SHAKY SHAKY

(04JAN2009)

I’m leaning back in my desk chair watching Sportscenter at about 0055 (12:55AM) when the building starts to shudder in the now-familiar tumbling of an earthquake.

It’s fairly typical in the way it feels, my little hooch rocking back and forth, but it lasts much longer than any I’ve felt so far – about a full minute this time. It also trails off only after giving us a good strong farewell shake.

I look online and see that it’s a 5.9 magnitude, and also see that I completely missed a 4.4 and 5.8 within the last week. They each occurred before 0800, and it’s just more proof that I’m a heavy sleeper, I suppose.

FIRST SNOW

(03JAN2009)

Most of the snow comes while I slumber.

I have my windows covered up to give me a nice dark area to sleep in, and so I don’t see it until I pop outside to brush my teeth. The edge of my doormat is dusted with snow, and I peek around the corner to see the sandbags and bunkers down the lane with the same white coating.

I hear later that it came in large flakes, but it was fleeting and relatively little of it stuck. It nonetheless adds a bit of seasonal charm to the base, and I’m grateful for the change of scenery, even if it makes the walk around post a little wetter.

OPERATION: WAKE THAT DUDE UP

(02JAN2009)

I live right next door to several huts housing a unit of New Zealand soldiers.

I have had occasion to dislike them.

I see them pretty much every day, though I’ve yet to have a conversation with any of them. Mostly, they’re fine. The guys among them exchange guy-nods with me and the females smile prettily. Plus, they have those cool accents.

They park their HMMWVs near their hooches, which is to say near mine, and when they roll in late at night or early in the morning, the engines seem especially loud. Their loading and/or unloading the vehicles is equally loud, but all that is typical soldierly noise and I would never begrudge them that.

What I did not at all enjoy, however, was an early Sunday morning rousing to blasting American 80’s pop music. Now, I like The Bangles only slightly less than the next guy, but never at 0700 on a Sunday morning when I’ve only been asleep for 3 hours. The Kiwis were outside washing their vehicles, and I guess they needed the musical motivation. I put a slim pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep.

Some weeks later I was wakened by loud talking, shouting, and the occasional loud knock against the side of my hooch or door. Cars drive within feet of my almost-paper-thin walls and often kick stones against them, but this did not sound like that, and I heard no cars. It went on long enough for me to seethe, and then get up and poke my head outside.

The Kiwis were playing cricket. In the gravel. Facing my front door.

I look at the guy holding the cricket bat and raise my hands in a “You gotta be kidding me” gesture and he immediately apologizes. I crawl back into bed and the periodic shouting continues, and the ball smacks against my wall a few more times.

This morning, I’m sleeping – or trying to – through shouting just outside. I can’t make out what they’re yelling, partly because of their accents, partly because of the walls, and mostly because I’m still half-ensconced in a nightmare about a spider. I think at first that they’re playing cricket again, but it doesn’t sound quite the same.

I eventually get out of bed and look out my front door. Not 5 feet away, a Kiwi soldier is leaning over the hood of a HMMWV with his machine gun at his shoulder. Thankfully, he’s facing away from me.

I watch as he breaks away from the vehicle, shouting “Moving! Moving! Moving!” and I see two of his comrades nearby, scrambling back to join him as they all keep aim on an imaginary target.

It’s soon over, and they huddle with a couple of observers who presumably give them advice on the whole procedure, and then a different soldier takes up position at the HMMWV and it all begins again.

I can appreciate the importance of their training, and of course they’re doing this because they roll outside the wire and put themselves in situations where they may have to fight for their lives against a brutal enemy.

Hopefully they’ll all come back safe, play cricket in the gravel, and piss me off again.

HMMWV = High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

A COWBOY HAT AND A GUITAR

(01JAN2009)

I ask my coworkers if they want to go to the concert tonight at the MWR. They ask me who’s playing.

“I don’t know,” I say, “Some guy with a cowboy hat and a guitar.”

I’ve seen the fliers posted for about a week, but never bother to read the performer’s name. Or maybe I read it and forgot it, as I’d never heard of Jarrod Birmingham. The concert was originally scheduled for 30DEC, which I’d have missed in lieu of a meeting I attend Tuesday nights. I never hear why it’s rescheduled, but am glad it was, for I have no pressing duties Thursday nights.

Izzy tells me he’ll meet me there, but will be late, so I head up to the MWR clamshell by myself just before the show starts at 2000. Probably due to the rescheduling, the crowd is sparse. I sit up front and have most of the row to myself until Izzy sidles up beside me about 20 minutes in.

Mr. Birmingham turns out to be a loose, fun performer. He’s on stage with another guitar player and a fiddler, and they open with a cover of Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues, which I enjoy. Many of the songs are covers, actually, but he introduces by means of stories several of his original songs.

The sound system is very poor in the MWR Clamshell, and the second guitar is much too loud; I strain to hear the lyrics, often just choosing to sit back and enjoy the music. Izzy and I chat amiably, both enjoying the break from the routine – which is always welcome.

About an hour in, Mr. Birmingham asks one of the MWR staff if he has a time limit. Nobody answers him, so he just goes right along, telling stories, playing guitar, and singing. Two soldiers get up and line-dance in front of the stage for a song, which makes for an odd sight, just the two of them. It’s a fun atmosphere, though, and altogether it’s a great set.

Near the end of the set, they play The Devil Went Down to Georgia to showcase the fiddler, and afterward Mr. Birmingham mentions that his partner is in fact trained as a classical violinist, at which point Beethoven bursts forth – beautifully – and the crowd laughs and applauds.

Throughout the set, Mr. Birmingham expresses his appreciation for the military and what we’re sacrificing to be here – it’s a common theme when performers come out here, but is nonetheless taken to heart. A few of his originals speak to that message as well, including one he wrote while flying on a C-130 the previous year.

The concert goes almost two hours, very long by standards we’re used to, and he sticks around to chat and take pictures afterward, though Izzy and I don’t linger. It was a really fun evening out of the hooch.

We’re satisfied.

MWR = Morale, Welfare & Recreation

NEW YEAR

(31DEC2008-01JAN2009)

I expect to spend the large majority of 2009 in Afghanistan.

That’s a little sobering (literally and figuratively, as alcohol is not allowed), but also exciting. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

New Year’s Eve is a typical day for me, though the VTC I usually attend with the on Wednesday nights has been cancelled due to most of our colleagues in the States having the day off. That opens up the evening for me, so I take it a little easy, watch some football, go to the gym and take a shower.

Around 2300 I walk up to the MWR clamshell (the same place they had the USO concert a couple of weeks ago). I’d seen some fliers around post stating that something was going on, though I hadn’t paid enough attention to see exactly what. It really doesn’t matter out here, as almost anything is better than the 4 walls I look at every day.

The MWR tent is also used as a basketball court from time to time, but tonight the baskets are pushed off to the sides and there are rows of metal folding chairs set up facing the stage.

I smell the food from the back of the clamshell and immediately realize I’m hungry – it’s DFAC food, in large serving trays. I grab a root beer and scoop meatballs into a paper cup.

There aren’t many people here, maybe 20 audience members, lots of empty seats. I take a seat in the second row and enjoy my meatballs while the band on stage breaks into a cover of a U2 song.

God bless them, they’re trying, but they’re not very good. They mumble through the lyrics at times, and just plain forget them at others. They seem to concentrate on U2, playing a number of their songs with the occasional John Cougar Mellencamp thrown in for good measure.

The crowd fills in a little as the hour passes, and just before midnight the MWR director climbs on to the stage and counts down from 10 and we all yell Happy New Year! The saxophone player on stage (the saving grace of the band) breaks into Auld Lang Syne and we turn to each other, shake hands, and wish each other a happy New Year. It felt like a fellowship at church.

I head out into the cold and homeward, but not before stuffing a few cookies in my pockets.

I wake the next morning, fully in 2009, and turn on the television in time to see the east coast of the US celebrate the New Year. I step outside to brush my teeth. I use a water bottle and stand on the front step of my room, the gravel nearby stained with toothpaste from the past 4 months. A soldier walks by and wishes me a Happy New Year. I mumble back with my toothbrush in my mouth. A foreign national passes and we repeat the greeting and incoherent response.

I work the morning away and walk up to the chow hall for lunch. The food is not quite Thanksgiving or Christmas quality, but is slightly better than the normal routine. I get some ham, some black-eyed peas, and turnip greens. I’ve never seen black-eyed peas at the DFAC before, so it’s clear that they’re serving it in consideration of the holiday – it’s a Southern New Year’s Day tradition in the States that I’ve been exposed to as a result of being half-Southern. Though also part of the tradition, greens are a fairly common item on the menu.

I add Jell-O to my tray, because I apparently cannot resist Jell-O if it’s available, and it’s always available. I’m certain I’ve eaten my weight in Jell-O several times over since I arrived in Afghanistan in August. I can’t remember the last time I had it in the States, though.

I find a seat by myself, as per usual, and read my book while enjoying the ham, the greens, and the Jell-O. I remember that I don’t particularly care for black-eyed peas and so they sit unmolested.

I’ve had several muted New Year’s Days, and this simply slides right in there among them, one I’ll likely remember only for my being here. The year ahead will likely see me in Afghanistan for the large majority – up to 11 months, and in fact that’s my expectation. It is also my hope.

I’ve a lot to accomplish in the next year, though I’ve never been one for resolutions and I’m not starting now. If I just do my job, I'll accomplish a lot. That's the plan.

VTC = Video TeleConference
MWR = Morale, Welfare, and Recreation
USO = Uniformed Services Organization
DFAC = Dining FACility

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