice, nesting under thick
blankets and rugs, families would sleep and eat in their dens.
Dismounting at the gate and left to roam the road into Panjwai
Bizarre alone, they would traverse one of the most violent places
in the world. The doorways, balconies, and shadows would be
watching, waiting; the shark’s teeth mountains and mounded fields
of grapes would bare witness. The grease stained men and boys,
worth their weight in extortion, intimidation, and labor, became
commodities worth exploiting, members of a silent horde burdened
with the weight of war. Their lives of squalor shadowed the
opulence of the forces they would serve. Their hands would seldom
carry the protection of a gun, or the promise of reinforcements.
And evening growing old, Baba left through the gate, forever.
Mealtime was a time of rest. We would gather, wait in line, and
then go into the mess tent, holding our plates of food. Inside,
tables of deserts, salads and fresh fruit welcomed us. The
television sets would have on the evening news, a hockey game. The
green canvas tented walls cloaked that khaki scrubby world of
Afghanistan, shrouded, save for the char-men. In the mess tent, we
could interact with the Pashtuns. We were from the same village
then. Our guns and our tanks slumbered. Tariq, wearing western
clothes and
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speaking broken English, the foreman; he was young, hopeful,
smiling. The boys were waifs, urchins, as playful as hard working.
And there was Baba, scrubbing, cleaning, in constant toil, a
dervish of labor. Baba, with his wizened eyes and long snow colored
beard. On his feet a pair of oxfords, made from sawed-off combat
boots, coal hued from grease. His body was Merlin-esque, slight,
and aged beyond the years. To many on our base he was part of the
scenery, ignored as a fixture. To others he was the jolly Maître
de. I became friends with him with a simple phrase, “Tsanga Yea
Baba?” His eyes would twinkle, his voice come forward, “Shy’am,
shy’am! Tse tsanga yea?” After that, he was my friend, guiding me
to the cooler that held the coldest water, leading me to the
secreted Häagen-Dazs ice cream. He would walk over and clear our
table after we were finished eating. “Manana Baba.” and he would
reply by placing his hand on his heart in that Pashtun way, where
actions speak louder than words. After dinner chores were complete,
and the last pot scrubbed, Baba, the other men and boys would leave
the gate, their fate unknown until seen at breakfast. Several times
Baba or another would not be there and I would be anxious, worried.
When I saw them later, I would feel relieved. In Afghanistan any
work done for ISAF was punishable by death, no matter how lowly the
occupation, garbage men, dishwashers, and septic truck drivers
often disappeared, or became spies because of threats on their
families. Baba was not at breakfast one day and the boys wore red
eyelids. Tariq disrobed his smile. The Canadian cooks draped
themselves in anger. Cooks have an ancient chivalric code of honor
to protect anyone worthy that works under them. Any being who has
ever wielded a pan or spatula is in this invisible brotherhood, and
acts as a noble champion. In that strange land of rock and dust,
these Knights became powerless. Before dawn, Baba went to mosque in
Panjwai Bizarre, an obligation under the five pillars of Islam,
which he always kept. As the old man was lying prostrate to Allah,
jackals were in the shadows, Kalashnikov fangs shining bright in
the twilight of the day’s birth. The jackals struck, leaded teeth
tearing through his body. A nearby Afghan Army patrol, hearing the
shots, ran to the mosque only to find
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Baba’s body outside. The wizened saint had left a trail of his
life force, so that all could see the cowardice that lurks in the
heart of man; the jackals having feared the wrath of Allah had
dragged his body from the mosque. His attackers had fled and
disappeared, as jackals do, preying on the weak of the herd,
leaving the strong for another day. An old man was one thing and an
armed patrol quite another. This is the story of Baba, the story of
war, the story of Afghanistan. As armies of technology fight armies
of shadows, men and women trying simply to live, often find that
they simply cannot, and for them there are no Vespers.
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From: Major Eric T. Smith Unit: 1st Brigade 10th MTN, HHC
Location: Camp Spann, Northern Afghanistan Dispatch 15: The Long
Ride to Pol-e Khomri US forces in Afghanistan have just begun to
receive a new vehicle in the past few months, known as the M-ATV.
In addition to having the eponymous distinction of embedded
acronyms (M-ATV stands for “Mine resistant ambush protected – All
Terrain Vehicle”) the M-ATV was also designed specifically for use
on the unimproved roads and byways that are the rule in
Afghanistan. It’s armored against direct fire, protects against
homemade bombs of a variety of types, and has a full set of
communications equipment designed specifically to allow every
passenger the ability to talk from his seat using the handy vehicle
intercom. Unfortunately, the seats are horrendously uncomfortable.
Six hours into a nine-hour trip from our camp to the neighboring
Hungarian headquarters in Pol-e Khomri, my thoughts were dominated
with diabolical plots to track down the engineers who had designed
the seats and force them to sit in where I was sitting for hours on
end, wearing body armor and all the accoutrements issued to the
modern infantryman. Pol-e Khomri (pronounced “Pole-ee-Koamree” or
PeK) is the first major town north of the Salang Pass, the network
of tunnels and tortuous mountain roads that surmounts the Hindu
Kush north of Kabul, and connects the rich northern grasslands of
Afghanistan with the arid, rocky south. The “ring road” that
circles Afghanistan bisects PeK and serves as its crowded central
avenue. The influence of Soviet central planning remains evident in
the unusually gridded streets, poured concrete row-houses, and
derelict factory complexes. The Hungarian Provincial Reconstruction
Team Headquarters sits in a small compound on the north side of the
city. Our trip began in the pre-dawn darkness, as we sought to
traverse Mazar-i-Sharif before the morning rush hour. We
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were travelling in a group of six M-ATVs, each with a growling
diesel engine and gunner on the roof, spinning with the turns of
the road to look for insurgents and hazards. On the east side of
Mazar-i-Sharif the road was fast, and the green fields turned brown
while the mountains to our south grew out of the haze. We turned
right at Kholm, a small forested city at the river delta where the
Samangan River, held captive by the rocky valleys to the south,
empties into the flat grasslands and spreads itself into multiple
channels, each winding their way to the sluggish Amu Darya that
forms Afghanistan’s northern border. Here the road narrowed to a
small shelf over the rapids with vertical cliffs on either side.
When we emerged, temporarily blinded by the morning light after the
shadow in the cleft, the vista made me think of Jurassic Park meets
a Thomas Cole painting. Tall cliffs on either side bounded lush
green pastures and orchards, where old men with flowing white
beards tended the trees and young goatherds chased their gamboling
charges. As we drove south, the mountains on either side distanced
themselves from the road, leaving a rolling green plain for us to
traverse. I felt like I was in Western Nebraska, driving for hours
through vast empty spaces. Occasionally we passed old Soviet
wreckage on the side of the road; armored vehicles stripped of
everything but their steel fuselage. After we passed the third one
my gunner made the sentient observation, “We better be careful when
we see those old wrecks. If the Russians got jacked up here, it’s
probably a good place to jack someone up.” Several kilometers
outside of Pol-e Khomri we stopped in a traffic jam. Some American
Special Forces, operating with the Afghan Army, were moving into a
defensive position on the south side of the road. There was a lot
of activity as Soldiers ran back and forth between vehicles,
antennas and cables waving from their helmets, directing traffic
and signaling to each other. One of the traffic-directors ran up to
our vehicle and banged on the driver’s door, so he could brief us
on the situation. “Go on through! Keep moving! We’re about to be
ambushed!” the American yelled at us.
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“Then why are you staying here?” my driver asked. The Soldier
shut the door, apparently satisfied that he had conveyed the
message, and waved us through. We continued into the city where the
small Hungarian headquarters compound was located. A few sharp
turns and a serpentine entrance through the front gate and we were
there. I practically leaped from the M-ATV, massaging feeling into
my legs as I staggered around the parking lot like a tin woodman in
need of oil. The Hungarian compound was a busy place, with vehicles
large and small from a variety of nations moving back and forth
between tents and buildings. We left our body armor in the M-ATVs
and went to find the Commander in order to introduce ourselves. He
worked in a small, but well-appointed office and was able to impart
a great deal of knowledge particular to the area. He was also an
amateur historian and treated us to a long dissertation on notable
19th century Hungarian military leaders. We had a long trip ahead
of us, so we had to politely excuse ourselves and return to the
motorpool. On our way back we ran into the Special Forces unit that
we had met out on the road. The expected ambush hadn’t
materialized, so they were stopping by to get some fuel and water
before heading off with their Afghan counterparts on another
mission. To my disappointment, they told us the road was clear and
we should have no problems driving back. I was grasping for an
excuse not to have to climb back in the M-ATV for another eight
hours. The return trip was marked by only a brilliant sunset over
the mountains. Like all trips that retrace familiar ground, it
seemed to go faster than the first one, and the landmarks, so novel
in the morning, were now indicators of our growing proximity to
home. What did I learn? Next time I make that ride, I’m bringing a
seat cushion.
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From: Pfc. Zachary Montgomery Unit: First Battalion, 87th
Infantry Date: April 3, 2010 Location: Kyrgyzstan I am still in
Kyrgystan. It's been five days. If all goes well we will be leaving
tonight. Not to say its been awful or anything, just wish I could
be in country by now. Simply put, it is what it is. Here spending
my time as become somewhat routine. Nothing I do here is set in
stone, yet i pretty much do the same thing every day. Wake up when
ever my eyes open, eat chow, smoke a cig, then call home. If i'm in
the mood I'll check my email or update one of my pages on my social
networking sites (which i hardly ever really update anything since
no one ever wants to talk to me - so close friends and family are
the only ones i communicate through). Being a cook does have its
advatages. For example, I don't eat the dairy nor the seafood since
both are PHFs (potentially hazardous foods). I've knocked the soda
dow