DIVERSIONS, AND JALALABAD BRIEFLY

(WEEK OF 22-28 MARCH 2009)

¾

I have hit the 75% mark of the time between my deployment last August and my R&R this coming June.


I am not burnt out, but I’m getting to the point where I could use a frikkin’ day off.

Just two more months until my R&R.

***

SUMMER, AND THE BOYS OF IT

It’s gotten warmer in a hurry.

The winter was fairly mild, especially in comparison to the horror stories I heard of years past with snow piled as high as you knees, but it’s still pleasant to feel the temperature rising, to walk outside without having to put on a jacket.

Perhaps in celebration of this turn, but more likely coincidental to it, the MWR hosted a number of former Major League Baseball players for a meet & greet. I see the flier in the gym and, recognizing every name scheduled, think it would be neat. Izzy declines the invitation, so I head up by myself.

These sessions are always a little weird. When the performer can’t actually perform (like the rodeo riders, actors, actresses, these baseball players, etc), the most they can do is talk to you, answer questions, and sign some autographs. The MLB players take the time to quiz the audience with baseball trivia and the MWR is going all out by passing out new gloves, baseballs. The correct answers to the trivia receive bats.

I run into some of my colleagues from the BDE and chat with them a bit, and enjoy listening to the players talk about their experiences in the major leagues, and their views on the state of the game – steroids is a hot topic, unsurprisingly, and while they all openly oppose the use of performance enhancing drugs, it’s interesting that they have varying opinions on players who have been caught using them – whether they belong in the hall-of-fame or not, etc.


When we’ve exhausted our question and answers, the room forms a line and we pass by the tables they’re sitting at, collecting autographs, shaking hands, and passing along last minute thoughts.

I meet Dan Wilson, Jimmy Anderson (member of the 2004 World Series Champion Boston Red Sox), Chris Hammond, Turk Wendell, and Steve Karsay. I have an autographed flier to prove it, though it went into a stack of paper immediately upon my return to my room and I haven’t seen it since.

As a baseball fan, it was a neat, if not overwhelming distraction and, as always, we much appreciate the effort those guys go through to be here for the troops.

Top-notch of them.

MWR = Morale Welfare and Recreation
BDE = Brigade

***

THE BOOB TUBE

The cable keeps going out in my room. War is hell.

It’s hard for me to complain about this, considering the conditions many of my guys are living in (we rotate people into the rooms in the condo based on time-in-country and I’ve been here longer than any of them). I call and complain to the people I’m paying for the cable, though, and they send a technician out.

It keeps happening, and the technician tells me after his third trip that someone in the B-Hut next door keeps unplugging my cable from the junction box and plugging his own in. Someone’s stealing my cable.

He’s telling me this like it’s my problem now, there’s nothing he can do about it..

Me: Why don’t you just lock the junction box?

In fact, there is a lock on it. It’s plastic and easily twisted off. I prod him to improve on this security measure. He sighs, hems and haws, and returns hours later with a proper lock. Merchants in theater try to get away with as little as possible, and one has to be firm and pushy in order to get even a minimum of service sometimes. Izzy’s better at kicking their butts than I am, but I’m sick of my television going out.

The room I moved into in the condo had a TV pre-positioned for me, and I pay for the cable in the same bill I pay for the internet - $115 a month. Izzy expenses his and gets reimbursed because he’s using the internet for work, but it’s a pain in the ass for me to compensated so I just eat the expense.

The channel selection is eclectic.

We get AFN, of course, 7 channels worth, and those are the most important channels – they’re in English, and they broadcast American shows. I often leave the television on AFN News or AFN Sports while I’m working, just to keep connected to the real world. They show live news and games, but of course we’re 9.5 hours ahead of the US East Coast. I woke up at 0300 a few times to catch parts of football games, and I’m sure I’ll do the same when the baseball season starts up.

There’s also AFN Movie, which shows primarily family movies - nothing R-Rated. This is the same feed that all the military families in Europe are getting, after all. My schedule rarely matches up to actually sit down and watch a movie in this way. Easier to buy the bootleg DVD and watch it at my leisure.

AFN then has a few other channels - AFN Prime, AFN Xtra, AFN Spectrum, AFN Freedom - that generally just show half or hour long series. They have a lot of syndicated comedies, and sometimes it seems like all they show is ultimate fighting. I’ve seen way too many people punching each other in the face for lack of television options.

AFN shows only a small sample of current series, usually between a day and a week behind the first showing in the States, though sometimes they can lag by as much as a few months.

Being out here has largely weaned me from habitual television watching, though. I like keeping up-to-date with CNN and Sports Center, but circumstances don’t allow for sitting down at the same time every week to watch anything with regularity. This can only be a good thing.

AFN doesn’t have commercials, and it always something I notice when I return to the States and watch television there. Because networks are providing their feeds to the military for free (or at least drastically reduced prices), AFN isn’t allowed to generate revenue from them. So instead of commercials, we get what amount to public service announcements, all geared toward military personnel and their families.

I am constantly told not to drink and drive (check), not to beat my wife (check), not to commit sexual assault (check), not to tape grenades (check... wait, what?), and given a myriad of other good ideas. There are a limited number of these spots (within an hour you’ve seen them all), and their production value is usually very poor. They are a constant target of our jokes.

The lack of commercials was especially frustrating during the Super Bowl, though I slept through most of that anyhow (it started at 0400).

We also get a smattering of non-AFN channels, piped in from Pakistan, India, Germany, South Africa, and other less obvious origins. Those channels are hilarious.

I saw a commercial for a bucket on one of the Indian channels. A bucket! There were children playing, Indian Mom mopping the floor, and there was a close-up of the bucket she was using. Then the kids were playing outside with a couple of buckets, throwing water on each other. The commercial ended with a display of brightly colored buckets stacked in a pyramid and a slogan I couldn’t understand (but wanted to!). I was flabbergasted.

Izzy says he likes to watch the Pakistani soap operas and action movies, but I’m not sure I believe him. I find them fairly unwatchable. I walked into one of the little stores next to the PX to buy a phone card and the workers had their TV tuned to one of these channels. There was a fight scene in a chicken coop (at one point the combatants were actually throwing chickens at each other) and for the entire time I was in the store (maybe 10 minutes) there was nothing but clucking and squawking.

There are foreign versions of MTV with the most ridiculous videos. My favorite was of a man - he looked like Borat - singing in a more or less monotone voice and walking around the city. He buys a bottle of water at one point, which was exciting. He gives a soccer ball to a child, and then takes another kid by the hand before getting in a paddle-boat with him. It was vaguely creepy.

Another more high-tempo song included a video of the singers being chased around a nightclub by someone wearing an enormous George Bush mask with one oversized hand. Just one. I would have LOVED to know what they were singing about.

Until recently, many of the channels on my television came in poorly - I watched most of the current season of 24 in black & white. Two of the AFN channels came in with no audio, and another had its audio displaced from the video by a good 5 seconds, rendering the channel unwatchable. I don’t recall how it came up, but when I mentioned it to Izzy he asked if I’d reprogrammed my television.

Of course I had not, and when I did it fixed all of the problems except for the fact that I’m an idiot.

There are still the problems of the time difference. Aside from live events being aired in the middle of the night, even shows that AFN controls aren’t exactly tuned for us - it seems AFN is geared toward Europe, and we’re 2.5 hours ahead of Germany, so that doesn’t always work out well. Add to that the constant interruptions for jets taking off, the volume of which cannot be overcome by any television yet produced. You just have to hope that doesn’t happen during a crucial scene or moment in whatever you’re watching. It, of course, always does.

None of this is meant to say that there’s a lot of time for watching television, there’s not. But over the 7+ months I’ve been here, the television has served as background noise, and occasional distraction. I certainly welcome the opportunity to escape into a good show, or even a ridiculous one.

Usually I pop in a bootleg DVD, but that’s another post, I think.

AFN = Armed Forces Network

***

WOMEN OF WRESTLING

I’ve never been into professional wrestling.

I think I watched a couple of times when I was a kid, and I fondly remember Roddy Piper in “They Live” and Jesse Ventura in “Predator”, but that’s about the extent of my fandom. I don’t know anyone now working in the industry, and that includes these “women of wrestling” who are visiting us.

I saw the flier and noted the times they’d be in the MWR clamshell signing autographs. As it turned out, I was waiting for a flight at that time, just a couple of blocks from the MWR, so I popped in.

I have never seen lines that long.

Apparently pro wrestling is very popular with the soldiers. I wind my way through the crowd and snap a couple of pictures of women I don’t recognize, and then I flee, returning to the APOD and the slim hope of getting on a bird to JBAD.

The next day, Izzy and I are both in the APOD waiting for one of our colleagues to return from a trip, and we see the women of wrestling walk in and be ushered into the VIP lounge, the door of which is right next to the wall we’re leaning on.

These women have enough make-up (or shellac, as Izzy calls it) for every woman on post. They’re small, and their clothes are even smaller. I’m not sure if “trashy” is the right word, but it may be. One of them pops out of the room long enough to stand in front of the crowded room and exclaim “I’m so tired! I can’t wait to get home!” while stretching and touching her toes - I thought her whole outfit would pop off and fly across the room like a rubber band. She didn’t say it like she was complaining, it came off more as a joke. A few people laughed, most were just baffled.

She chatted with a few people before escaping into the VIP lounge again, as Izzy and I just smirked and shook our heads. I’m grateful to anyone who comes out here to visit the troops, and I’ll just leave it at that.

MWR = Morale Welfare and Recreation
JBAD = Jalalabad
APOD = Arial Port of Debarkation

***

“BBQ AT MY PLACE”

Overhead at lunch today, two soldiers talking about life back home. From their conversation, it didn’t seem as if they knew each other well - that one of them just arrived and would be working with the other. You become fast friends that way.

They swap the usual stories about family and where they live back home, and one of them gets off on a tangent about barbecuing and tells his new friend how he’ll have him over for BBQ and all the things they’ll cook.

We’re in the chow hall, plates full, but it’s the easiest thing in the world to imagine yourself thousands of miles away with real food, and to imagine your new friend will by then be an old friend - a war buddy even.

I keep in fleeting contact with two friends I made in Iraq, and I even saw one back in the States after we’d both finished our tours - we shared some beers and told stories. Iraq stories. Even he’s drifted away, though, and for the most part I don’t expect to keep in touch with the people I work with here. As close as we are now - out of necessity, I suppose - we will each leave theater at different times, and the moment you’re on that fast plane toward a decent steak you’re starting to be forgotten. The day after you leave is filled with work, with stress, with all the things that fill time in war, and your absence is noted only briefly.

You will think of the war far more over the following months than it will think of you.

***

MY POSSIBLE REPLACEMENT

I received an email from a colleague in the States this week. He asked me questions about what it’s like out here, how the living conditions are, what the work is like. He asked me when I plan on leaving.

I’ve developed a sense of responsibility for my position here, both in my role as the government representative for the team of KTRs, and as an analyst to the BDE. I want to feel comfortable turning over the reins to someone I know will do a good job - ideally, even better than I did.

When I left Iraq, I was replaced by a good friend who I knew would outshine me in many respects, and he did. Our skill sets didn’t match up exactly, so there were some things I did that he didn’t continue, but he was productive and well-respected, successful. I knew he would be, and when I left Iraq I largely forgot about it. It was in good hands.

This colleague who emailed me, however, does not imbue me with a great deal of confidence.

I’ve now been in Afghanistan for about as long as I was in Iraq, and I’m not ready to leave yet, and neither is my command ready for me to return, I think. I don’t have the ultimate say over who replaces me, and I would not (did not) lie to my colleague about what it’s like out here. But I told him I wasn’t returning any time soon, which I believe I have some control over.

Were he someone else, or one of several someone elses, I may have felt differently.

KTR - Contractor
BDE = Brigade

***

FALLEN SAILORS

I walk up to a Fallen Comrade ceremony for the first time in weeks.

Though there have been a few lately, I have missed them due to travel or perhaps by my not understanding the message being broadcast by The Big Voice. At least once a day there’s a garbled message, the projection from multiple speakers overlapping and making the whole thing sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

Today, though, I’m walking back from the port-a-john when I hear the announcement loud and clear:

There will be a Fallen Comrade Ceremony. All available personnel are to report to Disney Drive no later than one-zero-three-five hours. Picture taking, PT uniforms, and sunglasses are not allowed.

I walk up at 1030 and take a place in the line of personnel. Though primarily a US base, there are military from many other nations living and working on BAF, and I always like when I see the soldiers from other countries join us for the Fallen Comrade ceremonies. Some of my Kiwi neighbors file past me, and 3 French soldiers take their place across the street.

We stand at parade rest. Feet splayed slightly, hands clasped behind the back. We stand like that for well over half an hour, which is common for these ceremonies. Many people don’t even arrive until 30 minutes after the announced time, knowing that it won’t have started yet.

I’m standing on the side of a small road that runs from Disney to the flight line, and I see the first vehicle, an MP with its lights flashing, rolling slowly down the street and bringing everyone to attention. Feet together, hands at sides.

The next two vehicles are HMMWVs, modified with a flat bed that has benches on the sides. The coffins sit in the middle of the beds, one in each vehicle, and the colleagues of the fallen sit on the benches, guarding and honoring.

The colleagues are all sailors, and this is the first time I’ve seen a Fallen Comrade ceremony for Navy personnel. They wear brown combat uniforms, and the HMMWVs are brown. The whole base is in a constant state of dustiness, dirt and gravel and dirty concrete dull one’s view.

The flags on the coffins, though, are bright and crisp, striking in their contrast.

We salute, and hold that as a trailing vehicle passes – the last truck holds a camera crew that records the ceremony to present to the family of the fallen. I always imagine how moving that must be, to see so many people lining a road to pay tribute, to know that your loved one was treated with such respect.

We drop the salute after the cameras pass, and on our little road most of us stand at attention until the convoy has entered on to the flight line.

The whole thing lasts about an hour, and is probably the most important hour I’ll spend today.

PT = Physical Training
HMMWV = High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

***

17 HOURS IN JALALABAD

I get a lot of mileage out of the joke that a Christmas carol about Jalalabad would pretty much write itself.

I finally get a flight down there after nearly a week of trying.

As soon as I arrived I added my name to the OML (wait list) for a flight back to Bagram. I wanted to spend as little time in JBAD as possible, and to a large extent I succeeded.

As it was only about 0300 when I got there, I found a cot in a tent with 50 other smelly, snoring, farting guys, and promptly went to sleep. I got up and out around 0800, brushed my tooth, and called my KTRs, who were surprised I was there. Good.

The walk over to their office reminded me how alike all of the military installations are in the Middle East. The gravel crunched under my boots as I passed tents and makeshift wooden buildings I could push over if so inclined. Leased SUVs mix in with the usual collection of armored vehicles passing me on the street, soldiers with M4s slung across their backs nod howdy, and helicopters scoot across the rooftops toward the airfield.


I’ve been on (I just counted) 11 bases in Kuwait, Iraq, and Afghanistan and I can imagine a million views on each that could easily be on any other. It takes some time to learn the peculiarities and unique aspects of a base, and many traits only reveal themselves slowly the longer you call a base “home”.

When I get to the office, I meet briefly with the MSG my guys fall under there; I’d spoken to him on the phone and exchanged emails with him, and it’s good to finally meet him. Some of these smaller FOBs are so isolated, and my KTRs have such a small presence, that it’s easy to forget they’re part of a larger mission in country, and I don’t blame them for feeling like their own bosses.

While the site visit is important, to make sure the guys are taken care of and have a good relationship with their units, other business brought me to JBAD at this time. I’m looking for a particular vehicle. Back in November we installed a data collection device on an MRAP and were tracking it in Bagram before the unit transferred some of its vehicles to JBAD - then we heard the vehicle was deadlined - broken - and so I came up to investigate, and to download the data from our device, if possible.

We find the vehicle under a tarp, the batteries lifeless from sitting cold for so long. As I need vehicle power to access our device, I’m dead in the water. At least I put eyes on the vehicle, though, and can hopefully keep better tabs on its repair and subsequent movement. So, not a total failure.

After lunch (which was like lunch in any DFAC), I’m given a driving tour around post and JBAD’s character starts to show. It’s a smaller post than Bagram, but oddly shaped and with much more Afghan National Army personnel. My guide points out the local-owned electronics/bootleg store – the largest I’ve seen on any base, and a luxury.

There are places we stop and we can peek over the wall. The land outside is lush with greenery, trees and farmland. I see locals tending their fields, and people milling peacefully about. I love the view, such as there is one at all. They don’t have our mountains, but the green is enough of a novelty to more than capture my interest.

My work in JBAD done, mid-afternoon finds me back at the APOD checking on flights back to Bagram. Because BAF acts as the hub for this region of the country, almost every flight out is headed there, and it appears it will be much easier to get out of than it was to get into Jalalabad. I sign up and spend some more time chatting with my guys before releasing them to their lives and waiting with a book.

I tell them I’ll call if I don’t get on the next flight, but as it turns out there is not reason. 17 hours after my arrival, I’m headed back to Bagram on a C-130. It is a rare day-trip in theater, and I look forward to my own bed the entire time I’m crammed into the plane on the way “home”.

OML = Order of Merit List
JBAD = Jalalabad
KTR = Contractor
M4 = Standard issue machine gun
MSG = Master Sergeant
FOB = Forward Operating Base
MRAP = Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (vehicle)
DFAC = Dining Facility
APOD = Arial Port of Debarkation
BAF = Bagram Air Field

AS THE WAR TURNS

(WEEK OF 15-21 MARCH 2009)

WHAT’S GOING ON OUT THERE?

Izzy and I live right next to the wire, the other side of which I refer to as the Afghan wild, where the Afghan people move about uncontained by concertina wire, Hesco barriers, and T-walls. The enemy could be right there, over that wall.

Izzy likes to make the joke that he asks for a tennis racket in care packages so that he can swat back any grenades thrown at us from over the wire. There are, of course, guard towers watching over us, and I don’t lose any sleep thinking about being attacked via that route.

Izzy jokes about it, though. When someone comments on his long beard, he says he wants to be able to blend in with the Taliban when they storm they wall by the condo (he calls our hooch “the condo” and it’s caught on, despite my initial reluctance).

The last few days, US military helicopters have been circling the village just outside the base, adjacent to the condo. They buzz low over the rooftops, always in pairs (helicopters rarely travel anywhere alone), and sometimes so low that you can see the expression on the pilots face.

We can only assume that there has been intelligence of… something out there, something that they’re looking for or squelching through their presence.

***

AS THE WAR TURNS

Every day is another episode in the ongoing soap opera that is our lives.

This is undoubtedly true everywhere, but out here - in these close quarters - our own series gets intertwined with everyone else’s, and their drama is hard to ignore. Divorces, deaths in the family, missed birthdays and anniversaries, job concerns, inexplicable money woes, and so on. There is no shortage of it out here.

We all know several people going through divorces while deployed. I don’t know how they do it; perhaps being out here is the escape they need. Or perhaps they need the money that being out here gives them.

There are affairs aplenty, and poor secrecy protecting them. With a dearth of women, I guess when one goes off the market, people talk.

The money worries always get me. Everyone out here is making a good amount of money, and yet I speak to KTRs making far more than me who are living paycheck to paycheck. Some show me pictures of new cars and motorcycles they’ve purchased, but never use because they’re here. Others explain how their wives and family are spending their money, living well, and pushing out their deployment with every new toy they “need”.

I sat down for lunch and got roped into a ridiculous conversation with a guy who, married in the States, was carrying on an affair with a woman in Korea. He was trying to figure out how to take his R&R in Seoul without his family finding out. It was absurd.

I believe I stay out of the grapevine, though, because I’m boring. I’m not married, not divorced, I’m not having an affair, and I rarely speak about my personal life. There are too many single guys (or guys who say their single) for my condition to be of much interest, which is fine with me.

In Iraq, the only time I was anyone’s radar was just days before I left when, during my award ceremony, my CDR jokingly announced that I came to Iraq looking for a wife. The busy-Berthas approached me after telling me about how this young lady was single, or about their daughter in the States.

Out here, none of that. Not yet, and hopefully not ever.

KTR = Contractor
R&R = Rest and Relaxation (or, sometimes, Rest and Recuperation)
CDR = Commander

***

BLACKWATER DINNER

Once again I make friends over a meal, forced to share a table with strangers.

This time, it’s employees of Blackwater- er, Xe. The company changed its name to Xe this past February, ostensibly to highlight its shifting corporate focus, but realistically (and obviously) to separate itself from the mountains of bad press from its operations in Iraq.

I knew only one Blackwater employee in Iraq, and he was a buddy of mine. He was not involved in any of the high-profile conflicts, the shoot-outs that left bystanders dead and the media clamoring, but he nonetheless had stories of firefights and a life on the edge (literally, as he often hung out of a helicopter). He was a good guy, former Special Forces, as most Blackwater employees are.

In both theaters, Blackwater has filled a wide variety of needs, to include the most controversial - private security. As it was explained to me, the US Military simply didn’t have the manpower to support security for all of the US and Iraqi politicians who needed to move around the battlefield. Thus: Blackwater.

My Afghan friend Hali despises Blackwater. She saw firsthand some of the liberties they took in Iraq - and there were undoubtedly mistakes made - and blames the corporate attitude that allowed it. She would seethe when the subject came up over lunch the two times I’ve eaten with her.

Blackwater (= Xe) has a much smaller footprint in Afghanistan. I have not heard of their holding any private security contracts. They may, but if so they’re keeping a much lower profile. The only role I’m familiar with Blackwater filling here is flying the STOL flights.

STOLs (as we refer to the planes themselves) are small, non-military passenger and planes, with honest-to-goodness airplane seats in them. I’ve flown STOLs several times, and prefer them for the comfort and the view they afford.

My new friends Bill and Ed are STOL pilots.

They ask me about my job and are a little more excited about it than I am, but I don’t mind answering their questions. I suppose access to any other aspect of this war is interesting to them at this point.

They talk a bit about flying around Afghanistan and can’t say enough about how beautiful some parts of the country are. Certainly the mountains are breathtaking, and would be a source of great skiing if tourists didn’t have to fear for their lives, but they say other parts are beautiful, too - and green, which is not something I’ve seen a whole lot of. Army bases always seem to be located in the blandest, brownest locales.

They have flown over mountains and seen shepherds camping on ledges with almost no provisions or equipment to speak of, just a cane and some goats, waving. Whole villages are likewise isolated, on the sides of slopes. I remember seeing some of those flying between FOBs, and the structures would always be situated adjacent to then-dry wadi (riverbeds), presumably making resources stretch during the many waterless months.

They talk about flying with a passion I envy - I really, really enjoy my job, but I don’t think I have as much fun as they do. They talk about buzzing compounds in Kabul and, when they have no passengers, taking some of the scarier routes through the mountain peaks and valleys.

We exchange cards, and they offer to ever help me out with flights if I need it, and I ask them to drop me a note next time they’re in Bagram and I’ll show them around some of the vehicles I work on.

STOL = Short Take-Off and Landing
FOB = Forward Operating Base

***

TRYING, FAILING TO MOVE

I've been trying (and, of course, failing) to get to Jalalabad for days. I routinely pack my bags, put on my body armor and kevlar (= helmet; both are required to fly on a military flight) and trudge up to the APOD for showtime after canceled or useless showtime.

I step into the APOD Friday morning when it's still dark out, hoping to get on a flight that ends up having far too few seats. Namely zero. When I emerge, exhausted but having accomplished nothing, the sun is out and there's a ruckus on Disney Drive. I hear music, a band. And a DJ. Then I see the banner and people running by in bright green hats.

My BDE is hosting a ST Patrick's Day run, and people have gotten up at 0600 to show their spirit, to do something (anything!) social. I chat for a few minutes with one of the ladies I know, watching some of my friends roll past, everyone seemingly having a good time despite how miserable people always look when they're running.

I don't even last long watching, standing there in my armor, sleep-deprived.

APOD = Arial Port of Debarkation
BDE = Brigade

HUDDLE UP AND RIDE ALONG

(WEEK OF 08-14 MARCH, 2009)

SUICIDE PREVENTION

It is a sad and unfortunate consequence of the current conflicts that suicides among servicemembers has been on the rise. Multiple deployments have taken a toll on young soldiers separated from their families, and the stress of a wartime environment alone is no small obstacle for many.

The Army recently released suicide numbers to the media for 2009, a metric it does not normally discuss until the end of a calendar year. But the Army is taking this seriously, and wants to highlight this internal danger to the health of our Armed Forces.

As soon as this subject made headlines, and the Army stated that it would take aims to address the problem immediately, we all knew there was training in our future. It didn't take long before the DACs and soldiers were ushered into a conference room (KTRs are immune to most, but not all, mandated training).

The training consists of interactive movies, worksheets, discussions among break-out groups, and a brief open forum. The movie is slick and modern, a stark contrast to the majority of the training I receive that was clearly made in the 1970s (the lapels and ties give them away). As a whole, it focuses on identifying the warning signs of mental distress in your buddies and emphasize that once you’ve identified a problem, you are not to leave that person until they’re sought help.You force them if you have to, but you don't leave them alone.

I have, thankfully, not worked with anyone in either theater that killed themselves (that I know of), though I’ve come close. A unit I worked very closely with in Iraq lost a soldier to his own hand a month or two after I left - someone I certainly worked with, though I never learned the name of the victim. Stories abound on every post, though, and the majority concern a soldier (or marine, sailor, airman) distraught over a failed relationship while deployed.

Mental well-being is tricky to gauge out here, because we’re all under an unusual type (and amount) of stress; we are separated from family, friends, the luxuries of home, we’re occasionally under attack, we’re cooped up, and we never, ever, get a day off. It is expected that we will all have down days, and we do. You never know what the guy next to you is dealing with back home, and one phone call from an upset wife or bad news about a loved one can exacerbate the feelings of isolation we all experience.

Furthermore, working alongside the same people for 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, will inevitably result in friction. I’m lucky to work with a good group of guys (and a girl), but they have each annoyed me at one point or another, and I know I’ve returned the favor. It's impossible not to.

All that said, some of us are better able to deal with it than others, whether by temperament or circumstance. Izzy and I recently ran some errands around post and pointed out every person that looks miserable - military and KTR alike, they lope along beaming dejection. It might be temporary, of course, but there are some wretched people whose countenance never changes.

I'm lucky in having to interact with relatively few such people, but they're around. They're around in the States, too.

DAC = Department of the Army Civilian (like me)

***

AMERICAN OUTSIDE THE WIRE

My friend Hali calls me out of the blue to see if I’m free for lunch. She’s on Bagram with a friend of hers, so I get a hold of Izzy and we meet them at the DFAC.

It’s interesting to have an Afghan friend, and she holds court with stories of her time in Iraq and her work here in Afghanistan. When one of us uses the word “Afghani” to describe a person, she is quick to educate us that the term is only used to describe the money - never for anything else; it's insulting. Izzy and I take note, and will go on to correct each other dozens of time in the ensuing months.

Hali’s friend is James, an American who owns a business that seems to have its hands in many pots. A young man, maybe mid-twenties, he has light brown hair and pale skin - he doesn’t look like a local. It surprises me, then, when he tells me that he lives in Kabul. Not on the US Military base in Kabul, but in the city.

He says there are many safe parts of the city, but certainly places you don’t want to go, alone or otherwise. He says he recently stopped running in a park near his house - it's just not safe anymore. Hali says Kabul is “like any cosmopolitan European city”, which I can only skeptically accept on face value.

James tells us of his work, how he employs locals to build furniture in one enterprise, but that it’s hard to get them to show up for work on time - cultural attitudes about work and time are very different here. It’s certainly to his credit to be involved in the community at that level, though, as it is obvious that what the country needs is more skilled workers, and more interaction with a progressive and modern industrial complex.

I know that he must be making an enormous amount of money, and when I ask him, he says “Well, something’s keeping me here. And it ain’t the women.” I keep coming back to the safety, though, and am even more surprised to learn that almost all of his travel around Afghanistan is done in a car. In the SUV he drove onto Bagram, in fact. Un-armored, no weapons, windows un-tinted.

He says he used to be able to drive down to Kandahar, but wouldn’t do that anymore - Hali interjects that too many of the bridges between here an there are controlled by the Taliban. He tells of one incident driving out to Jalalabad when he received small arms fire. He happened to be driving just ahead of a US military convoy, and so got caught up in that, but he says he simply drove faster and got out of harm’s way.

It seems an unnecessarily harrowing way to live, but also exciting, interesting, and productive.

We have a good lunch, and part ways with hugs and handshakes.

DFAC = Dining Facility

***

HUDDLE-UP

The mission I oversee in Afghanistan is not a big one - we’re at about 12 personnel all told. But we’re spread out, at 5 different FOBs, and some of the KTRs rarely see each other.

Eddie has the idea to bring everyone to Bagram at the same time, to develop some team unity, to disseminate information, and to make sure everyone’s on the same page. It sounds like a great idea, and I’m surprised that it works.

Travel within theater is notoriously difficult, and I had no expectation that everyone would get here at the same time. But they do, and on a Saturday morning we set up folding chairs and card tables we had to sign for at the MWR, and everyone meets and greets, like one big family. Their regional manager, someone I’ve worked with for a couple of years, even makes the trip in from Kuwait to give a short brief and answer questions from a higher level.

Eddie has a schedule, and has carved out an hour for me to talk to the guys. I discuss the larger context of their mission - what we back in the States do with the data they collect - something most of them have not been privy to in the past. I go on to talk about some of the things I do as a deployed analyst which have nothing to do with their mission, as my job as their government rep is not a full-time job.

I didn’t see anyone sleeping.

FOB = Forward Operating Base
MWR = Morale Welfare and Recreation

***

MY ROLE IN THE FAMILY

I’m part of the team, but not really one of them.

The KTRs I work with all wear hats with their company name on it. I wear an Army uniform. They are paid by their company, I’m paid by the Army. The KTRs have a chain of command, and I’m not in it. Not really.

As the government representative, I exist in a gray area. I do not have the power to fire anyone, but I am often asked for input on such decisions. I’m ultimately responsible to my unit for the execution of the mission in Afghanistan, but the KTRs are doing almost all of that work. I am not the boss, but their boss and I talk about almost everything. I am kept up-to-date, and problems are always run through me so that I can sign off on most courses of action. It’s a nice way for the KTRs to cover their asses, actually.

The part of my job overseeing the contract is more of a managerial position, but even then Izzy does most of that - he's responsible for all the paperwork. Maybe it’s more like being a consultant. A consultant who will get his ass chewed if he lets something bad happen under his watch.

I feel fairly well accepted; it’s hard not to be when you work so closely for so long with a group of people, and I believe they know I will look out for them as best I can. We laugh and tell jokes, and many of the KTRs I have no reservation calling my friends.

But there’s an edge to it as well. When we discuss certain topics, I see them hesitant to disagree too loudly with me, and I have no delusions that it’s because I’m always right. I am deferred to more often than I should be, and it makes me strive to be better.

Recently, I had a conversation with Mark, who’s one of the supervisors out here, and it raised some questions that I shot back to the home office, to include one of the KTRs I work with Stateside. When the emails started flying, Mark backed off of some of the things he told me, and I called him on it. He told me, understandably, that he doesn’t want to make waves. “Scared” is probably too strong a word, but he was definitely not comfortable. The guy I’d emailed back in the States, my KTR buddy from the home office, is Mark’s boss’s boss’s boss - but he’s not in my chain at all. To me, he's a guy I've had many, many beers with. To Mark, he's someone who can fire him.

I try to be mindful of the position my colleagues are in as KTRs, without the job security that I enjoy, and of my own status as not-their-boss but in some role of authority. It is a role I’m fairly used to, as I played this part in Iraq for 7 months in 2007 and have been here in Afghanistan as long, but I forget sometimes.

I haven’t screwed anything up too bad yet.

KTRs = Contractors

***

RIDE-ALONG

In the course of my job, I have occasion to climb on and around, in and under Army vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Sometimes I get to ride in them.

I’ve ridden in HMMWVs plenty, and every variant of the new MRAP. Generally the rides are short, just hitching a ride from A to B, and sometimes we’re taking a vehicle out for a test ride after installing equipment. Once, at NTC in FT IRWIN, CA, I rode in a HMMWV through ditches and over brush. We were tooling at a good clip just feet from the road - the driver wanted me to feel every bump.

After the meeting (or “huddle”, above), one of the KTRs I work with arranged for anyone who wanted to be able to ride-along in an ASV on the test-track they have for assessing new vehicles and training new operators. This being one of the few vehicles I’d not ridden in, I jumped at the opportunity, as did 3 others.

As with every military vehicle, the ASV is over-sized outside, and compact inside. You crawl in the side and squeeze into the front seats, not comfortable in the least until you’re sitting looking through the windshield. Once there, though, there’s a hatch above your head that opens, and your seat rises and lowers with a the use of a toggle switch. The driver, Earl, and I raised our seats so that our heads are popping out of the hatches, which is how you always see soldiers driving around in these things - looking like whack-a-moles. Until now, I always thought they were standing up inside.

Earl peels out and the vehicle bolts forward across the dusty plain. We bank and turn quickly, leaving a massive plume of sand and dirt in our wake. We go up and down the steep grades, into and out of gullies and ditches - I constantly think we’re going to get stuck, but Earl knows the capabilities of this machine, and the wheels keep turning and working us free of each obstacle.

I’m duly impressed. It was a fun ride, and the vehicle was much more agile in off-road conditions than I’d expected.

My buddies take rides in turn, until finally Heather hops in and her driver, Chris, goes off in unexpected directions at high speed, we assume, to impress her. He disappears behind a hillock and doesn’t emerge. We hear the engine racing and we trot down to see the ASV sunk into mud. The ground was dry at the upper layer, but thick and soggy beneath. My own boots sink a good several inches depending on where I step.

It gives Chris and Earl a chance to show off the towing capability of the ASV, as they use one to pull the other out of the muck. We give Chris a decent helping of grief over it, of course.

HMMWV = High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle
MRAP = Mine-Resistant Ambush-Protected (vehicle)
NTC = National Training Center
KTR = Contractor
ASV = Armored Security Vehicle

***

DOGS OF SPRING

The winter is starting to break, and we had a few days this week that were downright warm. My hooch is just over the wall from the local village, and there were dogs barking late into the night

I stupidly assumed they were pets, until it was pointed out to me that: (A) the people are far too poor to afford pets, and (B) this is the first time we’ve ever heard them.

So, wild dogs are roaming the area and for a couple of nights they wound up near the condo until they were chased away or killed by the locals.

THE BAD PART OF A BAD WEEK

(WEEK OF 01-07 MARCH 2009)


I don’t want to go into too much detail, for many reasons, but the incident recounted here is almost entirely responsible for my getting (far) behind in updating this blog.

I wear a lot of hats in theater, and the most visible is that of the government representative for a data collection mission in Afghanistan. This mission actually spans the globe, but I’m only responsible for overseeing activities here, in this theater. Generally, this is the easiest part of my job, because Izzy, Eddie, Mark, Vic, and the rest of the KTRs I work with take care of it. That’s their job, and they do it well.

Every once in a while, though, they need someone in uniform (i.e. me) to help deal with other people in uniform - it’s unfortunate, but KTRs are occasionally looked down upon and sometimes even resented by the military personnel they’re here to assist. Not always, but sometimes.

The data collection mission we take care of in Afghanistan also has personnel in Iraq, and Kuwait, and employees will occasionally move from one theater to another based on need or for a myriad of other reason. A couple of people have jobs that cover both regions and travel regularly between Iraq and Afghanistan, which must be an enormous pain in the ass. I’m glad I don’t have to do that.

We had one such employee, TJ, visit us from Iraq back in November for a few weeks, but I was never clear on his mission or value-added. I asked a lot of questions of him, and then ultimately of his bosses, and it came to pass that nobody could really justify his position - it sounds like he fit a need when the job was created, but that circumstances had changed. He was told not to re-enter Afghanistan without my first approving his mission and travel, and eventually he was told that his contract would not be renewed when it expired in May - which is not terribly uncommon.

TJ sent me an itinerary for travel into Afghanistan in January and after determining that we were already doing or didn’t need done the things he was proposing to do, I denied his request. No Afghanistan for you. He was, perhaps understandably, annoyed by this new restriction in his travel, we exchanged a few heated emails, and then we moved on. I thought no more of it.

So, it was surprising when Izzy saw TJ walking around Bagram this week.

What happened after that initial spotting is a week that Izzy and I will talk about for as long as we know each other. We twice channeled our inner bounty hunters to track him down on post, we engaged the MPs, we delivered to him a letter of termination, we changed the flights he signed up for and then restricted his destinations, we constantly monitored his movement, and we kept our respective chains of command updated on every tiny development.

The worst part, for me, was when my colleague in Iraq escalated this to his CDR, who then contacted my CDR. A problem we were handling internally suddenly became something I had to explain to everyone and their XO. My command Stateside was furious with this development, but understood I had nothing to do with it.

The crux of the problem was that TJ did not have permission to be here. In fact, he was on leave from his post in Iraq and had told his boss that he was going to Germany. Instead he came to war zone. You can perhaps imagine how the military frowns upon people coming onto active bases in Afghanistan without permission.

It was a big deal, and our sole job during this week became getting TJ out of Afghanistan. I didn’t even care where he went, as long as he was out of my AO.

He eventually left Bagram, which we learned just prior to asking the MPs to pick him up and detain him. We tracked his movement through Qatar and into Kuwait, where MPs relieved him of his military ID so that he could not take a military flight from there - we were told he had signed up for a ride into Iraq - at which point he called his boss and played dumb. He claimed never to have seen or spoken to us in Afghanistan, but didn’t deny that he came here.

The only explanation we could think of for why he came is that he was looking for a job. He knew he wasn’t going to be renewed on his current contract, and the US military presence in Iraq is shrinking just as our numbers grow in Afghanistan.

I understand his desire to stay employed, I do, but he went about this entirely the wrong way, and he got caught. He had orders allowing his travel into both theaters, but not the permission of the people who gave him those orders - he screwed up, and for a few days he became my and Izzy’s problem.

He was fired, of course, and the company that fired him paid for his ticket to the States where he became his own problem.

KTRs = Contractors
MP = Military Police
CDR = Commander
XO = Executive Officer
AO = Area of Operations

THE GOOD PARTS OF A BAD WEEK

(WEEK OF 01-07 MARCH 2009)

OLD FRIEND

I hear that Eli is back.

Eli was the KTR lead in Afghanistan when I arrived back in August, but left shortly thereafter, was replaced by Alex, who was let go in December and was replaced by Izzy (who, we joke, has survived so far).

Eli had mentioned before he left that he’d probably be back, and actually I expected him back sooner than this, but time gets away from you out here and I guess I hadn’t realized just how much time had passed. I had heard he’d taken a job with another contracting company, but the company he’s returned with is not the one I’d heard about.

It’s common for contractors to jump around from job to job, and for companies to steal employees from one another. An approved slot in theater is a very valuable commodity for a company, but only if it can fill that slot with someone qualified and thereby charge the military for it. Companies hate leaving approved slots open for long, for every day it’s unfilled is lost revenue.

Eli is only in Bagram passing through to Kandahar where he’ll be working full time. Izzy and I walk up to the APOD to look for him, and I find him in the back where you wait after you’ve been manifested on the flight and you’re just waiting to board. They call it “Gate 1”, though it is in fact the only gate.

I sit and chat with him, catch up on his family and his new job, and relate some of what’s happened since he left. I have trouble with the latter, as in many ways it seems like he just left, and my daily life changes so little from week to week or even month to month. We talk about some of the guys who he worked with before he left and how they’re doing, and we make plans to keep in touch and to make sure we get together whenever we’re on the same post.

It’s nice to see a familiar face, and Eli is in fact the person in country I’ve known the longest, having met him last March (2008) when I visited Afghanistan for the first time.

The person I’ve known the longest in this country, I’ve known less than a year.

KTR = Contractor
BDE = Brigade

***

NEW FRIEND (WHETHER HE LIKES IT OR NOT)

We got new blood.

It’s definitely something you get used to working overseas: the constant turnover. Whether KTR, military, or civilian, all of the people you work with and meet are only here temporarily. Many do 6-month tours, which means you’ve barely gotten to know them by the time they’re getting ready to leave.

The KTRs generally do 1-year tours, though many extend for another year; the money’s good and if they’re enjoying the work they’ll stick around. KTRs receive a tax break if they spend 330 days in theater, so they rarely do less than a year and if they do more, it’s usually a whole second year.

Mark arrived this week and is a plus-up for us, a new employee not replacing anyone. He seems exceedingly friendly, which I am glad for. In addition to his Army aviation experience, Mark has caddied at a pro golf course for years and has anecdotes about the famous people he’s worked with. He caddied for Jerry Rice and my childhood hero, Bo Jackson, so I’m immediately impressed and jealous.

The KTRs and I work very closely together, and I will see Mark every day, for several hours, with the exception of when I’m traveling. It pays for us to get along, and it appears that it will be easy with him.

His arrival also continues the growth of our footprint in theater, and it’s becoming a little more like my experience in Iraq, where we had a sizeable crew. I like it.

KTR = Contractor

***

EVEN NEWER FRIEND

Most of the new people in my life I meet at the chow hall.

As crowded as it is, I try to eat just before it closes, and I end up eating with the workers after they finish their shifts. I can’t always wait until that time, though, because of meetings and other responsibilities. When I eat at any other time, I end up sharing a table with strangers, and often we talk. Sometimes I even want to.

This week I sat down at the first empty chair I could find, which was across the table from an empty seat, but with a meal tray and drink pre-positioned. A few moments after I sat down, and just as I had produced my book, a woman in civilian clothes sits down across from me.

I politely greet her, but start reading. That lasts a few seconds, but soon we’re chatting away like old friends. My new friend’s name is Hali (like “Holly”), she’s an Afghan, and she’s fascinating. In her mid- forties (I’m guessing), Hali was born in Afghanistan to parents who had met while both were studying in England.

Her parents were both activists, and she spent her youth “vacationing” around Southwest Asia learning about the region; the history, politics, and culture. Often imprisoned or under threat, her parents instilled in her a strong sense of social responsibility. Though attending school in Europe, she returned to Afghanistan to fight on the front lines against the Russians during the Soviet-Afghan War.

Following the end of that conflict, she lived in Europe, Afghanistan, and the States teaching and becoming more involved in human rights and conflict resolution with various NGOs. When the war in Iraq flared up, she deployed with the Marines to work with locals.

Though she lived off-base with the locals in Iraq, she tells only one harrowing tale. Stranded on the side of a road with her driver (her car had been disabled by US soldiers, with bullets) she and her driver were apprehended by Al-Qaeda for several hours before they were able to escape and run away.

She told me that story and was clearly frustrated with the US Soldiers. Not for disabling her car - that happens a lot - but for leaving her there.

She came home to Afghanistan a year or so ago and lives “on the economy”, renting a house in the capital city of Kabul. She claims it’s safe, if you know where to go and where not to go, claiming even that much of it is like any metropolitan European city. I express my doubts.

We have a great lunch and then I offer to help her find her friend’s office so she can drop off some luggage prior to a trip to Kandahar. We fail in finding him, so I offer to store her bags in my room.

I call Izzy to pick us up and the two of them hit it off. By the time we’ve moved some of her bags into my room and dropped her off at the DVQ, she’s telling us both to call her “Aunt Hali”.

She was one of the more interesting meal-friends I’ve made, and probably one I’ll keep in touch with as well.

NGO = Non-Government Organization
DVQ = Distinguished Visitor’s Quarters (which is simply a wooden hut with tiny, plywood-demarcated rooms barely large enough to hold a bed)

***

BIRDS!

Eddie was on a C-130 taking off from an outlying FOB trying to return to Bagram that hit a flock of birds just as it was lifting off. It immediately came back to Earth, jostling everyone aboard, and the plane was then quickly evacuated as smoke billowed from the engines.

Nothing like that has ever happened to me, Mom.

FOB = Forward Operating Base

***

MILESTONE

Everyone has a countdown. I have 3.

The first is the time to my R&R, wherein I count down the days between my arrival and the time I get to have a beer, and see my family and friends (in that order). On that countdown, I passed the 2/3 mark this week.

The other two are less encouraging, counting down the time between my arrival and two possible pull-out dates in 2010. I try not to look at them too much.

R&R = Rest & Recuperation (or sometimes Rest & Relaxation)

***

THE RODEO COMES TO AFGHANISTAN

I first meet them walking home from the APOD with Izzy.

We suddenly find ourselves amongst a gaggle of civilians: a few guys with cowboy hats on, and a girl with a bright pink jacket, big sunglasses, and wearing enough makeup for all of them. Without looking too closely, I assume the girl is one of the Russian workers who come in for KBR; they’re always dressed up far too much for a military base in Afghanistan, and we always assume they’re on the prowl for an American husband.

Izzy and I are chatting away and I realize I’m swearing up a storm when the fashion queen shoots me a surprised look. It’s definitely a bad habit I pick up when I’m in theater, because most of the soldiers swear a lot and I slip right into it. I’m usually pretty good about controlling it in the right context, but I clearly failed here.

I realize these people are probably the Pro-Rodeo riders we’ve seen the flyers for. I ask them when the show is and one of the guys says “Well, it’s not really a show, but we’ll be at the MWR tomorrow night”.

I thank them for coming, they thank me for being here, and we part ways at the intersection.

Izzy and I plan to go to the Rodeo show the next night...

We head over to the MWR tent just after dinner. It’s far too warm, of course, but we stand around for a while as a few of the visitors walk around and shake hands. There are five of them, 2 women and 3 men: professional cowboys and cowgirls.

Before the meet & greet really gets going, one of the cowgirls sings the national anthem while we stand at attention – she tells us she wanted to sing it for herself, so that she could say she did that out here.

Eventually they all stand up front, pass a microphone around, tell a little about themselves, relate stories from the clips of their careers showing on a screen behind them, and answer a few questions.

They’re all very appreciative of the men and women in the armed forces, and I’m always moved by hearing that unconcealed respect for what our guys and gals in uniform are doing out here. One of the cowgirls, Ms. Liz Pinkston, only starts to speak briefly before having to stop – she’s choked up by being here.

One of the questions they answer is whether any of them has ever “mutton busted”, something I’ve never heard of. Apparently it’s what you do with really little kids, sort of to train them early for rodeo riding, but perhaps more just to amuse the adults – you put them on a sheep and tell them to hang on for dear life.

Ms. Jimmy Kay Davis refers to it as “organized child abuse” and says that when people on ranches get bored they “put a helmet and pads on a kid and strap ‘em to a farm animal”.

The cowboys and cowgirls also answer questions about injuries, and most have pretty brutal stories about being thrown and trampled, and several are walking around with screws littering their bodies.

They lament that they don’t have any cattle to get on out here, and I suggest we could wrangle them up a camel or two. The soldiers around me nod approvingly to my idea, but nobody bites. .

After the Q&A, we line up to walk through and shake hands, get signatures on a sheet they provide with pictures and bios, and chat them up. I’ve never been to a rodeo and doubt I could name a rider on demand, but based on their accomplishments it seems we got a good crew to come visit us. They are Mr. Tater Porter, Mr. Jessy Davis, Mr. Dan Mortensen, Ms. Jimmy Kay Davis, and Ms. Liz Pinkston.

They’re all really nice, and happy to be here. I take the opportunity to apologize for swearing a bit much when I saw Ms. Pinkston yesterday and it takes her a moment to remember the incident before she laughs it off.

Izzy and I walk back to the condo, agreeing that it’s good of these guys to come out. When we mention how appreciative they are, we admit we know it’s really for the guys and gals who are rolling out on mission, being shot at by the enemy and returning fire.

Izzy and I are proud of our jobs out here, we’re cogs in the machine, but these sorts of things aren’t really about us – and, ultimately, we’re here for those soldiers in harm’s way, too.

DFAC = Dining Facility
MWR = Morale, Welfare & Recreation