AN UNDERSTATED CHRISTMAS

(25DEC2008)

My phone rings at about 0930, waking me up.

I work nights a lot, to take advantage of the internet freeing up while everyone else is sleeping. With the exception of a few days when I have to get up early for a meeting, this works out pretty well. I make my own schedule and am largely my own boss.

The phone call is from one of the KTRs I work with – Rick – telling me that he’s located some of the vehicles we had been looking for. Back in November, I had helped install some data collection devices on 4 x vehicles and we periodically have to get hands-on them, to verify they’re working and to download the data. We’d struggled to find them
recently, and so we were both excited by this prospect.

I'm up and in my uniform by the time he knocks on my door, and by 1000 we're in the maintenance yard crawling inside vehicles and hooking up our computer. It is not how I spent any of my previous 32 Christmas mornings.

By lunchtime we’re across post; I have asked the guys I work with to all have their midday meal together. One of the new arrivals is sick as a dog, however, so it’s just 4 of us.

The food is, I think, identical to what they had at Thanksgiving, which is to say better than usual but not up to snuff with food back home. Nonetheless, we plan an early lunch so that we can digest and take advantage of the food again with a late dinner.

We chat about home, as always, and about our families. My coworkers are all married with children, so we talk about what they bought as presents for their wives (online) and all the money their wives are spending on the kids. It is a somewhat subdued conversation and before long we’re done and move on out. They to their tents, Izzy and I back across post to what he has taken to calling ‘the condo’ – the small building that houses our two rooms.

The afternoon passes uneventfully – I swing by some offices in the afternoon, but nobody is around. I send some emails, but the time difference is such that folks Stateside are still slumbering. I enjoy dinner by myself (I bring a book) and retire early to watch some television and hit the sack.

It is among the most indistinct Christmases I’ve experienced, and perhaps we’re better for it. Leading up to the holiday, several of my colleagues expressed exasperation with the decorations, saying they didn’t want to be reminded that they were missing this time of year with their loved ones.

I wouldn’t go that far, and I appreciate what the military tries to do for us out here during this time, but it’s true that we are more cognizant of the distances today. In fact, this holiday season was the first and to date only time I have really felt homesick during any of my deployments. It was not acute, and it was passing, but it was there. Or, I should say it was here, with me, in Afghanistan.

SOBERING REMINDER ON CHRISTMAS EVE

(24DEC2008)

It has been months since we had a Fallen Comrade ceremony.

It's a little after 1900 and well past sundown. The Big Voice just announced the ceremony. I knock on Izzy's door and we walk up to the road and stand waiting in the cold – and it feels colder for standing still.

The time they announce for the ceremony is always well in advance of the actual motorcade, and everyone chats quietly while we wait. During a ceremony some months ago, two soldiers were talking - and laughing - a little too loud. I watched as a nearby SGM straightened them out quickly and effectively. This is not the time or place to get goofy.

Izzy and I chat about the holidays. He tells me what he and his wife got the kids and what he ordered online for his wife. I tell him I'm looking forward to the turkey tomorrow.

By the time the escort MPs and the HMMWV with the casket roll by, the road is once again lined with soldiers and other personnel. I see the headlights crawling down the street toward us and we transition from an ‘at ease’ position to standing at attention. As the first vehicle begins to pass, we salute and hold that until the HMMWV passes, the flag-draped casket being guarded by the somber colleagues of the fallen who ride in the back.

The motorcade turns a corner and heads to the flightline where an aircraft is ready to accept it. They never have a ceremony until the plane is ready to roll. They don’t leave our fallen heroes waiting around for a flight; they do things right.

As the vehicles turn that corner, we disperse and head home - or what passes for it.

SGM = Sergeant Major
MP = Military Police
HMMWV = Highly Mobile Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

IT’LL BE A CHRISTMAS AT “HOME”

(22DEC2008)

I’ve been trying to get to FOB SHARANA for the last 5 days.

No luck.

The fixed wing flights are backed up primarily due to weather, but I’ve actually been trying to get out on rotary wing (helicopter), as it’s easier to travel with equipment and I have some fairly large vehicle scales I’d like to get down there for some data collection.

I love flying in helicopters, and it’s usually on those rides when I marvel that I get paid to do this. The large majority of my flights in Iraq were on helos, but I’ve only flown fixed wing in Afghanistan so far.

The rotary terminal posts their missions late in the afternoon, and I’ve been swinging by every day to check the schedule and without fail the missions are listed as having no space for pax. The soldier manning the desk recognizes me when I walk in each day and gives me a friendly wave.

I had thought I’d be in Sharana for Christmas, but I have appointments early next week that I have to be in Bagram for, so I’m abandoning my attempt to get down there for now. I have to allow several days on each end of the trip for cancelled/full flights, probably more now that the weather is worsening, and I don’t want to get stuck in Sharana.

And so, I’ll be spending Christmas in Bagram. It’s what passes for home here, I guess, and really for me it’s as home as I have anywhere. My belongings are in storage in the States and the “permanent” address I use is my parents’ house in Alabama, somewhere I’ve never stayed for more than a weeklong visit.

That part of my life actually makes being here easier, because I’m not missing anywhere specific. In fact I am not looking forward to returning to the States and having to go through the rigmarole of finding an apartment and moving in, buying a bed, hanging pictures, waiting for the cable guy, etc.

For now, that’s all taken care of. The Army tells me where to live and provides me with a bed, albeit the worst bed I’ve ever slept on, they give me three (or four) square meals a day, and a place to take a shower.

They take care of all my essentials and all they ask in return is that I go forth and do great things. I do my best, and I sleep well at night, even on that horrible mattress.

FOB = Forward Operating Base

FLEETING BLUE SKIES

(20DEC2008)

The weather seems to dominate conversations lately.

The last several days the rain has been constant but fluctuating in intensity. Drizzle gives way to downpour gives way to spitting. We’ve gotten used to trudging through the mud, though it’s nothing compared to the mud I experienced during a January in Baghdad. The Army has scattered gravel around in generous portions, and the dirt just isn’t as deep here – Afghanistan is altogether more rocky than Iraq, or than anyplace I’ve ever spent a lot of time.

The ground is uneven, though, and puddles are everywhere, some of them massive and cut off entire walkways so you have no choice but to slog right through it. Others are in roads I’ve driven hundreds of times, but hide a newly-formed trench that the vehicle drops violently into. I only make that mistake once.

Today, though, the rain has let up. The clouds still billow, but they’re puffy and white and the sky behind is bright blue and the sun makes continued appearances. It’s all a welcome sight after so many gray days.

The clouds breaking up also gives us our first look at the surrounding mountains in several days, and it’s clear that the rain we’ve been receiving at our altitude has been snow on the mountaintops. They look like they’ve been coated with powdered sugar.

THE RAIN KEEPS FALLING DOWN, DOWN, DOWN

(18DEC2008)

My friend and colleague Alex has been trying to get out of Afghanistan going on 4 days now.

He wants to be home for Christmas and, while we’re still optimistic he will be, the clock is ticking. We only have one vehicle and given his constant trips to the APOD to check on flights, wait on flights, and get bumped from flights, he’s had it most of the last few days and keeps in touch with us to let us know how his efforts are fairing.

I have watched him, over the past several days, deteriorate before my eyes. His spirits are continually trampled on by flights being cancelled, waiting lists that don’t advance, and the false hope of alternate destinations snatched away. The lack of sleep – because he’s checking flights every few hours and staying in a transient tent until he leaves – appears to weigh more and more heavily on him. His eyes are perpetually bloodshot and he looks beaten and cowed.

This night he has the car and calls me from the APOD to update me on his latest attempt to go home.

Alex: Hey, Joe. I got manifested and everything… and then they cancelled the flight! Can you believe that?

Me: Yes.

Of course I can believe it. It’s been happening every day. The rain and heavy fog have cancelled flights, the President’s visit a few days ago ceased all air travel for a spell and backed things up even more; the end result is that BAF is teeming with new, frustrated faces trying to get home for the holidays.

The weather has matched the moods of all the stranded folks; it was been grey and wet – raining daily off and on, at times coming in frantic downpours that make a homey thunder on the tin roof of my little hooch.

My phone rings a few minutes later and it’s Alex again, on his way to the other side of post. He tells me he’s being diverted because of a recent rocket strike on the base near his route. I’m incredulous – this is the first I’d heard of such a thing here at BAF in almost 4 months here.

A few days later I have a conversation with a friend of mine who is a Force Protection officer and he brings me up to speed on the threats here. As it turns out, in contrast to the base I was on in Iraq, these types of attacks are not announced and have occurred a few times since I arrived, entirely without my knowledge.

Strangely, this knowledge does not make me feel any les safe here. The base is enormous and is home to thousands of people. It is all far less than I put up with, and got used to, in Iraq.

I suppose ignorance was bliss, though.

APOD = Arial Port Of Debarkation
BAF = Bagram Air Field

THEY USE THE LATRINE JUST LIKE NORMAL FOLK

(17DEC2008)

I’m going on 3 hours of sleep, exhausted, walking through the cold morning drizzle, trying to keep my footing on the slick gravel. A LTC I don’t know passes me and asks “Are we having fun yet?”

“Not quite yet, sir” I answer.

I walk past a gaggle of MPs and slip into the MWR clamshell and out of the cold. It’s about 0820 and the place is nearly packed. I make my way to the rear and find a seat on a bench next to an Airman. Shortly after, they open the rear of the clamshell to allow people huddled outside to see the stage. This lets in the cold and wet.

The USO show was supposed to have been last night, but was cancelled. I presume it was because the weather delayed flights coming into theater, but I never hear an official reason. Shortly before 0800, we’re greeted by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff – ADM Mullen, in the flesh and on stage with his wife to welcome us and tell us what great Americans we are. It’s nice of him to be here.

The show itself is short – about an hour and 15 minutes, during which we see 6 acts. It starts with the comedians: John Bowman, Kathleen Madigan, and Lewis Black in that order. All very funny, though the crowd seems poised to laugh at a profanity regardless of the context. They each give the audience much to laugh at in that regard, their routines rife with off-color comments and verbiage.

The middle act is an actress/singer I’ve never heard of – Tichina Arnold – who talks for a little bit and then sings Wind Beneath My Wings which is a nice gesture to show her support for the troops, but does not fit the tone of the rest of the show.

She is very earnest, though, and is wearing very sparkly clothes, so she has that going for her. At one point, she’s walking across the stage and someone behind me yells out “I love you!” and she shoots back: Is that because I just turned around? Her pants were awfully tight.

The next two acts are the big-ticket performers, the first of which is Kellie Pickler. I am only vaguely familiar with her from American Idol, a show I’ve never really watched but know something of as a citizen of the world.

She sings a few songs, the only one of which I recognize is the Dolly Parton staple 9 to 5. She talks between her songs, seems sweet enough with her thick Southern accent, and says that she enjoyed meeting troops back in the States at FT CAMPBELL, North Carolina. FT CAMPBELL is in Kentucky, but that’s okay. She’s in Afghanistan, so I cut her some slack.

It’s during her set that the Airman sitting next to me takes out his camera and creeps up the center aisle to take a picture of her closer up. He’s far from the only one doing that (I don’t, of course), and it’s funny to watch each of them walk back to their seats, sheepish and embarrassed.

The last act – Kid Rock – is by far the longest. It’s just him with a guitar, and XXX with a guitar. I’d never heard of Zac Brown, but he breaks into his song Chicken Fried which I’ve heard on the radio a few times since I got here, so that was pretty cool.

I can only name a few Kid Rock songs and would certainly not say I’ve ever been a big fan, but that may be largely out of ignorance than anything else. He put on a really good show, was adequately and appropriately irreverent, and genuinely seemed to enjoy being here with us.

I have an awful lot of respect for all of the performers who visit us here. They’re generally fairly wealthy and are under no obligation to put themselves in harm’s way to come out and entertain us. I’m a lifelong fan of anyone I see over here.

The show ends after Kid Rock’s set and normally shows like this will have an autograph/photo session afterward. I linger for a few minutes until we’re told that the whole show has to, literally, jet. They’ve got a showtime for a flight to their next destination and won’t have time to hang out.

I exit through the rear and see a gaggle of people around two shuttle buses, the crew and performers either on the buses or just boarding. Ms. Pickler has her window open and is taking pictures with some of the soldiers. I catch Ms. Madigan’s eye and we exchange smiles, and then Lewis Black gives us the thumbs-up which quickly turns into a middle finger, to our amusement.

I walk off before the buses leave and make my way toward my hooch, tired from getting up so much earlier than usual, but glad I made the effort. It’s a bit of a walk and I pass by a shuttle bus pulled over on the side of one of the dirt roads in my housing area – an uncommon sight.

Then I see a couple of soldiers taking pictures with Kid Rock who presumably just came out of the latrine. Ms. Pickler then walks out of the latrine and by where I’m standing. I say “Thanks for coming” and she smiles the whitest smile and twangs back “Thank you”. Kid Rock then walks by me with someone from his crew and I say the same thing to him, but he’s deep in conversation.

I trudge on back to my room and to the rest of my day that is largely like every other, though it started quite differently.

LTC = Lieutenant Colonel
MP = Military Police
MWR = Morale Welfare & Recreation
USO = Uniformed Services Organization
ADM = Admiral

LIFE IN THE CLOUDS

(16DEC2008)

It’s easy to forget that we’re ‘at altitude’ here.

Surrounded by mountains, and always looking up at the horizon, gives the false impression that we’re in a low valley, that we’re at normal elevation and that only up there is soaring. I’m told that the city of Bagram, and the military base which takes its name – my home –, are at approximately 5,000’ above sea level – just a few hundred miles short of a mile.

I was warned before I came that the altitude would get to me, but I didn’t notice anything. My job is not generally strenuous, and while I would love to blame my shortness of breath while working out on the elevation, the truth is that I’m out of shape.

Today, the overcast sky was thick with clouds that seem to hover, densely, just out of arm’s reach. They spit at us occasionally, but for the most part have sat there like a dirty blanket; it feels as if we’re among them, as if they’re much closer than clouds should be.

The clouds block out the blue sky during the day and the stars at night, obscure the mountains, and dampen the collective spirit of the base. Not content to just smother, they also harken worsening weather.

Walking back to my room after a late meeting, the wind picks up and swirls the dirt and sand – not at all a proper sandstorm, as I’ve lived through a few of those, but enough to sting the eyes and to encourage a careful shaking-out of the uniform when I get inside.

It is not long after that the rain comes a little more regularly, and I listen to it on the thin roof of my room as lie down and think of warmer days.

A MISSED OPPORTUNITY WITH THE POTUS

(15DEC2008)

If you’re going to visit Iraq, you might as well swing by Afghanistan while you’re in the neighborhood.

President Bush was in my old stomping ground in Iraq yesterday where he had a much-publicized conference with a pair of shoes, and this morning he landed at my current home: Bagram, Afghanistan.

Unfortunately, I didn’t hear about his visit until he was long gone. They tend not to publicize his movements very far in advance, though some troops did get some warning, along with an invitation to hear him speak. One of the officers I work with, a LTC(P), accepted such an invite, though he was told in advance: It’s going to suck.

He recounts getting up at 0115 to shower, shave, and put on a new uniform, meeting the rest of the soldiers at 0200, and standing for over 4 hours on a hard concrete floor in a hangar – an area he was not allowed to leave once he entered – until Air Force One landed and taxied just outside. He tells of shaking the POTUS’ hand as Bush rushed past, not even looking back at who he’s pressing the flesh with. They listen to the speech, one I heard later on CNN, and must then wait until the President departs the airfield before they’re allowed to leave.

He tells of the grueling wait and captivity, of the fleeting meeting with our Commander-In-Chief, and the others in the room with us listen to his story and shake their hands, say “No thanks, Not worth it”, but I’d have been there if I’d had the opportunity.

I’m in Afghanistan, after all, and I’ll grab any chance to do, see, or experience something new. I’m not going to tell stories to my grandkids (or grandmothers, for that matter) about sitting at a computer making histograms.

POTUS = President Of The United States
LTC(P) – Lieutenant Colonel (Promotable) – officers get selected for promotion often several months before the advancement becomes official. During that time between selection and pinning on of the new rank, they can place a (P) after their rank as a sign of distinction, of selection and impending promotion.
USAF = United States Air Force

WHEN YA GOTTA GO

(14DEC2008)

I have a whole diatribe about port-a-johns that I’m sure my grandmothers can’t wait to read.

For now, suffice it to say I use portable toilets 95% of the time I need to get something out of my body. There are two sets of port-a-johns near my hooch. The closest is a pair of them in the corner of the housing area, and it is toward these I set out just moments ago.

Going to the bathroom nowadays requires bundling up, as it has become bitterly cold, especially at night. The johns are not far, but the walk is long enough for some critical body parts to get angry at you if they’re left exposed to the environment.

As I approach the pair of toilets, I see someone step into one of them, and as I’m almost there another man darts out of his room and into the other latrine, slamming the door behind him. I’m left to either wait them out or proceed to my second option, as my body pleads with me for action.

I turn around, and walk over to the next closest johns – 3 set up adjacent to the Kiwi (New Zealand) housing area. They’re all uninhabited, so I proceed to do in the cold plastic latrine what you get to do in the warmth and comfort of a proper bathroom.

I open the door to leave and am confronted by an ANA soldier standing directly in front of me. The other two johns are unoccupied, but he’s waiting for mine.

We switch places and I walk off, not at all sure why he was doing that. Perhaps he wanted me to warm it up for him.

I will strive to get a picture of these ANA guys, because to me they all look like little Fidel Castros – their uniforms are plain Army green and they have the same little green caps and almost always have the beard to complete the picture.

ANA = Afghan National Army

A DAY LIKE EVERY OTHER, BUT SLIGHTLY MORE FRENCH

(13DEC2008)

There have been an awful lot of French soldiers around lately.

I'm used to seeing them occasionally, about as much as I do any other nationality (and there are many), but the last week or so they’ve been present in abundance. They’re hard to miss, really, as many of them wear enormous berets that US soldiers have taken to calling ‘pizza hats’.

I have no formal interaction with them, but I run into them at the PX or the DFAC. Today I go to lunch when what appears to be the entire French contingent is chowing, as they are at almost every table.

I find a seat by myself and have just sat down when a French soldier approaches with his tray of grub and says, in broken English “May I join you? It’s just me.” It turns out to be just him and his three friends, but his asking was simply a formality, and I can’t imagine why I would mind anyhow.

I always bring a book with me to chow, but I leave it unopened as I strike up a conversation with them. Unfortunately, my French is far worse than their English, and their English is horrible. We exchange confused pleasantries, smile politely, and I lose myself in my latest book for the rest of the meal.

The food at the DFAC has taken on a generalized taste regardless of what is actually on the menu. It happens to all of us eventually, as our taste buds become numb to the very limited variety available them. I imagine my buds are angry, or at least bored, and have decided to go on strike until I can provide them with something worth showing up for.

It also does not help that the DFAC routinely runs short on supplies. When I was in Iraq they were ran low on lettuce and started cutting it with cabbage until eventually the entire tray labeled “Lettuce” was in fact filled with cabbage. They weren’t fooling anyone.

Today, as happened in Iraq a few times, they have almost completely run out of soda. The upright fridges are instead filled with Rip It, an uber-caffeinated “energy supplement” akin to Red Bull, and non-alcoholic beers. I have tried Rip It only once when I was very tired and needed to be alert for a VTC. I don’t touch the near-beer, having it only once in Iraq when I was invited to join a unit after a mission (you don't say no when they're celebrating making it back to base alive).

I worked with a woman in Iraq who drank the near-beer constantly, first thing in the morning and on throughout the day. Probably best she was in theater where alcohol is officially banned and in reality at least very hard to get. We all imagined she would be a sloppy mess in the States.

The current lack of soda doesn’t affect me too much, however, as I recently discovered the iced coffee in the DFAC, and it has been a small source of edible joy, but I have no doubt that it, too, will succumb to the overall malaise that is our menu.

The DFAC has also recently changed their supplier of cutlery, and I am none too happy about it. The old plastic forks, knives, and spoons were perfectly adequate for getting food from my plate to my mouth. The new ones fail far too often in this simple mission.

They are cheap. You can almost see through them, they’re so thin. I eat a lot of broccoli and cauliflower, but the fork is not cut out for the job of stabbing them which, really, is their only job. The tines break far too easily.

Also, the edges of the spoon are too wide, flare upward, and are sharp. I find myself eating Jell-O (I eat a lot of Jell-O) like a 5-year old, putting the entire bowl of the spoon into my mouth. The only thing missing is the airplane noises.

Fridays are steak & seafood nights at the DFAC, and yesterday’s dinner was no different. I didn’t get a steak, as I have to be in the right mood for them, but one of my colleagues did and not only did all of the tines of his fork surrender to the meat, the knife snapped in half as well.

PX = Post Exchange
DFAC = Dining FACility
VTC = Video TeleConference

BARTERING AT THE BAZAAR

(12DEC2008)
I went to the bazaar again, and almost immediately regretted it.

Nothing ever changes there. All the booths have the same oddments they always do, and I am just as uncomfortable haggling with the proprietors as I was the first time I pathetically attempted it.

I see some trinkets from time to time, things I might like to hang on the wall of the home I don’t have, or to give as gifts, but I am not at all convinced of their provenance - that any of the wares are actually, authentically, Afghani. And if some are, how does one tell from the abundance of clearly spurious ‘artifacts’?

I see soldiers buying chess boards with pictures of pharaohs and pyramids in the squares, and many of the knick-knacks boast Chinese characters – I’ll defer, and acquire my Egyptian and Chinese souvenirs when I visit those countries. There are wooden carvings of dolphins, and Afghanistan is land-locked. There are Afghan weavings of American college logos – I see a soldier buying 3 with the University of Alabama elephant. Much of the professionally packaged merchandise (generally clothing) have Pakistani labels.

I hover over a table looking at turtle-shaped candleholders while a soldier nearby is in serious negotiations with the merchant. He turns to me and asks, “Hey, can you settle this? How much do you think these gloves go for?” He’s holding a pair of gloves, clearly well-worn, the like of which I’d seen in the PX recently.

“About 50 or 60 bucks” I answer. The soldier turns back to the merchant and says “See?” The local relents and they complete the trade – a large, carved wooden bowl for the gloves.

I didn’t know until this time that bartering is allowed in the bazaar.

Hours later I recount this anecdote to my colleague Izzy and he nods knowingly. “What they really love is soap. It’s like gold.”

I’m skeptical about this, though, and say so. The vast majority of LNs I’ve encountered stink to high heaven; I’m not sure they’re using a lot of soap. Izzy knows this, we all do – you don’t want to stand too close to many of them, especially in the summer when the sweat bakes into them, it sits and festers in the folds of their clothing. It is a sharp, acrid smell, and it can be overwhelming.

“Maybe that’s why it’s so valuable,” he says and, of course, he has a point.

LN = Local National

Note: I certainly don't mean to be insensitive to the cultural differences which exhibit themselves in the majority of the Afghanis I've worked with and around stinking. They obviously grew up and were molded in a very different environment than I, and undoubtedly the Americans and other nationalities they encounter (in their country, I would be remiss to ignore) display behavior or characteristics which they find offensive or unpalatable.

IT'S A SIMPLE CHOICE: AISLE OR WINDOW?

(10DEC2008)
When I arrived in theater in August, I was met by two people I knew from my previous trip to Afghanistan last March. They were the only people in country I’d ever met before, and they left within weeks of my arrival.

People come and go. The only constant is you. Everyone I know and work with here now, I met within the last 102 days. They are good people, friendly and hard-working, and we are sharing a unique experience here at war, but there is no depth – no history – to these relationships. Not yet.

Personnel routinely move in and out of - or within - country, and I haven’t gone more than a couple of weeks without saying Good-bye to someone I work with and Howdy to his/her replacement. Sometimes it’s people on the periphery of my job – someone I’m used to seeing in a meeting I always attend and suddenly they’re gone and there’s a new face, a new personality to get to know. Sometimes it’s someone I see every day.

Whole units come into and depart theater together, of course. I work closely with a few here on BAF, and the one I know best is leaving in mid-January. I have asked them to introduce me to their replacements, but you never know how those will go. It’s a whole new command structure I have to brief and get on-board with my mission.

Generally, when people leave it’s a happy event. For my inner circle of colleagues, we have had a couple of people redeploy and we’ve gotten together for dinner (something we don’t do as a large group very often) and then head over to Green Beans for some café mocha or whathaveyou. The conversations still tend to work, but there’s a little more joking around, some slaps on the back, and the perfunctory questions about what we’ll each do when we get home, what we miss most.

A friend of mine left earlier this week and we had our get-together for him, told stories and laughed, wished him well and told him to keep in touch.

Sometimes when people leave it’s not as happy an event. The KTRs I work with have a saying that if things get to the point where they’re not enjoying their work, or if they’re needed at home, or would just rather be at home, they have an easy decision to make: aisle or window?

As the vast majority of KTRs are not full-time permanent employees, and will therefore have no connection with the company they currently work for after their contract expires. If they’re not happy, they can pick up and leave.

I don’t have that flexibility, because I’m a permanent employee of the military acting in the same position here as I have at home. Were I to leave before my time, I’d have a lot to answer for. While I could undoubtedly convince my command to let me come home (I did volunteer for this assignment after all), it would at least look bad, and at most could adversely affect my career. At any rate, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.

The soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen have it worse, of course. They are very much confined to the deployment/redeployment schedule of their unit and have no opportunity to leave early under any circumstances. They get their two weeks of R&R and can rush home for emergency leave (vetted by the Red Cross, I believe), but other than that they’re here for the duration.

One of the KTRs I work with was let go today. Though he’ll work until he was planning to go home for the holidays, it is a bittersweet time for him. He will not be returning to finish his contract, and so must readjust his financial plans for the next year. And, of course, getting fired is never fun.

As disappointed as we all are, it is never hard to find the silver lining in going home, even when it’s unexpected. My friend is married, as so many here are. He has a young son, and his wife is pregnant with a second. Certainly being home is not the worst thing that could happen to him and his family right now.

He is also in a unique position of having a job stateside that is eager to reemploy him. Given the current state of the economy, many KTRs I know are extending their tours because their options at home are limited or absent.

As one of them put it to me “I can either stay here and make more money than I’ve ever made in my life, or I can go home and be unemployed.”

Another easy decision, if you have the opportunity to make it.

BAF = Bagram Air Field
KTR = Contractor
R&R = Rest & Relaxation

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOHN MILTON

(09DEC2008)If he were alive, the esteemed poet John Milton would be 400 years old today and probably very, very tired.

It is also my 33^rd birthday.

Two years ago today I spent my 31^st birthday at Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, while on a short mission there, in what was my first foray into the Middle East. It was one of the work-around-the-clock missions, and I remember crawling into my bunk utterly fatigued sometime around 2200 that night, realizing it was my birthday and that it was almost over.

I don’t think anyone on that mission knew it was my birthday, and at any rate nobody said anything and I was far too exhausted to care.

This year, I saw my birthday coming, for all the good it does. There’s little one can do to make any one day more special than another, however, because the normal machinations of the war grind on uncaring. We all have jobs to do, and they have to be done every day without fail. Tuesdays are particularly busy for me, with an important VTC taking up most of the evening.

I don’t mention my birthday to anyone here – it’s hard to work that into conversation without sounding like you’re fishing for something, because of course you are.

I go about my business, and find myself eating dinner alone at a DFAC I don’t usually visit. Unlike my DFAC, this one has cake, and I help myself to a piece.

I receive a number of emails from family and friends, all of which I’m thankful for, but the day comes and goes not terribly unlike all the other days here.

VTC = Video TeleConference
DFAC = Dining FACility

GO SOMEBODY! BEAT SOMEBODY ELSE!

(06-07DEC2008)

I grew up a Navy brat*, though I can’t say I was ever very invested in the annual Army-Navy football game.

My father brought my brother and I to the Officer’s club on the Navy base near our childhood home to watch the game a few years, and in that atmosphere it was very easy to root for the “home team”. Certainly at that point I had only a connection to the USN and no inkling that I’d later work for the US Army.

My father didn’t attend the Naval Academy, however, and I always got the impression that while he certainly wanted Navy to win, the whole affair was as much an excuse for him to hang out and have a few beers with his friends, and his sons. The passion and excitement (or vulgar frustration and despair) wasn’t there for these games as it was when we would watch his alma mater.

I’ve worked for the Army for just over 3 years now, but I don’t think civilians in roles like mine really grow the roots in a service to feel as connected as those who enlist. We’re all part of one team, to be sure, but I’m not ‘brothers-in-arms’ with the soldiers I work with, and my career track and my obligations are very different than theirs.

The Army-Navy game is on today, right now as I write this in fact, and all week the AFN channels have had commercials for it – spots sponsored by one service or the other and ending with either “Go Army! Beat Navy!” or “Go Navy! Beat Army!”.

Just after the game starts, I walk up to the MWR nearest my hooch to watch the game in a rowdy atmosphere with soldiers and sailors, but they’re showing the South Park movie on the big screen. I get sucked into that for a good twenty minutes or so before walking over to try my luck at the MWR clamshell... where there’s salsa dancing.

Salsa dancing?

I didn’t know they had salsa dancing.

I walk back to my room and turn the game on to watch it by myself, and Navy has now built a commanding lead through 3 quarters, leading 24-0. In fact, Navy has won this game the last 6 years and 9 out of the last 11. While I don’t feel connected to either team more than the other, I’m definitely more a part of the military than I have ever been in my life.

I have been working nights a lot lately, as I will tonight, and so I’ll have this game on in the background and then some other intriguing college football games as the night turns into morning turns into exhaustion turns into sleep. And then we do it all over again.

USN = United States Navy
CDR = Commander
AFN = American Forces Network
HMMWV = High-Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle
MRAP = Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle

*My father is a retired Navy CDR, having served just over 20 years including a stint in Vietnam where, he once told me, he “counted jeeps”. More than 30 years later, I'm in the Middle East, in the midst of a very different war, and part of my job could be summed up similarly, though the military has long since graduated from jeeps and so I find myself counting HMMWVs and MRAPs.

IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK A TINY BIT LIKE CHRISTMAS. SORT OF. IF YOU SQUINT.

(06DEC2008)

I heard my first Christmas song last night as I drove across post for a meeting.

This is likely the latest in the year I’ve ever heard the first seasonal song, and frankly it still took me by surprise. It doesn’t feel like Christmas-time around here, and I seriously doubt that will change in the next few weeks.

That said, I see a spattering holiday decorations – the occasional wreath adorning a door or series of faux stockings tacked to a wall. The conference room at the BDE I frequent now has a small (1 ft tall) Christmas tree on the main table, pushed to the close end of the long table so that it doesn’t appear on camera when we have VTCs.

As I was walking into the DFAC last night I saw an announcement for R. Lee Ermey appearing at the MWR clamshell near my hooch. As I usually hear about these events after they occur, I was interested enough to make the effort to see him today. Interested enough to remember, which is really all the effort I needed to make.

R. Lee Ermey is a former Marine drill instructor who rose to fame in 1987 with his appearance as the fast-talking, foul-mouthed, hard-ass drill sergeant in Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket, among my favorites when I was younger (perhaps still, though I’ve not seen it in years). He would make more television and movie appearances, almost always in the same stereotypical role, including a spot in The Frighteners. More recently he’s hosted a show on The History Channel called Mail Call in which he responds to viewer questions about the military both past and present, and sometimes future. I’m looking forward to seeing him.

Of course, his appearance is canceled.

There are many reasons for cancellations here, to include the sometimes harrowing logistics of flying into a war zone. As I know from personal experience, flights in theater are delayed, re-routed, and cancelled altogether at a moment’s notice, and usually with no explanation.

As the MWR clamshell is only a short walk from my room, where I live and work, it was easy to pop up, see that it wasn’t going to happen, and walk back to my room and get back to work. The rest of the afternoon proceeds normally enough, and around 1800 I head out for dinner.

Part of R. Lee Ermey’s appearance in theater was apparently to pass out gift boxes, though I didn’t realize that when I was hoping to see him. As I walk by the MWR clamshell toward the DFAC, a female soldier hands me a box and a piece of paper, saying “Merry Christmas!”

I thank her and continue on when I see a collection of sailors just off the sidewalk handing out the boxes and taking pictures of each of us holding our boxes and smiling. They hand me another, smaller, plastic box and a small bag of Doritos, each of them echoing the holiday sentiment. “Merry Christmas!” “Merry Christmas!”

It seems early in the season for all this, but I gratefully accept and thank them each in turn. I then return to my room, not wanting to carry all of this loot with me into the chow hall.

The plastic box is actually a box of hand-wipes, which actually will come in handy (no pun intended) given the exceedingly dirty environment we operate in. The gift box has in it a T-shirt and the expected collection of hard candies, Gatorade packets, playing cards, more sanitary wipes, beef jerky, a candy bar, and a couple more bags of potato chips.

It also, quite inexplicably, contains a bottle of barbecue sauce. I have no idea what I’m going to do with that.

The box comes with a card which indicates the whole package is courtesy of the Navy Installations Command and the T-shirt bears the insignia of this Command.

The piece of paper that the soldier gave me with the gift box is a short note written by a young student, apparently as part of a Veteran’s Day assignment. It’s dated 11-7-2008 and reads, in its entirety (and verbatim):

Dear Veteran,

I feel so honnored that Men and Woman took chances of their lives to serve the army, or air force, and other things for America. And for leaving your family and home. It must feel good when you win a war. And sad for those who died.

Thank you. Love,
Madison

From the mouths of babes.

BDE = Brigade
VTC = Video TeleConference
DFAC = Dining FACility
MWR = Morale, Welfare and Recreation

CAR ALARM

(02DEC2008)

There’s a car somewhere in my housing area with an anti-theft alarm.

It goes off whenever we have a controlled detonation, or when the helicopters make use of the aerial gunnery range, the artillery pounding the ground. It also goes off every time one of the jets or large fixed wing aircraft take off – the roar of the engines are deafening (literally, I think; they’re probably the reason my hearing has deteriorated over the last few years). Some sort of incredibly noisy aircraft takes off every hour or so. It goes off when sanitation trucks come by to suck the waste out of the port-a-johns, or when the dump truck empties the dumpster. The many military vehicles about are also far from stealthy, their large diesel engines chugging loudly.

This is not the environment for car alarms.

SMILE IN THE SKY

(01DEC2008)

I have enjoyed the changing weather here in Afghanistan, as I’ve enjoyed the beauty of the surrounding mountains, and the changing scenery of the sky.

Iraq was terribly boring climatically, and there was hardly ever anything to look at. It rained briefly the first week I was there, and briefly the last week, but in between it was incredibly hot, dreadfully dry, and I remember seeing a cloud once, briefly. The sky was otherwise always clear, the sun blazing down on us unthwarted.

Here, I find myself looking to the horizon most days, to see if the mountains are clear, and to track the progress of the snow on their peaks. The air has been dusty of late, and though you can almost always still make out the ring of mountains around the base, they are not as impressive through the murk.

Still, I find the sunsets impressive here, as the sun will disappear below the mountains well before true night, and the play of the light over the peaks, the reddened and pinkened clouds, are different each day.

The night sky can be impressive as well, but moreso on the smaller FOBs that have less light pollution. BAF and the nearby Afghani town emit a low-lying artificial haze, but it really only obscures the lowest of stars in the sky. The moon always looks bright, and I often see the constellation Orion on his hunt above us.

Tonight, as I walked from the chow hall to my room, I saw in the Southern sky the crescent moon shining clearly and, above it, two bright spots that looked like eyes and the whole conjunction looked like a smiley-face.

I would read later online that I was far from the only person who noticed it, and that some astronomers had been looking forward to the alignment of Jupiter, Venus, and the moon. By the time nighttime rolled around to North American, however, the moon had moved through the planets to the other side and appeared as a frown.

So guess I got the better end of that.

ONE OUT OF THREE (AIN'T BAD)

(30NOV2008)

I hit a milestone today - I'm 1/3 of the way through the first leg of my deployment.

The time between when I arrived and when I leave next June for R&R is 278 days, and I'm in the midst of my 93rd.

In many ways, it feels like I haven't been here that long. I don't feel as integrated here as I did at this point during my Iraq deployment, in large part because the resources were not in place when I arrived here. In Iraq, I replaced a colleague who'd done all the hard work to set things up for everyone that came after him - including me.

Here, I'm paving the way, defining my role in this theater, and striving to set up the infrastructure (particularly the office). It's a lot of hard work, though I'm not complaining - I'd rather be doing this than anything else. I will have a much longer deployment than my predecessor had in Iraq, and I've every expectation of building this up to a comparable level by the time I hand the reins off to someone else.

R&R = Rest & Relaxation

AH-CHOO!

(30NOV2008)

I’ve never lived in a trailer home, or spent significant time in one (except in Iraq, I suppose), but my neighbor/coworker tells me what we’re living in is a lot like that. It has fake wood paneling and walls that you could put your fist through, and plenty of cracks at the seams where cold air and, presumably, insects sneak in.

The small building is bisected by a wall and I live on one side, and one of the guys I work with lives on the other. We each have a door to the outside and the whole building rattles when either of us leaves or returns.

I usually can’t hear anything going on in my neighbor’s space, though I commonly have the television on (AFN News) for background noise. When he has people over I can hear the muffled buzzing of voices, but generally can’t make out what they’re saying (not that I care to).

I’ve heard him snoring a few times, and I’m sure he hears the same from my side. I never hear his television, and he says he never hears mine, though I used to hear my previous neighbor’s radio when he had it placed right up against the separating wall; I don’t have a radio. I can hear his phone ringing, and I suppose he can hear mine, but phones don’t ring all that often over here and often we're calling each other anyhow.

I think it's important to keep that separation between our living areas. Privacy is something that is very rare in theater, and we're lucky to have what little slice of it we do.

I just sneezed and my neighbor shouted through the wall “God bless you!”

I shouted back, “You’re breaking the 4^th wall!”

AFN = American Forces Network

WHAT YOU’RE HEARING ARE “GOOD EXPLOSIONS”

(29NOV2008)

The aerial gunnery range is now hot.

The Big Voice announces this at least a couple of times each day, and the announcement is shortly followed by a series of low, thumping explosions. I’m not sure where the aerial gunnery range is, exactly, but it’s either fairly close to post or those explosions are pretty sizeable.

There will be a controlled detonation in the next five minutes.

This announcement comes every few days, when one of the EOD unit disposes of munitions and explosives, often confiscated enemy supplies. This is followed by one large explosion that shakes the Earth enough for everyone on post to feel it.

It’s better to hear the warning before the explosion, though at this point I assume any explosion is of the friendly variety. An alarm will sound otherwise, though I have only heard that alarm once in the three months I’ve been here – and that was only a warning of a heightened threat and nothing came of it.

My group here in Afghanistan is growing, and two new colleagues arrived just a few days ago. I was in an office speaking with one of them recently when we missed the ‘controlled detonation’ announcement. When my new coworker heard and felt the explosion, his eyes got very wide and he looked around to see if anyone was reacting with anything more than the indifference with which I accepted the blast.

It won’t be long, I know, before he gets used to the explosions as we all do here. It was the same in Iraq and, in fact, at my home station as well. They test munitions near my office in the States and the building shakes several times each day.

I wonder if this constant exposure to explosions is desensitizing me to them. I imagine being at my home in the States and if the house next door were to explode, I might just turn up the volume on the television.

EOD = Explosives Ordinance Disposal

THANKSGIVING

(27NOV2008)

This is the most significant holiday I’ve been in theater for.

In Iraq I celebrated Easter and the 4^th of July, as well as a few smaller holidays, but nothing to rival Thanksgiving or – soon – Christmas and New Year’s. For the most part, it does not feel like Thanksgiving. For one thing, we still have to work. Most soldiers are given time off after lunch, but the war moves on most of us remain busy with emails, reports, and other responsibilities.

And, of course, there’s a distinct lack of my family in Afghanistan – something that Thanksgiving in the States usually involves.

But it’s not a day like every other, and we do enjoy some degree of frivolity, a break from the usual grind. I spend most of the morning running errands with two new colleagues of mine, showing them around the base and getting them in-processed and issued passes.

I settle for a late lunch, meeting up with some of my Army colleagues around 1300. We go to a DFAC that I don’t normally eat at because it’s on the other side of post from where I live, but it’s the one closest to the BDE we fall under and it’s where the majority of my coworkers work and live.

The military has a tradition on Thanksgiving that many from the command will serve the food to the rest of the unit – in our case, the BDE CDR, CSM, BTN CDR, and a few other LTCs and MAJs work the serving line and wish us a happy holiday as they dole out the grub. I find it charming, and they must be enjoying it as well as they serve much longer than the 30 minutes I’d heard they’d be working.

I had arrived with one of my buddies from the BDE, but it’s very crowded and I soon lose him in the bustle. I end up grabbing a table with a SGT I’d not previously met but who works with one of my friends at the BTN. We chat about home and family – there are a slew of common questions we all ask each other when we meet, to include “Where are you from back home?” and “How long have you been here?” I don’t make a lifelong friend, but we have a good chat over our meals and he’ll be a familiar face for the rest of my deployment (or his, I suppose, since mine will last longer).

The food is actually pretty good, though I admit it may just be in comparison to what I eat every other day. The turkey, especially, is a cut above the standard turkey they occasionally serve us here. The fixins are mostly the normal variety, though I’d never seen cranberry sauce here. More than any of that, though, is that everyone is noticeably friendlier, and I soak in the relaxed atmosphere.

When I finish eating, I find some of my colleagues and sit with them to chat for a bit. I’d not previously met one of the girls at the table, and she’s showing pictures on her camera of an R&R trip she recently took to Qatar. The military provides 4-day passes to Qatar for military and military civilians (but not contractors), as long as your orders are for at least 179 days. They fly you direct from BAF to Qatar and you spend a few days in a small compound with organized trips off-post to go shopping, to the beach, or on cultural tours.

I had considered taking such a trip from Iraq last year, but could not find the free time, and I suspect it will be the same during my stay here, though I’d like the opportunity to explore a new country. I may have another way to do that, however, as my job may take me to Qatar in the course of the next year.

I then return to my side of the post, where I work out of my quarters for the rest of the afternoon before grabbing dinner at my usual DFAC. The menu is largely the same as lunch at the other chow hall, which is to say it’s better than usual, and I can’t help but have another heaping helping of turkey and beef.

It’s crowded again, and I sit with a young sailor and, though I have brought a book I’m reading, we chat for a good hour while enjoying the spread. It’s the kind of conversation that makes me feel old, as he asks me about my job and I give him career advice for when he leaves the service. It has not been very long that I’ve been in any position to give career advice, but I guess jumping around from job to job and settling on something I enjoy gives me some credibility in that arena. Many active military (and contractors, for that matter) seek out civilian military jobs so in that sense, too, I have accomplished something they would like to.


After he leaves, I walk around the DFAC taking pictures of some of the decorations. Many soldiers are doing the same, and I offer to take pictures of them if they want. A couple of Egyptian soldiers take me up on it, asking me to stand in with them at one point, and I reflect how alien this holiday must be for them and for all of the other foreign troops and workers.

I would see one of the Egyptians a couple of days later in the DFAC, and he stops at my table to shake my hand and ask me how I’m doing.

No family here, but we often settle for the familiar.

DFAC = Dining FACility
BDE = Brigade
BDE CDR = Brigade Commander
CSM = Command Sergeant Major
BTN CDR = Battalion Commander
LTC = Lieutenant Colonel
MAJ = Major
SGT = Sergeant
R&R = Rest and Relaxation
BAF = Bagram Air Field