On Site at Spann

Today is 1389/8/19 on the Afghan calendar which is based on the Islam solar year.  Party on, Garth.

I’m staying at Camp Spann, named after Michael Spann, a former CIA operative who was the first American killed in combat in Afghanistan in 2001.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Spann

The camp is in a remote area of northern Afghanistan.  Lots of generators running 24 hours/day.  Trailer-like buildings made of wood or plastic.  Some tents.  Both concrete and wooden floors, indicating a sense of permanence.   Lots of gravel and dirt, stone walls and concertina wire.  Bunkers every few feet.

HUMMVs and MRAPs constantly moving.  GIs standing in groups, smoking and bullshitting.  And hescoes.  Everywhere.  Hescoes were invented by the same guy who invented the Segway.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hesco_bastion

There’s one DFAC but a second one has just been finished.  Long lines all the time.  The DFAC is open after dinner until breakfast for sandwiches and soup.  Unfortunately, there isn’t any bread due to the disruption of the convoys coming from Pakistan.  The cooks put out tortilla wraps when they have them.  Otherwise, it’s cheese and meat roll time.  Different entrees for lunch and supper, and a hearty breakfast.  Spann has two gyms.  One is housed in a hangar and the other in a small Quonset hut.  There’s a small post office with friendly GIs and a laundry facility where you drop your bagged dirty stuff and get it back clean in 48 hours.  There’s also a wood shop that is busy building the camp.

I live in a b-hut that has been sectioned into six separate rooms.  9 X 11 for each guy.  The dividers are plywood and blankets.  My piece of plywood is 6’6” high and on one side, there’s a blanket separating me from my neighbor.  If you’re shy about anything, this isn’t the place to be.  You hear every cough, breath, fart, and word.

Skype, that savior for marriages, is popular but everyone hears what you have to say.  The last tour we could use the phones to call home; this tour it’s been declared “theft from the company” if you do so.  We’re issued phones and sim cards, and every month given minutes to use for business calls.  No personal calls this tour on the company’s dime.  It’s a lot more private to walk outside and make a call than to use Skype in such close environs, but then you can’t see who you’re calling if you don’t use Skype.  It’s a trade-off.

My office is in the same kind of b-hut. Computers are limited - the Army has put so many restrictions on them (no external devices, limited access to sites) to keep viruses off that they're sometimes frustrating to use.  The flip side, of course, is that computer viruses are an epidemic in the country and without the stranglehold, nothing would be usable.  If you give a terp your personal thumbdrive for anything, it's 100% certain to come back severely tainted.

The bathrooms are kind of rough, but I’m not complaining about anything.  I can take a hot shower when I want it and come in to go to the bathroom.  Other that the way the water stinks like sewage (and it does), it's OK.

Interestingly, there is a sign on the toilet doors:

What that means is we have some people here from cultures that don't use toilet paper.  They'll grab a water bottle and fill it up and go into the toilet.  They're used to squatting so they climb on the toilets and do one repetition of "beat your boots" (hence the "keep your feet off the seat line").  Then after they do their business, that bottle of water and the left hand come into play.  I'm not sure exactly how it works since I've never observed it - in the wild or on the National Geographic channel - but it's gotta be quite a sight.  Culturally, for the folks who use their left hand that way, they don't use the left hand for much of anything else - no handshakes or taking food, for example.  And then they leave empty water bottles on the floor.

We got new shower curtains yesterday and it was so shocking, I thought I was underwater and I quickly checked to ensure the regulator for my SCUBA gear was working fine…

Seriously, though, nothing to criticize.  I can take a shower when I want and I have hot food three times/day.  I also have a bed.  There are troops downrange who don’t have any of that, and as we encounter problems and shortages, I have to remember the guys sleeping in the dirt, cleaning themselves with Chubbs and eating MREs, all for weeks at a time.

Still….  This morning, I was leaning against the sink, brushing my teeth (you can’t drink the water so you have to bring in bottled water) when some big hairy thing emerged from the shower.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and that walnut-sized thing in your brain that houses something primal dating back to Neanderthal times, sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me and a voice screamed in my head, “Kill it!  KILL IT!  K-I-L-L IT!!!”  I gripped the toothbrush and was about to jam the handle into wherever I thought the neck might be when I saw something protruding from the bear skin coat that looked like a shaved human head.  My brain was still raging at me to act (“Don’t let it kill you.  F*ck that thing UP!!!”) but another part of me thought that whatever that hairy moving mass was, it could maybe be part of the human species rather than a Yeti.  Sure enough, it was just a guy, but one with enough hair to make a wooly mammoth jealous.  Now, I’ve been taking open showers since 1967 when Coach Claus insisted all of us get cleaned up after 7^th grade PE.  I’ve seen a lot of different men and never gave any of it a thought.  This, however, was something new and outside my experience.  I have some hirsute friends who are going to think I’m exaggerating but I’ll tell you that this guy is a throwback.  Shaved head and the rest of him is one big hair shirt.  I’m glad I didn’t attack him now – as much for the embarrassment I would have faced for trying to stab a guy with a toothbrush, and of course, because it would have ruined the toothbrush.  I probably would have lost it in the briar patch of his neck area and even if I would have ever recovered it, it would’ve been encased in hair.  You know how when your vacuum cleaner doesn’t roll across the carpet as smoothly as it once did, and you flip it over and discover the roller is full of hair so you have to get some scissors and start cutting the hair off the roller?  It would’ve been like that with the toothbrush but the brush would have been covered with fur the depth and consistency of shag carpet.  So, whew.

Directly outside the wire of Spann is the 209^th Afghan National Army (ANA) Corps area where I meet daily with my counterpart, an Afghan Brigadier General.

My last tour, my counterpart was also a BG.  He was one very bad hombre.  Missing his thumb on his right hand where a bomb blew up right in front of him.  You go to shake his hand and you slide right along until you stop somewhere along his forearm.  (The thumb is like a backstop for a handshake.  Think about it next time you go for a friendly grip.)  He was a Mujahedeen fighter with Massoud as a young man and worked his way up from there, taking dangerous jobs all the while and becoming very popular with the troops.  Massoud , the Lion of Panjshir, was the military leader credited with sending the Soviets home when they were here 30+ years ago.  My guy from last time is also from Panjshir and worked closely with Massoud.

(Info on Massoud:   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massoud)

Massoud would have been the President of Afghanistan but was assassinated by al-Qaeda.  (I saw one of the cheap Pakistani videos of his life that showed graphic photos of the death scene following the bombing.  When you start thinking too much about yourself, it would be wise to remember we're all just slabs of meat.)  Massoud is a national hero, though, and his picture is everywhere – on walls, on cars, on billboards, in offices, and there are even monuments him - Massoud circle in Kabul, for example.  Every government office with a picture of Karzai has a picture of Massoud next to it.  It would be similar to not only putting the President’s picture in every government office but also having some larger-than-life guy share the wall.  John Wayne, maybe.  Or Audie Murphy.  So, anyway, Massoud was an all-around bad ass and is highly revered.

I met my new General and found that not only is he from Panjshir (population today about 300,000 people who are primarily Tajiks – the importance of tribes can never be overemphasized – it’s as much a part of life as their physical beings), he also fought with Massoud and he and my old General are BEST FRIENDS.  Both fought the Russians side by side.  Guerilla fighters.  My stock went up when he heard about my relationship with BG Khalil which will make things much easier.  It takes a while to develop trust here but once you’re in, you’re really in.  On the flip side, his stock went way up with me, as well.

The custom here is to serve chai to guests and he was really having a tough time because he wasn’t able to serve me any.  It’s a social faux pas but I told him it was fine.  Normally, the General would have a chai boy who is just a “gofer – driver – make the tea – do what I tell you” kind of guy.  It’s a little different in this Corps as they’re constrained by space.  No chai boy = no chai.  And, it’s unconscionable to him that he hasn’t made it happen yet.  It will be a daily event – chai every morning in his office.  Man, I hope he shows up with those raisins like BG Khalil used to have.  There was a lazy susan on the table and it had raisins and nuts and some candy – different things every day.  But when the raisins came out, my heart raced.  You have never had raisins like an Afghanistan raisin and from what I've been told (with obvious pride by the teller), the fruit from the Panjshir valley is the best in the country.  100% chance (as Ski says).  I try to be polite and just pick at them while we talk, but I usually end up shoveling them in with both hands, both fists pumping raisins like jackhammers.  When I have to talk, I smile with pieces of raisins covering my teeth and spit and spray residue everywhere.  “MMMMmmmmmm, raisins.”  It's very Homer Simpson.

My terp is 21, going on 40.  His English is good and the other contractors told me that I hit the jackpot with him.  He told me he's the man of his family.  (Not "You the MAN! kind of man" but really the man of the family.)  He has three sisters and three brothers, half older, half younger, but he’s the only one with a job.  He lives at home and supports his family.  His father is dead.  Because he's the only one bringing any jack home, he’s the man.  He’s also studying at school – a combination of poly sci and law that will split in separate tracks at some point and he’ll have to pick his path.

I met some of the staff.  Previously, when I met the staff of the 201^st Corps in Pol-e Charkhi, I was taken with how hard they looked.  It was like being thrust into a room with hardened criminals who just eyeballed me with frown-y faces.  This time I didn’t feel at all imperiled.  They’re still a rough-tough bunch but I know the deal now.

Lots of stale cigarette smoke and dust motes flying in the sunlight.  That residue, plus the shitbirds who insist on smoking in the port-a potties and thereby make it impossible to take a leak, will probably have me developing cancer from second hand smoke.  I’m waiting for one of those port-a potties to explode, sending the container about 10 feet into the air with the smoker finally emerging covered in goop.

The office also had the Karzai picture on one wall and Massoud on the other.

Today, the General and I were trading stories, getting to know one another and he told me about a family problem he's having.  His son is 21 (“20, 21, something like that”).  The custom here is that women stay in the home until they’re married.  The marriage is one where the parents promise the girl to another family so it’s arranged among family (cousins) or to someone in the same tribe.  There’s no dating; no running around.  It’s very tightly controlled and bound by honor.  The General has two sons and five daughters.  A girl from Panjshir told the son that she loved him and ran away from home to be with him.  In this culture, it's one of the biggest taboos and insults to the honor of the family (read: men) that anyone could possibly entertain.  The family of that girl now wants the General’s son and their daughter killed.  The General says he’s been to thirty jurgas – a sit-down controlled by a village elder – an Afghan equivalent of mediation/arbitration.  At the last jurga, the village elder told the General to pay the aggrieved family $30,000.  The General was going to sell his house and property but the girl’s family refused.  The only thing they will accept is for the girl and boy to be killed.  So, both kids are in hiding in safe houses.  The government hasn’t gotten involved yet.  If they do, they’ll decree something that should allow these two kids to get married if they want and make an official statement to leave them alone.  But, in this culture, a blow to the honor can fester for many lifetimes.  At some point, someone in the future is going to kill the two of them unless the girl’s family will agree to a settlement.  And, it’s not looking like it’s going to happen.  So, the General is worried about losing his son to a targeted killing.

Like I’ve said for a long time, it’s a place Westerners will never fully understand.

As I walked back to Spann, I realized I was getting the hairy eyeball from quite a few of the Afghan soldiers.  Not sure why.  We never have any idea if those looks are looks of curiosity or hatred.  Since the dudes have AKs strapped across their chests, though, I give them a “Salaam Aleikum” or a “Su bach ey” or a “Char tur est e” or whatever else I can think of.  Most of the time, they don't say anything.  Just keep looking.  It's only a little unnerving. 

I’ll close with two articles I found that, despite perspectives on two completely different aspects of things, I think sum things up.  You’ll understand some of the dynamic better as these stories are very well written.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/11/04/AR2010110407432.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/08/world/asia/08burn.html?_r=1&src=twt&twt=nytimesworld

I understand the anxiety.  When our son was over here on a combat tour in the eastern part of the country, I was a nervous wreck.  That did something to me.  And I can relate to this monumental number of family members worrying about their kids in a combat zone.  (No, Judy, it doesn't apply to you worrying about me - I'm relatively safe.  Safer this time than last time, actually.)

Let's see what happens next.

Kabul to MeS

And, finally, I was able to leave Kabul.  I was only there a few days but I couldn’t wait to leave.

I noticed the kids hanging around – the same ones from before who had grown taller and older, and what appeared to be younger brothers, sisters, and cousins.  These were the kids someone called “mongrel children” once and it kind of stuck.  They run after you, “How are you, my friend?” with their hands out, initially to shake hands and then to get candy, cookies, or money.  The older ones usually have a string of bracelets or other trinkets to sell.  It’s cheap and it’s the same stuff, over and over, in the bazaars and on the streets, but the kids appeal to most people.  The only problem with slipping them a buck or two is that they won’t go away.  And, so, it’s been going on for years.

I had a bag of Mary Janes – you know, the peanut butter candy they sell at stores for Halloween.  I’d eaten a few and decided to mess with the kids.  Last time I was here, the guidance was to avoid them.  They’re in the Green Zone (somehow) but the deal was to leave them alone.  Again, mostly because it encourages them… and the other reason is that no matter what you give them, someone older, bigger and stronger is going to take it away from them.  One year, a guy wrote his wife and she organized something and sent him a box of winter coats for the kids.  He handed them out and a few days later, they were on the street, sans the coats.  They’d been beaten up and the coats were gone.  It’s the life they have.

I went out to the road and it was like that Seinfeld episode where George got busted in the book store, “SWARM!  SWARM! SWARM!”  They were everywhere.  The older ones I remembered.  The younger ones must have been babies but they can walk now and they’re smart enough to ask for candy.  I handed everyone a piece and they dived in.  It was like being at a dinner party where the guests stand around and suck taffy-like candy with the paper still on.  They were all eye-balling the rest of the bag.  “Got any bracelets?”  And you could see them quiver.  “FISH ON A LINE!  WE GOT ONE OVER HERE!  FISH ON!”  The older ones’ heads were on swivels, trying to find the guys with the bracelets, while the younger ones were dashing around, “Cha mayga?  Cha mayga?”  (“What’d he say?  What’d he say?”)  Still sucking on the Mary Janes.  Dirty faces, eyes darting around.  Then two of them bolted through a gate and came back with one bracelet each.  “C’mon, guys.  Where are all the bracelets?”  They were on fire to make a sale, shoving those two bracelets in my face.  They go for $1 usually and one of them was OK so I told her she could have the rest of the candy for the bracelet.  She wanted the dollar.  Then one of them slapped my pocket where I keep my change (everyone keeps their change in their front pocket and the Afghan Little Rascals know it), “Just give change, my friend.”  “No.  You can have the candy.”  So, then they turned on the bracelet bearer.  They weren’t going to see the dollar or the change and those Mary Janes were pretty tasty.  We struck the deal, and Reilly will get the bracelet.

Then it was back to the military airport.  I had some time and just hung around with everyone else.  There were several different flights leaving within a short time span.  A platoon-sized unit from South Carolina showed up.  Dirty, faded uniforms, tired-looking soldiers.  Not loud or happy; just matter of fact.  I found out they were headed home after nine months here.  Other soldiers hanging around heard the word Manas (where we stage occasionally) and they reacted with envy, “Nice place to be headed.”  The guys grouped together – black guys and white guys separately.  The black guys stood around smoking Tiparillos; the white guys, cigarettes.  They probably didn’t even notice.

I caught a ride on a German C-160, a smaller version of a C-130.  Green canvas seats and backs (no mesh – solid canvas).  The German crew chief spoke excellent English but with “that” accent – the one I grew up with.  Quick, uneventful flight and when the plane landed, it was gloomy, overcast and cold.  It had been sunny and warm in Kabul, but Mazar-e Sharif was different.

On the ground there were Germans everywhere.  Their base is Camp Marmal and the biggest thing I noticed was you couldn’t get a copy of Stars and Stripes but free Bild Zeitungs were everywhere.  I stowed my gear and went exploring.

My next flight wasn’t supposed to leave for hours so I headed for the German PX.  Inside I found… wait for it… wait for it…. Hanutas!!!  Woo Hoo.  And, Schwib Schwab.  For those who don’t know, Hanuta (and I got this from Judy – after eating these bad boys most of my life – when I could get them – I didn’t know this) is a German sweet by Ferrero consisting of hazelnuts and chocolate sandwiched between two wafers.  The name hanuta is an acronym for Haselnusstafel, German for "hazelnut bar".  Schwib Schwab is a cola and orange drink that Reilly became addicted to when she studied in Germany.  For a second, I contemplated the irony of finding both on a remote base in northern Afghanistan until I dispelled my own wonder.  It’s a German base – of course they’re going to have things like Hanutas, Schwib Schwab and schnitzel.

Schnitzel?  The recon was on in earnest.  I find the German DFAC – the Kuche – and headed in.  Over here, it’s called Supreme.  They have one at ISAF in KIA and it is superb.  It’s like being in Germany.  Porcelain plates (we use disposable cardboard trays – just chuck everything in a trash can), silverware, and German food.  No schnitzel tonight but they had bratkartoffel, nudeln, hanchen, (potatoes, noodles, and yardbird) and thick rich gravy.  I couldn’t eat like that every day.  No dessert which was good.  I would have forgotten where I was if they had produced an aisle of black forest cake …

I walked back to the terminal and once inside, I noticed yet another guy I’d worked with the last time I was here.  He had resigned from the Army before his retirement and was working as a contractor while trying to get back on active duty.  Whatever he did worked as he left for Heidelberg before I left Afghanistan.  He was promised a promotion to LTC once he came back on board.  Sure enough, he’d been promoted and had spent a year in Heidelberg before being assigned back to Afghanistan for a two year hitch.  I was surprised at that but his whole purpose now is to retire from the military so maybe being over here will keep him out of trouble.

Later that night, all flights were cancelled.  I could have gone to their transient tent city but I thought I’d just hunker down across three wicker chairs.  It was about 4 ½ feet across and after I collected a few seat pillows, I thought I had it nailed.  Yet another dumbass call.

The lights were on all night, as was the big screen TV tuned into the Polish version of MTV.  The same music videos blared all night long.  I’d slept in the safe house on their shitty Chinese/Afghan made (one or the other) mattresses that were supplied by the lowest bidder.  How else do you explain mattresses where you can feel the springs?  I moved from there to the wicker chair accommodations.  By the time I woke up, my back was killing me.

Friday is the Afghan weekend and I guess that’s why the toilets didn’t get cleaned.   They’re outside the terminal in temporary building module and you can imagine what they looked like.  Pigs rooting in muddy shit are cleaner than everyone who used that bathroom.  Paper towels and toilet paper all over the floor – used and unused but none in the towel dispenser, overflowing trash cans, wet floors, unflushed toilets.  C’mon, man.  Unflushed toilets?

But, I was up so I washed up in the sink and cleaned my teeth with a paper towel from a pile of clean ones I found on the floor.

That bathroom reminded me of Brim Frost 88 (or 89 – can’t remember) in Alaska.  We went out for a few weeks and the temperature dropped to -78 – the coldest it had been in a century.  You don’t want to go to the bathroom when it’s that cold.  The rules on the tundra were that you couldn’t dig a cat hole and do your business so the Army brought in port-a potties.  That would have been great if it hadn’t gotten so cold and no one came out to clean them.  It kept piling up until people were standing on the seats and letting fly.  Everything was frozen so if you squinted, you might have thought of a Hershey World sculpture in every port-a John.  The upside was there was zero smell.  I digress.  The toilet in Camp Marmel was a lightweight compared to that.  But still, a mess.

A couple of Afghan guys cleaned them up this morning, though, and all was good in the world again.  The graffiti is the same the world over, too.  Mostly, it was about GIs dying in a shithole so a small group of people can make a shitload of money (lots of commentary on that one).  And that was juxtaposed with comments about how beautiful the non-US women in uniform are.  Someone had to write “your mother” or it wouldn’t have been a real latrine wall.  I saw a few German women who looked like models wearing uniforms.  I didn’t contribute to the poll; I’m just sayin’.

Inside the terminal, about 50 Germans were leaving.  They do six month tours and then rotate.  There was a line of five or six officers and NCOs and two or three buddies of the departing guys.  Everyone went through the line and shook hands.  These guys, both the ones leaving and those staying, were loud happy men.  Those remaining, yelled in German at the others, “See you in six months.”  In minutes, it was a done deal.  Another group on a plane headed back to “The World”.

Reminds me of another story.  In 1976, I was able to do a prisoner escort from Germany.  Each guy had two prisoners and we picked them all up from the stockade in Mannheim.  These guys had all been sentenced and were going to either Ft Leavenworth or the DB (disciplinary barracks) at Ft Riley.  My guys were headed for the DB.  We boarded the plane in Frankfurt and headed for New Jersey (I think we landed in Philadelphia).  The guys had cuffs removed on the plane but were told to be quiet and not talk to anyone – and not to bother the stewardesses.    Naturally, that’s what they did.  They all had headaches and wanted aspirins.  The flight began its approach and it got quiet and when the wheels touched down, the prisoners exploded.  “We back in the worl’.  We back in the worl.’”  All of them yelling and cheering to be back in the world like they just came back from a combat tour in Vietnam instead of the stockade in Mannheim.  They calmed down when we cuffed them and marched them through the airport to the cells at Ft Dix where they spent the night.  Next day, back in the world, it was a lot more solemn as we got closer and closer.  We’d split up after we landed in Kansas City and the Leavenworth guys were headed that way.  When the bus pulled up to the wire and concertina fence compound, and the Drill Sgt came flying on the bus, they were in for a world of hurt.  But, for a minute there, the day before, they were happy they were back in the world.  One of my prisoners acted like he nearly killed a taxi driver and robbed him because it was in Germany – he never would have done that in the states….

Another digression.

I walked back over to the Supreme for a European breakfast – brotchen with some Leoner (kind of a German bologna but light years better than Oscar Mayer).

I was going to hang around the rest of the day waiting for either a rotary wing or a convoy but I ended up catching an unexpected ride.  So, now I’m at Camp Spann.

Scenes along the way:

And, my favorite, a few more water bottle labels:

I’ll let you know if anything funny or interesting happens.

Kuwait to Kabul

You just don’t remember the flies that are everywhere, the dirt that is everywhere, the towering hescoes that are everywhere, and the weapons.  AK47s all over the place.  Plus whatever the NATO guys are carrying.  That’s what you notice first when you get to Camp Eggers.

But first.  Back to Kuwait.  We missed a few roll calls because there were too many people flying and too few seats but finally got out on Monday on a C-17.  It seems chaotic but the military does it all day and all night, so moving people all over the planet is routine for the people behind the scenes.  We humped the heavy duffle bags across the compound and settled in for the wait to see if we could catch a seat.

When we made the manifest, we then helped to palletize the bags.  (We lugged them to the pallets; the smart guys tied them down.)  Afterward, we were bused somewhere (curtains drawn again) and when the buses stopped, we were on the tarmac with a giant C-17 in front of us.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C-17_Globemaster_III

This aircraft was configured for passengers and some cargo.  The seats are removable so they can put only cargo when that’s the mission.  One row of permanent seats runs down the side, facing the middle of the plane, and there’s a block of airline seats that can be moved on and off in one unit that face the front of the aircraft.  No music, no view screens, the seats don’t recline.  The planes are Spartan – miles of exposed pipes and wires, steel floor, arch shaped (maybe 25 feet high), with hasps, clamps, gadgets hanging everywhere.  It was sweltering from the middle of the plane to the rear (where I was).  Cool air was blowing near the front but didn’t make it to the back.  It reminded me of that trip to REFORGER in the 80s.  I think we were on a C-141 then that had the jump seat configuration – canvas seats with canvas mesh webbing for back rests.  Rows along the sides facing inward and then two rows in the middle facing outward.  Soldiers on the sides sat facing those in the middle, knees touching.  (When you’re on a jump mission, the Jumpmaster will give a command of “Outboard personnel, STAND UP” and the guys along the inside stand up; followed by “Inboard personnel, STAND UP” and the inboard guys follow suit.  They’re packed in like sardines and can’t move around.  The next few commands get everyone ready to shuffle forward out the door and into space.)  Anyway, Myron Fanning and I were sitting under a blower and we were stripped down to our t-shirts.  A few feet away on either side, guys were wearing coats.  It was January, coupled with outside temperatures that were probably -50, but Myron and I were as warm as on the beach.  That heat didn’t make it around the plane, unfortunately.  It’s just luck of the draw where you end up sitting.  Same thing with the cool air while we flew over Iran.

Everyone dozed.  There were red filter lights inside the fuselage (there’s no way you could call it a cabin) that sent an eerie glow throughout the interior.  GIs can sleep anywhere, anytime, and they capitalize on those minutes to get some rest.  It was extremely uncomfortable but people tried to sleep anyway.  The plane had two dinner plate-sized portholes, one on each side of the plane, that were about six feet from the floor.  No other windows.  (A cargo plane doesn’t need windows…..)  The only thing you could see was that it was dark outside.  It was very noisy – the Air Force crew handed out earplugs and they’re supposed to be worn.  The roaring and engine whining are constant and make you long for stillness.  Even with earplugs, it’s head-banging time.  But, everyone made the best of it.

I thought about the culture shock again.  For military, that was just how it was.  People with zero experience doing this kind of thing would be mortified.  And confused, probably.  It’s just one big WTF?!?!  But, despite the discomfort and with the jet lag everyone was feeling, the troops just took it for granted.  Shoot, discomfort is the bulk of what they know all the time so they just adapt to it and it becomes their “normal”.

We landed in Bagram after 2100, I think.  I started trying to figure out the times (Afghanistan is 1.5 hours ahead of Kuwait) and I guess because I was so tired, it wouldn’t even make sense when I wrote it down.  I remember we had a show time at 0200 for the next flight so there was no point finding billeting to get some rest.  Instead, we found a DFAC for midnight chow and then just hung around.  Flies, flies, flies.  Everywhere.  Just awful.  You know they’ve been in the port-a potty before they come visit the DFAC.  You just know it.  I’d forgotten how the flies are ever present.

It was cold.  Unlike Kuwait where shirt sleeves at night were fine, it was time to break out the sweatshirt.  I found a free phone at the MWR office and called Judy at work.  I was disoriented and probably didn’t make much sense.  I was trying to let her know I was in Afghanistan and OK but I’m not sure what I said.  We’d been traveling since Friday (up at 0400 that morning) and it was now Tues early AM, and no one was feeling rested.

One of the guys I was traveling with found a soldier from Hawaii who was carrying a ukelele.  He asked to borrow it and started playing for everyone waiting to board the aircraft.

They called for the Kabul flight and two of us made the manifest (out of the four of us traveling together) but the flight didn’t take off when it was supposed to.  Same deal as before – lug your bags to the pallet and get them on so someone can strap them down.  (The other two guys made the next flight and it was only a couple of hours behind us.)  We walked across the tarmac and waited while the crew got ready for us.  Two of the younger guys on the flight crew were throwing a football around next to the plane – a C-130 (made famous by the Airborne in the refrain, “C-130 is a’rollin’ down the strip; Airborne Daddy gonna take a little trip…).  It was dark out and cold, and the place was lit up with those klieg/halogen lights.  Military aircraft were roaring all over the place and since we were adjacent to the runway, we just stood and watched planes come and go.

The C-130 was configured jump-seat style – as I mentioned earlier.  We sat on red canvas seats with canvas cargo netting against our backs.  Doesn’t sound like it could possibly be, but it’s comfortable for your back.  It’s not so for your legs, however.  You’re pretty much knee-to-knee.  Same deal as before on the inside – exposed pipes and wires, some insulation, maybe two portholes, and steel cables running the length of the plane for the jumpers to hook up their static lines.  The plane was cold but no one vomited, so that was a good deal.  (I told Ruppert when he was in jump school that it’s nightmarish if someone on a stick (a line of jumpers) vomits as they’re getting ready to jump.  Besides the stink and that the projectiles don’t have anywhere to go since everyone is touching, the psychological factor usually makes a few other guys join in and it can turn into a Roman vomitorium…

Once we landed, we waited for the other two in our group and then a rep from the company came to pick us up.

Oddly enough, the strangeness I felt the last time I was here when I first came into country wasn’t something I experienced.  I didn’t see it with those fresh eyes.  It looked normal – what I expected to see.  The dirt; the sheep walking down the road; the lack of rules for cars as they drove inches apart and changed positions without regard for others; the trash; the dirt (there’s lots of dirt); the people moving everywhere – including the women in the blue “beekeeper’s outfits”; the Afghan National Police (ANP) standing EVERYWHERE with Kalishnikovs; the noise; the houses and compounds made of mud; the simple but beautiful stone walls topped with barbed wire and concertina; the pockmarked, shell-shocked buildings; the conexs being used for shops and houses; uncovered meat hanging in front of stalls; men squatting and bull-shitting (no such thing for women); the nasty looking brown smog that makes you realize you’re breathing shit with every inhalation; everything looking old and tired.  It’s a country at war.  The capital is in better shape than many parts of this nation.

I’m staying in a safe house – in the same room I was in last time.  It’s all within an area they’ve turned into a green zone.  Can’t say much more than that.  Well secured.Within hours, I ran into four people I knew from my previous time here.  Good to see all of them.  I wasn’t surprised that they were still here – the place is full of contractors for whom this kind of life is their livelihood.  If you can’t find work at home and a contract company offers a job paying double to four or five times what you might make if there was a job at home, it’s a no-brainer for most people.  There’s zero on the fun factor, but it makes a checkbook sing.

I should be getting out of here soon and heading “downrange”.  Anxious to go – management is here and people are always in a hurry to get away from “the flagpole”.  I understand the feeling.  I’ll write more when I get where I’m going.

CRC to Ali Al Salem

Finally have an opportunity to write a note. I left home more than a week ago, on 10/22.

I have to be attuned to what I write as the military is extremely concerned about OPSEC and situational awareness. I'll err on the side of caution and hope leaving details out won't throw the gist of anything too far off.

I landed in Columbus, Georgia that evening and was met by the company LNO who immediately took me to a medical site. Keep in mind I’d spent the previous week getting immunizations at two locations, had 11 vials of blood drawn, an optometry appointment, a dental checkup with a new panorex, and completed mountains of paperwork. I thought I was golden.

At the med station (this was an off-post sub-contractor catering to deployees from what I could see), they scrubbed my physical and discovered my typhoid was outdated and my EKG from six months ago wasn’t recent enough. Rolled up my sleeve, got stuck, and then got an EKG. That cleared me – or so I thought.

From there, we went to Ft Benning and in-processed into CRC. CRC is the CONUS (Continental United States for all the acronym hindered) Replacement Center and they process individual military not going over as part of a unit, DoD civilians and contractors, and ensure they’re deployable.

Got my bed linen and building/bunk assignment and I was back under the umbrella of Uncle Sugar. Ft Benning is a huge, sprawling post that is testosterone-heavy. It’s a training ground for the Infantry. Enlisted Infantry soldiers go through basic and AIT there; officers have their basic and advanced courses there; Ranger, Airborne, Jumpmaster, Pathfinder, sniper schools are there – lots of very competent (and aggressive when it’s called for) Type-A people. CRC is a in a compound, surrounded by fencing and concertina wire on top, woods bordering it. Inside are maybe twenty cinderblock barracks buildings, a mess hall (it’s called DFAC now – dining facility), gym, and some assorted admin. Pretty stark but only for people who have never been around the military.

The rooms were Spartan – two sets of bunk beds, four lockers. Bathroom at the end of the hall with half dozen sinks, four toilets, three urinals and a communal shower with eight heads. Quickly reminded again about how much like pigs we men are. Judy tells me “men are pigs” all the time (other men, not me). But, the farting, snoring, coughing, cussing, burping, scratching balls and picking at underwear in cracks – it was a circus. I ended up with a top bunk. No one wants a top bunk but I was third man in the room so the young whippersnappers who got there first claimed rights of possession. They obviously were not moved by my experience and gray hair as neither offered to give up the bottom bunk to the old man. That first night, I jumped out of bed like a good paratrooper on his way to a middle of the night bladder run, planning on executing a good three point landing on the floor, and slammed my head into the ceiling as I jumped up and then hit the wall when I landed off balance. Nice one. After that, I was groggy, but still spry….

There were more than 400 people being processed so it was a week-long assembly line. Early mornings, paperwork (wills, powers of attorney, etc), classes, readiness training (first aid, IED stuff), more medical (up-to-date urinalysis for drug screen). Just seemed to go on and on. When we were in class being talked to about preparing our estates, the video mentioned that all soldiers think they’re ten feet tall and bullet proof. Nothing is ever going to happen to them. But, as we know, it’s happened to thousands of soldiers in the last decade-plus and those whose paperwork has been faulty would be rolling in their graves to see what happened upon their deaths. The Army has to pay beneficiaries by what folks list. It’s sad when a guy changes his life but not his paperwork, and his new desires can’t be followed.

We had formations mornings and evenings, and sometimes in between. The overwhelming majority of people knew what to expect but I couldn’t help but wonder about the few people who had zero military exposure. It had to have been shocking to see how things work. A new language, a new routine. The military formations were separate from the civilians. Military was put at attention and given commands. The NCO would then look at the civilians, point his arm, and say something like “Everybody face this way”; then wave his arm and shout “Let’s go.” One big gaggle.

Wide variety of people. The military stayed to themselves, it seemed. Friendly enough if you talked to them but there’s a chasm between contractors and military. The personalities about the civilians, though are just what you’d expect. It runs from normal (like me) to honest-to-god weird. Freak show weird. But, still, it’s interesting that there’s an entire segment of society – a sub-culture – who can talk about the food in Tikrit or the best place to buy a knife in Kabul. All these guys with repeated tours to lands most people will never see. Granted, the places are mostly shitholes, so why would you? But still. Places only the military/government will go to.

Old grey hairs in 5.11 pants who have been back and forth since the 90s when this all started were predominant. All of whom had war stories, and all, of course, start the same way they’ve started since George Washington’s time: “And there I was – and this is no shit - …” Whew. Exhausting being around so much bullshit. Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and relishing the audience – you can spot the stereotype a mile away.

There were a few stand-outs. Even among the hundreds. One guy I spotted in Atlanta while we were waiting for the flight down to Columbus. He had the 5.11s and combat boots (so do I so I’m not criticizing that) but he had the shirt, too. And a Ranger lanyard. And a Ranger ballcap. The ballcap had a medium size Ranger tab on the back and a large Ranger tab on the front. Those tabs were black and yellow. On the right side was a large grey and black Ranger tab and the Ranger tab was embroidered on the bill. “Say, man, you weren’t a Ranger on active duty, were you?” He also had an Army green canvas map case on his shoulder that spoke to being old school. I thought he was a doofus for certain. But, first impressions are often wrong… A few days later, we were bused over to the Central Issue Facility (CIF) for our issue (Kevlar helmet, flak vest, etc etc – about 75 pounds of stuff worth $3200 btw) and I ended up next to him on the bus. Surprisingly, he was a nice guy. No big war stories. He wouldn’t take that hat off, though. Several places in the past few days have been “no hat” zones and I’ve looked around. Sure enough, he’s one of two or three guys who look like they’ll fight before taking their hats off. “Screw that - I’m wearing my hat” kind of guy.

So anyway, in-processing. Something was wrong with my Letter of Authorization and out of our group, I was the only one exempted from the Anthrax and Smallpox shots. I minimized the noise on that. I refused the Anthrax shot when I was on active duty. That was back in the early days and I already had my retirement paperwork in. When told I was going to get it, I told the folks that “no, I wasn’t”. One of the few times it was nice to pull rank but it only worked because I was retiring.

Toward the end of the week, people started to disappear. Some with newly discovered medical problems and ailments and who knows what else. Some people became non-deployable for even the slightest thing and it was up to their contract company to determine if they’d keep their job and hang around a week to correct whatever the oversight was.

On Thursday, we had a SAAM formation – Special Assignment/Airlift Mission. The first information about the manifest. I’d heard about a deal where if you volunteered for the bag detail, you got to ride on the front of the plane. I should have known better. I’m 56 years old and I know better than to ever volunteer for anything in the Army. But, it’s been a lifetime pattern with me. I resist doing things that I know I shouldn't, and then I struggle with it, and ultimately, I succumb. Especially with ice cream and M&Ms.  Peanut.  And that’s exactly what happened.  I knew I shouldn't volunteer, but there it was:  I wasn’t going to let this good deal happen without me. So, I sought out the SGT and got my name on his list.

Early Friday morning, we dropped our bags at the pavilion – a huge open-air area with a cover. All we had to do was escort people in, two at a time, with their bags and tell them how to place them on the ground. It’s the military, remember, so there’s a procedure. Actually, it was orderly and it made sense. Shoot, it’s the military. As an aside, I remembered how the military subtly teaches people manners. When you go into the DFAC, there’s a big sign listing what is acceptable to wear. The kinds of clothes you see on the block aren’t what you’ll see in a dining facility. No torn clothes, no offensive messages, no open toed shoes, no ball caps, no sunglasses. “You wanna eat? Then you’ll dress how I tell you to dress.” OK by me.

Bags were dropped and counted, and then some civilian guys came in to load them on the truck. Hey. Now that’s what I’m talking about. That little bit for a first class seat? A nice big leather recliner, maybe with some champagne and a personal view screen? You go, Ralph. Good decision.

So we were bused to Lawson Army Airfield. LAA is on Ft Benning and it’s where the airborne school catches planes when paratroopers are going to jump on to Friar Drop Zone. When you’re in your third week of jump school, you catch a plane and jump in. It’s just one huge hangar building. Inside were some older gents and ladies with tables of free stuff. “Thank you for your service” stuff. Tables of paperbacks and buckets of Halloween candy. A little box to drop your mail and they’d pay for the postage. (Judy – look for that anniversary card. I didn’t forget. The old Grandma was happy to take the envelope when I told her it was my 30th anniversary and I didn’t have any stamps. “Drop it here rather than in Kuwait. I’ll get it to her faster than she’ll get it from over there.” Really nice people.)

We went through several checks and safety briefings. The flight commander was introduced. The dogs made repeated sweeps of everything. Very thorough. They fed us on long fold-out tables with disposable trays and in short order, we had the final briefing. A few folks with “goodbye, stay safe” talks and the Chaplain said a prayer. One of the CSMs had a pretty inspirational talk when he said all of us on the bleachers were the “secret weapon of the Army”. The flight leaves every week and there aren’t any bands; no flag waving; no one thanking people for what they were doing. And America doesn’t know about this end of it. That was the gist of his quick talk but it was nice.  Seemed like a squared away guy and very well spoken. I’m pretty jaded and I didn’t get maudlin, but I thought if anyone could move a crowd, he could. And that was it.

We were flying on a DC10 to Shannon, Ireland and then on from there.  The plane wasn't full so it looked like an even better deal. They called the COLs first and then the bag detail. “Man, this is getting better and better,” I thought. Walked across the tarmac and discovered Omni Air isn’t really the same as, say, United. It’s more like a government low-bidder aircraft. I climbed up the stairs with the rest of the excited bag detail and turned left – to the front of the plane. Which, when you think about it, was what I’d signed up for. Sadly, and what shouldn't have been a surprise, was the front of the plane was no different in configuration than the middle or the back. Same kind of seats. Same leg room. If you squinted your eyes, you could see all these little wisps of smoke coming off the top of heads as expectations just evaporated…

Oh, well. I had an empty seat between me and a woman who I found was going to Iraq. She’d been in the Marines for four years, went to school, and was a specialist in eye scans and had done a few tours like this already. I don’t know how she didn’t know about the “front of the plane” sham but she fell for it, too.

Dog handlers came on last with their dogs and they sat in bulkhead seats. An announcement went out that all weapons were to be placed on the floor with the butt facing the aisle. That’s something you don’t hear much on an airplane…

720 miles per hour so it didn't take long.  I guess there's normally a stop in Gander, Newfoundland.  I was on a troop transport in the mid-80s, flying to Germany for REFORGER (REturn of FOrces to GERmany) for a six week exercise and we stopped there.  It was January and unbelievably cold.  Anyway, missed it this time. The plane may have looked old and worn-out but it was hauling ass through the sky. We landed in Shannon, Ireland a few hours later and everyone got on the airport's free wifi. In a very short time, people looked tired and bone-weary. Just seemed to hit everyone at once. They were slurring and sleeping on chairs. On the ground for about five hours and then on to Kuwait. I didn’t sleep for the first leg, but took an Ambien once the plane lifted off. I woke up about six hours later when we were making our approach.

Internal clocks for everyone were out of whack. As I write this, it’s 2227 here in Kuwait but 2357 in Afghanistan, and 1327 in Colorado. Jet lag coming over here is a bitch.

We landed in the dark and the bag detail was first off. They put us in the belly of the aircraft, in a line at the base of the conveyor, or on the semi and then it started. One of the guys I’d noticed in Ft Benning was a guy I referred to as Mr. Helper Springbutt. Mr. Helper Springbutt had on brand new white tennis shoes and he bounced when walked. He also had on an Australian bushman hat with the left brim pinned up. He was Johnny-on–the-Spot but a goof, nonetheless. Looked like the kind of guy who always got picked last for pick-up games. You know the guy. The first guy climbed the conveyor to get into the belly and he started putting duffle bags on the belt. Everyone fell into place to hand the bags, fireman style, to the guys in the truck. Except Mr. Helper Springbutt. He of course didn’t get it. So he was hustling around, trying to handle every bag, being who?  Mr. Helper Springbutt, of course. I’d had enough of him after a few minutes while he dicked up the order of the line and the work, so I yelled at him and told him how to do this so you only lift every other bag. He still didn’t get it. My patience with the guy was non-existent to begin with (and c’mon – he had a bush hat on with the left side pinned up so that’s fair of me to be intolerant) so I spelled it out a little more forcefully using Army speak. Man, that felt good… He got in line and did what he was supposed to.

I ended up in the belly of the aircraft a few minutes after that and it was much more orderly up there. As bags came down the conveyor and more room was made in the hold, more of us went up there and made a line to the conveyor belt. The belly was only about 68” high, unfortunately, so I was bent over like Quasimodo and I kept forgetting. My head looked and felt like a cauliflower afterwards. I was sure I was going to bleed but it only swelled up. Good thing I wasn’t going to get my fortune told by an old snaggle-toothed gypsy woman who read skulls instead of palms. Like in the movies.  "Hmmm.  Lots of bumps here.  I see you going on a trip, maybe."

We went to a staging area after the bags were put in the semi.  Stayed there for a few hours – one tent, some tables, miles of sand, ten pallets of cases of water bottles, generators going full blast to keep the fifteen freezers of water cold and the halogen lights running. Here's a couple of labels from the bottles.  I sent Judy a collection the last time I was in Afgh and I don't think I had any that looked like this:

It was barely 1800 (6 PM to the civilians) and already looked the bottom of an ink well.  There was one long line of port-a potties that got a lot of use. I knew then that I was back to it. Whatever "it" is going to be. We got back on the buses and were told to pull the curtains. Took an hour in a convoy in the dark to get to Ali Al Salem where we piled out into a formation.

It took a few hours to get registered, off load bags (everyone helped this time), find bags in the resulting cluster-f*ck, get a tent assignment, sign up for a space-a flight. Everyone was running around, helter-skelter for a few hours. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of tents and of course, concrete.  Barriers and bunkers.

Ours has eight bunks in it for 16 guys.

Cement floor which means it’s here to stay. Everything is semi-permanent tents or portable buildings. Showers are in trailers as are toilets and the laundry. (Shower trailer has 12 showers on one side and a row of sinks on the other with a wooden bench down the middle. Toilets have 9 urinals on one side and a dozen toilets on the other. One side of the wall are sinks. The laundry has washing machines on one side, dryers on the other. You get the idea.) The toilets are typical Army, though. Signs posted in every toilet trailer that say “Writing graffiti or otherwise defacing government facilities is punishable by UCMJ” and “Do not write hateful, disgusting, or otherwise potentially harmful things on these walls”. You know to a GI that’s both an invitation and a challenge. The GI philosophers make going to the bathroom a real pleasure.

Otherwise, the place is all sand and rocks – nothing is paved.

Last night, one of the four guys I’m traveling with (three of us are retired military and former contractors; the fourth guy is an ITT whiz with zero mil time) was able to snag a Gator for our bags. He found some Philippine guys and after a quick dance in Tagalog, we didn’t have to carry our bags to the tent. After we got settled, we headed for the DFAC for midnight chow. It’s a 24 hour operation here. They even have a small McDonalds and a Subway.

It’s great for guys coming back from Iraq and Afgh who are on their way home on leave. After six months without fast food (and some of these guys haven’t been eating like on a cruise ship in their DFACs – if they have DFACs at all), it’s nice to grab a taste of home. What I was puzzled by, though, is seeing a few people who came in on my flight, sitting there eating that stuff. The DFAC is open 24 hours. Good food and plentiful, and they were paying for McDonalds. One in particular – another one who stood out – really bothers me. She’s active duty but looks to weigh close to 300 pounds. Her thighs are as big as my waist and I didn’t think you could get a uniform that big. She has the “fat girl” walk – swinging her arms side to side with sufficient force to propel her down the road. It looks like she's doing exercise in the shallow end of the pool.  Tight cornrows in a bunch down her back. How in the world someone hasn’t taken a piece of her with an ass-chewing like you read about, I don’t know. She’s a CPT, too. What an example. Anyway, I saw her devouring a 12” sub. Maybe she decided to be like Jared after she got over here…. And then, I saw her plowing through a mountain of syrup laden French toast and bacon.  Mmmmm.....  I didn't do the full accounting of her tray but it was probably a few thousand calories more than she needed.

Not much else. I’ve had access to the Stars and Stripes already. It’s free when you’re deployed. It struck me again how the news in the states only sporadically or superficially covers news of the war. But the Stars and Stripes? In depth. I think they do it to remind the guys that they’re not forgotten. There was a survey that said 90% of Americans believe the economy is the most important thing affecting the country while less than 50% said it was the conflict. There was also an article in yesterday’s paper that named five guys killed and their specific information. One young guy from 101st was killed in Paktika Province in Waziristan (or Wazi-something or other). Same unit that replaced Ruppert and in close to the same area, I think. Small arms and RPGs in a firefight. I can’t tell you how glad I am that his tour is finished.

Looks like I might get out tomorrow. Supposedly there’ll be a flight with seats. I’ll see how it goes.
At one of the places, I saw a sign that said “Be kinder than necessary for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle”. I liked that for its poignancy and will try to keep it in mind while I’m over here. I’m sure Ranger cap, Mr. Happy Springbutt, and Mystery Fatass How Are You Still On Active Duty have weird things going on in their orbits.