GENERAL ORDER NUMBER ONE
Wikipedia tells me that General Order No. 1 initially referred to the first order GEN MacAurthur gave to Japanese troops following their government’s surrender at the end of World War II. It has a very different meaning now.
General Order No. 1 for deployed US troops and civilians refers to a basic set of rules we all operate under - mostly it tells us what is verboten.
Alcohol is a big one. Though some countries allow their military personnel to drink in theater, US Forces are prohibited from possessing or consuming alcohol while on orders in Southwest Asia. This is partly due to cultural sensitivity, since most of the countries we operate in are Muslim and as per their religion they eschew alcohol (at least officially). There is also the more obvious concern for safety in an environment where you’re surrounded by countless guns and heavy machinery.
I know of countless incidents of people being caught drinking. Guilty civilians (KTRs or otherwise) are sent home immediately, barred from country. Military may receive an Article 15, be court-martialed, or otherwise reprimanded depending on who catches them and the desires of their commander.
I can honestly say that while I have heard a lot about drinking over here, and during my time in Iraq, I have never seen a drop of alcohol in theater. I am glad to steer clear of it.
Also blacklisted by General Order No. 1 are pornography and other “offensive material”. That’s probably harder to enforce given electronic media, but you still hear about people getting caught with DVDs and magazines.
GO1 goes on to restrict photographing detainees and casualties of war, entrance into mosques, gambling, destruction or theft of archaeological artifacts, proselytizing, and adopting local animals (wild or domesticated) - all of which I’ve seen at one time or another.
I remember being surprised at the restrictions outlined in GO1 when I first heard of them, but I’ve spent a tremendous amount of time in theater over the past 3 years, and am now used to those rules governing my life. Not everyone is so accepting of the rules, however, and there are always people willing to risk their jobs to undermine them.
GEN = General
KTR = Contractor
TCN = Third Country National
***
HEALTH AND WELFARE WILL NAIL YOU
They sneak up on you, by design, as they did for us this week.
“Health & Welfare” is a dirty term in theater, as it refers almost exclusively to searches for contraband. The argument is always made that these “inspections”
are intended for our safety, but most people see them as witch-hunts. That there are always illegal items found doesn’t seem to dissuade detractors, but it more than justifies them in my mind.
The inspections this week were conducted in the common living area where most of my KTRs live, across post from the condo I sleep in. I hear about it when I see some of the guys later in the day. They tell me how early in the morning they are ushered out of their bunks, or kept from returning to them if they were out eating breakfast.
Members of the BDE staff, along with MPs and MWDs, walked through the huts and individual rooms in groups, searching for, confiscating and noting locations of found contraband. Though there are no immediate reports, we have no doubt that plenty of drugs and alcohol were found. We hear too many stories and rumors about such use for them to have turned up nothing.One incident we catch wind of is that of an unnamed KTR refusing to be held back from his room and taking a swing at one of the security guards. We can only assume that he had something in his room that he didn’t wish found, but taking a swing at a guard will get him a window seat on the first thing smoking just as quickly as being caught with alcohol.
The fallout from this search would come slowly over the next few days as the search leads to formal reports and those reports are handed down to supervisors, and employees are given one-way tickets home.
It would be a few days before we’d catch wind of losing one of our own, that Izzy and I would not enjoy dealing with.
KTR = Contractor
BDE = Brigade
MWD = Military Working Dog
***
APRIL’S FOOLS
APRIL’S FOOLS
Matt keeps us loose, is always ready with a dry joke and willing to laugh at mine. He keeps a plastic lizard on his desk, which I like. Reminds me of my brother.
A couple of months ago he left a note on one the other guys’ bunk, a memo mimicking those we see posted from Billeting it stated that his living area was unacceptably dirty and cluttered and that if it was not cleaned up immediately Rick would be removed to a tent and cot. Rick came into the office ranting and raving, saying how the mess was his neighbor’s, how unfair this was, etc etc.
Matt let him off the hook before he got too angry, and we had a good laugh about it. Rick vowed revenge, and got it.
Some weeks later, Rick snuck into Matt’s living area. Most people who enjoy a bottom bunk, as Matt does, hang blankets to encircle the sleeping area, for privacy and noise/light reduction. Rick took advantage of that by filling the entire enclosed volume with crumpled newspaper, from the mattress to the bottom of the upper bunk.
Matt returned to his bed late at night, as usual, and had to very slowly and quietly (so as to not disturb the 17 people he shares a B-Hut with) remove the newspaper so that he could get into bed. To his credit, he found this hilarious.
With April’s Fools looming, I asked Matt if he had anything in mind for the holiday and he said he did. He showed me another fake memo that he’d created – it was a “NOTICE OF INSPECTION” indicating that all personal computers were going to be searched for “inappropriate materials and images” in accordance with GO1.
It was written in all-caps and with jumbled grammar typical of such notices, and concluded with “THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND UNDERSTANDING; YES IT’S A JOKE, IN THIS MATTER, HAVE A GREAT DAY.” It was signed “Al Preel Fahools”.I laughed when I read it, but had to think better of it when he told me he planned to post copies of it all over the housing area. Not knowing how people would react or who they might raise it to before reading it thoroughly, I engaged Matt in a discussion as to whether this was a good idea. I hated to do it, but feared the possible ramifications if someone complained.
Matt agreed it might not be a good idea, and the prank was shelved.
Three months later we received notices that all computers were going to be scanned for illegal software. It was not a joke.
GO1 = General Order No. 1
***
FAMILIAR GRIPES
FAMILIAR GRIPES
I end up having lunch with a couple of guys attached to my BDE who are new in country. Sitting together out of necessity (crowded), my book stays snug in my uniform pocket as we chat about life in Bagram.
I forget sometimes what it’s like to be new here, to still be getting the lay of the land. They spend a lot of time asking me about housing, complaining about how bad it is, and telling me how they will force the BDE to do better by them. I do not tell them that they will fail.
The fact is, our BDE has grown far faster
than it could build housing. With the expansion of military operations in this theater, personnel have poured into Bagram and it didn’t take long to max-out the limited number of available CHUs. To handle the overflow, the BDE put up tents with cots, which soon became tents with bunk beds. It is one of these tents, on a top bunk with the nylon roof flapping against my head, that I spent my first night in Bagram back in August.It sucked.
The tents were eventually replaced with B-Huts, which are little more than wooden tents, and again they were filled with bunk beds to maximize the number of people they could squeeze in. Those B-Huts were later replaced with even larger B-Huts, and all the while we’re told that these are just temporary solutions.
Temporary means at least a year in theater, and considering that most people deploy for a year or less, it’s easier to just assume that what you see is as good as it’s ever going to get.
The way housing is handled now is that when you arrive into theater you are placed on an OML - a waiting list - for a CHU. Getting a CHU is what we all aspire to. In the meantime, you go into the B-Huts, and get a bunk among the smelly, disgusting throng. My guys that live in there hate it, and spend as much time in the office and return to their bed only when they’re absolutely exhausted.
I was lucky in that when I arrived there were only two of us here, and my unit owns two rooms on the other side of post. So, I let my name ride the OML while I live in the condo - it’s not as good as a CHU (no plumbing), but it provides privacy, and that is an enormous luxury in theater.
As our mission has grown, we will fill the condo based on seniority - time in country - which at least affords our guys a slightly better deal. When I am finally given a CHU (someday), I will move out of the condo and be replaced by Matt, who will live there until he gets a room.
My lunchmates find the whole B-Hut situation unsatisfactory. As they will only be deployed for 6 months, and it’s currently taking longer than that to work ones way through the OML (I’m at just over 7 months on the waiting list), they feel it’s unfair that they should spend their entire time in the B-Hut.
I let them complain, despite the fact that I disagree with them. Clearly they thought the situation would be better than it is, and had nobody deployed to help reel in their expectations. They’re not the first.
BDE = Brigade
CHU = Containerized Housing Unit
OML = Order of Merit List
***
KIWI
KIWI
The New Zealand troops have port-a-johns that are ever-so-slightly cleaner than the cans nearer the condo. I’m willing to walk a few extra feet to avoid some of the horrific things I’ve seen inside those plastic boxes.
I exited one tonight at the same time as one of the Kiwis. I’ve been living next to them long enough to recognize all of them, but not closely enough to know any of their names. I think everyone in our little housing area has a crush on one of the female Kiwis - not only is she cute, but she’s got that awesome accent.
I notice my bathroom buddy is wearing a New York Giants sweatshirt and I ask him if he’s a fan as we walk back towards our respective hooches. He says it was a gift from an American friend, and goes on to extol the merits of rugby over American football.
He tells me that his family sends him DVDs of rugby games that he watches here, even though he knows the outcome already. THAT is fandom. I stay up late or wake early to watch games at all hours, and I am religious about checking the scores of my teams online, but I would have a hard time watching a pre-recorded game I know the result of.
I tell him I’ve been watching cricket on the BBC channel I get, and he laughs at me when I tell it’s terribly confusing. He says he’s a big cricket fan as well, but he doesn’t get DVDs of those matches because they last too long - they wouldn’t fit on one DVD and he wouldn’t have the time to watch them out here.
We part ways when he veers off into the Kiwi complex.
ME: Have a good night.
HIM: So long, mate.
***
SALUTING
SALUTING
Though I wear a uniform, I don’t salute.
Saluting is dependent upon recognition of differences in rank, and I don’t have a rank. I have an equivalency, sort of, but where I fall in the hierarchy is debatable. In practice, I’m like a MAJ and for the most part defer to LTCs and above, and would not take guff from a CPT or below. That all changes depending on the situation, but that’s the rule of thumb I operate under.
I do salute at the Fallen Comrade ceremonies, as the casket passes my position. I asked a SGM last year if I should, and he said it would be better for appearance’s sake if everyone in uniform saluted during that observance. I agree, and always feel good about it, to show that respect to someone who gave their life here.
I was walking to a meeting on Disney Drive when I fell in step behind an officer - I couldn’t see his rank, but I knew he was an officer because every enlisted soldier or airman that passed him saluted, there was a constant raising and lowering of arms. I catch up to him as we cross the street and see that he’s an Army CPT (O-3). We walk by a soldier leaning against a barrier who salutes him just as he turns to acknowledge me.
CPT: They should make this whole country a no-salute zone.
ME: I was just noting how often you were saluting on the walk up here.CPT: Yeah. I salute everyone above and everyone below salutes me. It sucks.
Bagram is especially bad for this, as many units have their HQs here, so there are a lot of officers. Kandahar is the same way. Though these are the largest bases with a few more amenities than the smaller FOBs, most of us would prefer to live and work “away from the flagpole”.
I have been saluted in error a few times, though. From a distance, my “US” badge probably looks a little like the LTC rank insignia (black oak leaf). I never return the salute and the saluter quickly realizes why, and usually we share a laugh as we pass.
This mistake hasn’t happened since I grew my beard, since it’s more obvious that I’m not an officer – active military personnel are not allowed to have facial hair past a moustache unless by exception for “sensitive skin” or as an operational requirement (for those embedding or otherwise working in the population).
MAJ = Major
LTC = Lieutenant Colonel
CPT = Captain
SGM = Sergeant Major
FOB = Forward Operating Base
***
BIRTHDAYS
BIRTHDAYS
I always remember my friend Matt’s birthday - April 4th - as the anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. The band U2 has a song, Pride, which states the date: “Early morning, April 4 / Shot rings out in the Memphis sky.” Were it not for that connection, and that song, I’d forget his birthday as readily as I forget everyone else’s.
I dropped him an email wishing him a happy day, which is about as much effort as we ever put forth.
Later, as I’m walking up to the DFAC for dinner, I pass a gentleman working outside his B-Hut, laying out a garden. I greet him, and find he’s eager to talk about his garden - he’s growing roses, desert tulips, and a patch of Kentucky bluegrass.
I learn Mr. Z is an Afghan, one of many who fled the country at the outset of fighting with the Russians. He emigrated to the US and has returned now in an advisory role to military leaders working with the Afghan government.
We stand on his porch talking about the country and what needs to happen for them to have peace, and to prosper. My thoughts in that regard have always tended to education and access to information - he doesn’t disagree - but I openly wonder about natural resources which will fuel the rebuilding and growth of infrastructure necessary to push the country into the 21st century.
Afghanistan does not have the fertile oil fields of Iraq, but Mr. Z reminded me the country is rich in minerals… and poppy. Certainly that industry would need to be redirected in order for a full-fledged (and less corrupt) economy to take root. He told me it was not so long ago that tourism brought millions of visitors (and their money) into the country.
We talk at length, me naively, him knowledgably. He had apparently just returned from a bike ride when I met him and he leaves his bike helmet on the entire time we’re talking.
I eventually beg out of the conversation and he takes that opportunity to invite me to a birthday party he’s holding for a friend of his that very night - and right there at the B-Hut. I consider it would be a good way to celebrate my friend’s birthday, even if he’s not around. I ask Mr. Z if I can bring a friend, and he affirms that I can. I help him string some festive (= Christmas) lights before I depart.
I run off to get Izzy.
By the time we return, the “party” is in full swing, which is to say there is music playing. The guest of honor hasn’t arrived yet, but there are a number of Afghans milling about eating and chatting. Mr. Z greets me warmly and begins to offer us food and others get out of their seats to offer them to us, which we decline.
We’re served plates of food out of large pots sitting in the hall of the B-Hut. The preparation and presentation leave just about everything to be desired, but it tastes good nonetheless.
The rice is similar to that which I had in Salerno many months ago - long grain, sweet, with raisins. I feel as if I could eat 15 pounds of that, it’s fantastic. On top of the rice, I receive a patty of something - I’m told it’s lamb kabob, but it tastes like a veggie burger. We also receive nuggets of goat meat of bone - knuckles, perhaps - which are inedible under the circumstances. Izzy and I stab at the meat and seem only ever to hit bone; it’s so dark out, we can’t see what we’re doing.
We chat with Mr. Z some, and spend much of the evening swapping stories with another DA Civilian, Miley, who works in contracting on base. She has been in Afghanistan for a couple of years, and shares some insight into pay issues - we all have pay issues - particularly regarding the federal service pay cap which, if you are deployed for most of a year, is almost impossible to avoid. Something to look forward to.
The birthday boy finally arrives, and is confused when Izzy and I wish him a happy birthday. We stay for a bit longer, but fewer and fewer of the conversations are in English and eventually we head back to our rooms, both grateful for the distraction and the experience.Izzy tells me the next day that he spent most of the night running to the blue box (the port-a-john) from the food we ate.
DFAC = Dining Facility
DA = Department of the Army
***
SENATORS’ SONS
SENATORS’ SONS
I am beginning to suspect that everyone in Afghanistan is - or was - either a farmer or a Senator.
I have had occasion to meet many locals, both who had fled the country during the war with Russia, and those who stayed and survived the conflict. Of those that fled, and have no returned to Afghanistan to assist in its rebuilding, the large majority tell me that their father was a Senator “in the old government”.
Of those working with the US who were locally recruited, whose families never left Afghanistan, their families are inevitably farmers.
The latter is perhaps not surprising, considering the limited opportunities available anyone to subsist in Afghanistan within the last 30 years. The preponderance of Senators, though, I find surprising. Perhaps “Senator” does not mean the same thing, or perhaps local tribes each had their own seats, making for a much larger number of them overall.
It does not pass my notice that the Senators’ sons are returning from the States well -educated, while most of the “local locals” are not. It is also noteworthy that those Afghans hired in the States receive significantly more money than those hired locally, even when they perform exactly the same job.
I live next door to Afghans of both recent origins who work as interpreters and translators. The “local local” I became friends with told me that he is paid $800 a month, and that on that income he can provide for his entire family. While I don’t know exactly how much those coming out of the States are paid, the number quoted to me was North or $200,000 a year, and I believe it.
***
SPRING SHOWERS
SPRING SHOWERS
The warming of Afghanistan continues, with intermittent rain mixed in for good measure.
I love the changing weather and scenery. My seven months in Iraq were marked by a total of perhaps 3 clouds and two brief drizzlings. I saw the hot and dry summer when I arrived in August, and the decline into winter from which we are now emerging. They’re not exactly the seasons I’m used to from my childhood in Rhode Island, but I’m happy with the variety.
Though the mountains remain snow-covered, tthere is also a little more green around, weeds poking up amidst the gravel and sighted through the fence to the outside world. There are stretches of road with concrete barriers which completely obscure a view of the village, but other expanses with little more than a chain link fence and concertina wire.
Through these latter areas, we see what appear to be ruins – reinforced mud walls, uneven and crumbling. The walls are delineating family compounds, and I see them across the country from the air when I travel to other bases. The land is rutted and pocked with mounds, definitely not farmland. As soon as the green popped up, we started seeing locals with goats and sheep feeding on what little plant life had managed to survive this long.
We saw few locals out and about over the winter, but they’re often standing around watching us now. They wave or give us the thumbs-up. Sometimes the kids make a gesture as to ask for water, or give us the middle finger.
I drove by a truck parked just opposite a gaggle of local children recently. The driver, an Afghan soldier, was leaning out of his door yelling at the children and the children were yelling back.
Another time I saw an ANA soldier throwing rocks over the fence at the children. His aim was poor.
ANA = Afghan National Army
***
BLOOMING LOCALS
BLOOMING LOCALS
At the end of every month, I swing by the PX to pay my bill for internet and television provided by a local vendor operating on post through AAFES.
It costs $115/month, and I have to pay in person at a small office container. Neither service they provide is particularly reliable, but I need the internet access to work, and the television costs only an additional $10 a month. I like to leave the news or ESPN on while I’m working, though I watch little else these days.
From the PX, I headed over to the other side of post via the South route. I rarely go that way, it’s longer, but sometimes I need to look at different concrete barriers. I saw a soldier waiting at the bus stop and pick him up – he’s going to “Tower 5” which is mostly on my way.
As we drove South of the airstrip, we passed a long expanse of wire fence and intermittent concrete barriers – we can see the village beyond, rutted fields closest to the wire. I note that it’s getting green outside the wire, and then I see the red amongst the green. At first I think they’re little red flags, like we use on training lanes to identify threats, but they’re flowers, and lots of them. Mostly red but with some white mixed in. I believe these are the same desert tulips Mr Z is growing.
Spring truly is upon us.
I mention to my passenger what I’ve heard about the village just outside our fences, how poor they are, that they have running water maybe once a week. He nods, telling me he’s a helicopter pilot (on the Kiowa) and that they fly over the village.
HIM: Some of the houses out there are really nice, like mansions. But most don’t even look livable. There’s one out there with a courtyard and fountain in the middle. Really nice.
ME: It probably belongs to the guy selling us bootleg DVDs
He tells me about a hotel somewhere up in the mountains that he says looks like a 4-star hotel, with a huge swimming pool and everything.
HIM: I don’t know who would stay there, but it looks gorgeous.
I turn onto a paved road next to Tower 5 and drive back onto the airfield to drop him off at his office. I never catch his rank or name, but we shake hands as he gets out.
As I’m driving away, I kick myself for not asking him about the Kiowas that have been circling the town just over the wire from my living quarters for the last week.
AAFES = American Armed Forces Exchange Service
PX = Post Exchange
