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
