Mostly the in betweens.
Since arriving out here, 46 years ago, I have had all of the above. The in between is what captured my attention today, finally. Sorry for the delay in posts! The days out here literally melt together after just a few days of the same thing. It starts to wear on your mind because instead of living a long 24 hour day, it turns into a long 48, 72 hour day. There are also times when a bad day encompasses just a few terrible minutes. What this means, is instead of having a standard (24 hours) "bad day" or a "good day", you have these seemingly hybrid days spanning mere minutes to 3 to 4 days with ups, downs, and in betweens occuring over and over again. Let start with the ups.
My up days are the ones when I finish something that I've been working on for several days. When that item is used to help the warfighter stay alive or help the bad guys fail at doing so, I have a very up day. At least twice a day, one of my colleagues and I step outside of our office and throw the football. I have an up day when I throw a nice, tight spiral the whole time we're out there. Recently, I had an up day when I realized that I needed to tighten my belt one notch. Since getting in shape was one of my pros when deciding to come out here, I'd say that is definitely qualifying of an up day. I also received my first evaluation from my company, GTEC, and also my first pay raise. Ka-ching! I made my wonderful wife laugh a lot on Skype the other night. We talked for two whole hours. Those two hours turned an incredibly "standard, bad day" into an up day. This, unfortunately, brings me to bad days.
My bad days have been tough to deal with. When the only thing to take your mind off of bad days is throwing a football and doing work, it's tough to get out of a funk sometimes. And since I'm working 84 hours a week, work is often the cause of my bad days. I've had to deal with only one of the worst kind of day, and for that I thank God, so I will only concentrate on the "more trivial" bad days for the sake of the blog. My bad days have included dealing with seemingly endless seas of incompetence from a certain "Big Contractor" company (Malcolm you were right), I've had to deal with other analysts attempting and succeeding at highjacking my projects and claiming them as their own (one of the biggest no-no's in this line of work). I've also come to realize that not wearing the uniform anymore makes my job more difficult. As a contractor, you have to operate under the belief that no one in uniform thinks you know what you're doing.
I've had soldiers from junior enlisted, with less time in the military than I did, to Captains, commanding entire battalions, tell me that I don't know what I'm talking about. They are, of course, very mistaken. One thing that I've strived to accomplish out here is to show these warfighters that I am nothing more than another round in the chamber for them. I want the warfighter to recognize that when they need me, I can provide a variety of elements to their capabilities when handling the fight. Of course, this means that I have to put myself out there and that brings with it another set of circumstances to account for. Personalities.
The other day I had 3 officers line up, shoulder to shoulder, in front of my desk and lay into me for what they thought was my naivete in how I responded to a situation that, in my opinion, they mishandled. I was instructed to ensure that I recognized that I was speaking to men who have been shot at a lot in the past 2 months. This is the equivalent of being slapped in the face with a 2x4. Assuming someone has not "paid the price in sweat and blood" is simply unforgivable if I were wearing a uniform. Without knowing that I've been shot at, I've lost men, and I've seen death, I had to accept the insult and push forward. Needless to say, this was a bad, bad day. However, I stuck to my guns, maintained the respect of my coworkers, and eventually received an apology from the soldiers. They are just trying to do their jobs the same as me. The phrase, "same team, same fight" comes to mind.
Despite everything that happens out here, my life is lived in the in betweens. Every single day is monotonous and incredibly boring for 90% of the time. At least, to someone on the inside it is monotonous and boring. For some people, the things we do daily would be noteworthy under any other circumstances. This brings me to the event that spurred the thought for this blog post. It is pretty silly, and maybe toeing the line of "too much information", but I can't help but smile when I think about it now. It revolves around Port-a-Potties.
So I'll paint the picture for you all. It's Friday at about 8pm, and by this point it is pitch black out. Afghanistan does not have ambient light unless it is cloudless and the stars are shining bright or there is a full moon out. This night, there were neither stars nor a moon to speak of. Earlier in the day, I decided I would return to my tent to pick up my headlamp before chow. I forgot to get the headlamp. So, the short of it: blackest black, no headlamp. Now, Sorry ladies, it's Port-a-Potties or nothing out here. They have the green plastic boxes placed strategically all over the base. Each station will have 2-5 boxes. In this instance, there were two. Upon realizing that the steak from dinner and I were in disagreement with eachother, I stumble in the dark and finally reach my destination. Now, if it's black outside you can just imagine how dark it is inside. What do we all know about port-a-potties? They are disgusting. You don't touch them, period. Well, in the pitch black, that is exactly what is going through my mind.
So, as I'm standing there refusing to touch anything, I hear the door in the stall next to me open and shut. Through the slits in the top of the Port-a-Potty I can see that this person has some sort of light. Without any concern for how it would sound, I simply said, "hey, would you mind shining that thing over here. I can't see my hand in front of my face." Like a gentleman, he simply holds the light up over his head and shines it in for me. Now, as a guy, there are things that back home you never do. Talking to a man while he is doing his business is way, way up on that list. However, on a completely standard day out here, you may find yourself asking a man to shine a light into your stall so as not to embarass yourself upon walking back into your office to find that you missed entirely. :) Good night everyone!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
SCOREBOARD!
Just a quick one, because I'm completely drained and am getting to bed immediately after submitting this post.
Today had all the fixings to be a very, v.e.r.y bad day. Instead...
14-1, us.
Today had all the fixings to be a very, v.e.r.y bad day. Instead...
14-1, us.
Friday, January 7, 2011
A Man's Opinion
So, I've been in Afghanistan for something like 112 days now. I've had my up days and I've had my down days. The down days get no lower than when word spreads that you've lost a soldier in the fight. We lost one on my first day behind the desk. I carved the score into my desk. 1 to 0, them. The up days vary greatly, though. Having walls put up in your room is an up day, a good workout can mean an up day, receiving mail is definitely an up day, and doing your job well an up day.
Given that I've actually only been over here for about 2 weeks, I'm surprised that I've come to a determination as to why the up days can feel so good without a glaring catalyst to speak of. It's because we're men. It's more than that, it's because we're men doing manly things. We're men doing manly things across the entire spectrum of manly things. We are forced to talk about war constantly, we are forced to survive the harsh elements in a country like this, we are forced to be physically and mentally strong in order to thrive in our environment. It gets even better.
As we were deciding how we wanted to set up our rooms, where the desk would go, what kind of shelves would be built and where, how the layout would support our day to day, I couldn't help but think that I was 9 years old again, designing a fort that would stand up to the imagined enemy. I recall being in the woods near my house in Kings Bay, Georgia. My friends and I had found what appeared to us as foxholes. These divots provided us with concealment, and were located tactically in front of the main entrance to our Area of Operations, now called an AO in Afghanistan. We pointed out which trees would provide cover from which direction, we decided which paths were our ingress and egress routes. And we simply ignored any path through the woods that didn't support our grand scheme of wilderness domination. We scavenged for downed logs to help fortify our fallback positions and we set up gnarly booby traps along routes we were certain Charlie would take.
This was what played in my head as we snuck around FOB Sharana after dark, "acquiring" 2x4's and plywood from outside of, surely heavily guarded, tents. We had to stand guard over our acquisitions to ensure others were not counter-attacking and stealing wood from our pile. We had a nasty run in one day when we stepped from our tent and saw a woman standing suspiciously over our pile of plywood. We engaged her, in conversation, and decided she was a minimal threat. She didn't speak English. Just then, two of her companions came around the back corner of our tent towards our pile. Typical flanking maneuver. Amateurs. We stood our ground and they simply walked past the pile and retreated with their tales between their legs. Never before has a military stand been so effective. How is it that 2 defenders were able to stave off the onslaught of 3 "attackers"? This example may be silly, it's is still very true to life. You feel like a kid designing your own worlds.
The feeling of being a man is compounded at every turn out here. You walk up and down hills, across ground that at one time was littered with Unexploded Ordinance (UXO) and land mines left by the Russians. That's a manly feeling. You cross motor pools lined with HMMWV's, up-armored MRAP's, Bradley fighting vehicles, Buffalo IED clearing vehicles, and many other machines of war on your way to chow everyday. That's manly. In my line of work, I talk about killing or capturing the enemy a lot. I strive for that end state with every fiver of my being while I'm working. That. Is. Manly.
Two of our bases were attacked with rockets the last two days. I talked with men that were in bunkers, wearing full body armor, carrying high powered rifles, doing their job via laptops that would be covered in dust settling to the ground after being blown skyward by explosions nearby. I let them know that we were trying to help find the guys shooting at them. I let them know that they were doing an amazing @#$%ing job of getting the work done regardless of the circumstances surrounding them. That is a manly task.
The up days feel so good because you've never felt more alive, more productive. You've never felt a sense of contribution like it. You've never felt more like a man.
Given that I've actually only been over here for about 2 weeks, I'm surprised that I've come to a determination as to why the up days can feel so good without a glaring catalyst to speak of. It's because we're men. It's more than that, it's because we're men doing manly things. We're men doing manly things across the entire spectrum of manly things. We are forced to talk about war constantly, we are forced to survive the harsh elements in a country like this, we are forced to be physically and mentally strong in order to thrive in our environment. It gets even better.
As we were deciding how we wanted to set up our rooms, where the desk would go, what kind of shelves would be built and where, how the layout would support our day to day, I couldn't help but think that I was 9 years old again, designing a fort that would stand up to the imagined enemy. I recall being in the woods near my house in Kings Bay, Georgia. My friends and I had found what appeared to us as foxholes. These divots provided us with concealment, and were located tactically in front of the main entrance to our Area of Operations, now called an AO in Afghanistan. We pointed out which trees would provide cover from which direction, we decided which paths were our ingress and egress routes. And we simply ignored any path through the woods that didn't support our grand scheme of wilderness domination. We scavenged for downed logs to help fortify our fallback positions and we set up gnarly booby traps along routes we were certain Charlie would take.
This was what played in my head as we snuck around FOB Sharana after dark, "acquiring" 2x4's and plywood from outside of, surely heavily guarded, tents. We had to stand guard over our acquisitions to ensure others were not counter-attacking and stealing wood from our pile. We had a nasty run in one day when we stepped from our tent and saw a woman standing suspiciously over our pile of plywood. We engaged her, in conversation, and decided she was a minimal threat. She didn't speak English. Just then, two of her companions came around the back corner of our tent towards our pile. Typical flanking maneuver. Amateurs. We stood our ground and they simply walked past the pile and retreated with their tales between their legs. Never before has a military stand been so effective. How is it that 2 defenders were able to stave off the onslaught of 3 "attackers"? This example may be silly, it's is still very true to life. You feel like a kid designing your own worlds.
The feeling of being a man is compounded at every turn out here. You walk up and down hills, across ground that at one time was littered with Unexploded Ordinance (UXO) and land mines left by the Russians. That's a manly feeling. You cross motor pools lined with HMMWV's, up-armored MRAP's, Bradley fighting vehicles, Buffalo IED clearing vehicles, and many other machines of war on your way to chow everyday. That's manly. In my line of work, I talk about killing or capturing the enemy a lot. I strive for that end state with every fiver of my being while I'm working. That. Is. Manly.
Two of our bases were attacked with rockets the last two days. I talked with men that were in bunkers, wearing full body armor, carrying high powered rifles, doing their job via laptops that would be covered in dust settling to the ground after being blown skyward by explosions nearby. I let them know that we were trying to help find the guys shooting at them. I let them know that they were doing an amazing @#$%ing job of getting the work done regardless of the circumstances surrounding them. That is a manly task.
The up days feel so good because you've never felt more alive, more productive. You've never felt a sense of contribution like it. You've never felt more like a man.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Dealing with memories
So, on a serious note, I did have an interesting conversation while in Bagram. One that left me introspective for a bit. I was talking with some of my other team members about our reasoning for taking our jobs. One of the other guys is single, just out of the Marine Corps, and a bit of an adrenaline addict. Well he mentioned that he doesn't like saying that he enjoys the thrill that can come with being in a war zone because it seems ignorant and even disrespectful to those who have and continue to struggle with what they've seen of war. While trying to convey to him that it's a difficult phenomenon to explain but one that does certainly exist, to enjoy the adrenaline, I told him about my worst day in Afghanistan during my last deployment. I'd like to share the story with all of you before I get to the point of this piece of the blog.
Zerok is a COP (Combat OutPost) in eastern Paktika province and it is where I found myself in 2008. The outpost was built by the 10th Mountain and they didn't do a great job of thinking the COPs location through. While it is located on some heavily trafficked roads, it is also placed at the bottom of a geographical bowl. There are elevation changes, read: mountains, of thousands of feet within just several hundred yards of the walls of the outpost. What this means is that unless heavily patrolled, the hills that look directly down into the COP belong to the enemy. In 2008, it was the most frequently attacked outpost in the entire country. This was the situation we were dealing with. We were attacked daily for over a month. The enemy would shoot mortars, Chinese and Russian rockets, RPGs, recoilless rifles, and small arms fire directly into the walls of our base with extreme accuracy.
There was a bazaar adjacent to our base. The commanders would often interact with the village elders in an attempt to both keep them safe and ensure that they were not working for or with the enemy, thus keeping ourselves safe. During an attack, access to the base for anyone and everyone outside of the walls is prohibited. This is vital to the safety of the men on the base. Opening a door to the outside is simply inviting the enemy in. One day we were attacked with several rounds from a recoilless rifle, think bazooka, and the rounds were off target, supposedly. They landed in the bazaar that was adjacent to our base. Several minutes later, word spread around the base that there were civilians wounded and at least 3 killed. Because the attack and counterattack were ongoing, the gates were left shut and no medical attention could be administered. Our medic simply threw some bandages over the wall for the people to pick up.
This part might be difficult to read for some, so feel free to skip the next paragraph.
Once the immediate threat was over, the gate was opened and the wounded were brought in to see our medics. The medics worked out of a hut near where my team was posted. I happened to walk by as one of the wounded was laid upon the table. The medic had one other person in the room with him, and upon seeing me asked me to step in and help. Once inside, I realized that the victim was a small child no more than 3 or 4 years old. He was wounded badly. I did what I could to help, keeping him awake, trying to convey in a language that he couldn't understand that he would be ok, that we were trying to help, trying to make him smile or laugh, and all the while keeping pressure on the wounds that were bleeding him out while the medic did what he could. I helped load the boy onto the medevac helicopter in the middle of the night. I do not know if he survived. The final scar was that the 3 individuals killed were the boys mother, father, and older sister. This was my worst day.
What I realized after telling the story was that it didn't feel the same as when I used to think of it. It didn't feel better or worse, just different. I didn't get down thinking of it. I didn't know what to make of that. I honestly think that I've subconsciously learned how to deal with it. I don't think of it anymore, whereas I used to think of it almost weekly. This makes me proud of myself. I don't feel guilt for thinking about it or talking about it anymore. This makes me proud of myself.
This may seem odd to you all, but I have a request regarding this post. Please don't comment on it. I know that some will want to console me or offer me their ear and I appreciate the offer immensely, I truly do, but I don't need it. I'm ok. For those that want to congratulate me on overcoming something that has been a burden on me, thank you for the thoughts. Your thoughts and prayers are enough. Thank you for understanding.
Zerok is a COP (Combat OutPost) in eastern Paktika province and it is where I found myself in 2008. The outpost was built by the 10th Mountain and they didn't do a great job of thinking the COPs location through. While it is located on some heavily trafficked roads, it is also placed at the bottom of a geographical bowl. There are elevation changes, read: mountains, of thousands of feet within just several hundred yards of the walls of the outpost. What this means is that unless heavily patrolled, the hills that look directly down into the COP belong to the enemy. In 2008, it was the most frequently attacked outpost in the entire country. This was the situation we were dealing with. We were attacked daily for over a month. The enemy would shoot mortars, Chinese and Russian rockets, RPGs, recoilless rifles, and small arms fire directly into the walls of our base with extreme accuracy.
There was a bazaar adjacent to our base. The commanders would often interact with the village elders in an attempt to both keep them safe and ensure that they were not working for or with the enemy, thus keeping ourselves safe. During an attack, access to the base for anyone and everyone outside of the walls is prohibited. This is vital to the safety of the men on the base. Opening a door to the outside is simply inviting the enemy in. One day we were attacked with several rounds from a recoilless rifle, think bazooka, and the rounds were off target, supposedly. They landed in the bazaar that was adjacent to our base. Several minutes later, word spread around the base that there were civilians wounded and at least 3 killed. Because the attack and counterattack were ongoing, the gates were left shut and no medical attention could be administered. Our medic simply threw some bandages over the wall for the people to pick up.
This part might be difficult to read for some, so feel free to skip the next paragraph.
Once the immediate threat was over, the gate was opened and the wounded were brought in to see our medics. The medics worked out of a hut near where my team was posted. I happened to walk by as one of the wounded was laid upon the table. The medic had one other person in the room with him, and upon seeing me asked me to step in and help. Once inside, I realized that the victim was a small child no more than 3 or 4 years old. He was wounded badly. I did what I could to help, keeping him awake, trying to convey in a language that he couldn't understand that he would be ok, that we were trying to help, trying to make him smile or laugh, and all the while keeping pressure on the wounds that were bleeding him out while the medic did what he could. I helped load the boy onto the medevac helicopter in the middle of the night. I do not know if he survived. The final scar was that the 3 individuals killed were the boys mother, father, and older sister. This was my worst day.
What I realized after telling the story was that it didn't feel the same as when I used to think of it. It didn't feel better or worse, just different. I didn't get down thinking of it. I didn't know what to make of that. I honestly think that I've subconsciously learned how to deal with it. I don't think of it anymore, whereas I used to think of it almost weekly. This makes me proud of myself. I don't feel guilt for thinking about it or talking about it anymore. This makes me proud of myself.
This may seem odd to you all, but I have a request regarding this post. Please don't comment on it. I know that some will want to console me or offer me their ear and I appreciate the offer immensely, I truly do, but I don't need it. I'm ok. For those that want to congratulate me on overcoming something that has been a burden on me, thank you for the thoughts. Your thoughts and prayers are enough. Thank you for understanding.
Monday, January 3, 2011
We meet again
So this post is going to cover my time in Bagram, about 4 or 5 days. It is going to be 1 of a 3 part series that I wrote in one sitting. They will carry on through my flight to FOB (Forward Operating Base) Sharana and my first few days on this base. I feel like that is referring to hundreds of events worth noting, but I'm pretty sure it spans less than a week. Which brings up my first point. Days.
Since the day after Christmas, I have had no sense, or care for that matter, what day of the week it is. Since we will be working 7 days a week, there is no need to keep track. Also, as each day will be mind-bogglingly similar to the one previous, it makes keeping track even less important. Now this creates several twilight zone like effects. For one, I Skyped my wife at noon, and she appeared in my video screen wearing PJs. Now I know that the NRF doesn't allow this, but my first thought is not, "oh, it must be the weekend." My first thought is, "what is she doing?" It isn't until I begin running through a list of possible reasons, that the day of the week comes into play. The second most prevalent effect, is when pondering spans of time. When I say I feel like I've been here for a month now, I literally feel like the amount of days that have passed since last seeing my family has reached month long status. I'm asking Margaret if our couch is still holding up...I saw the couch something like 2 weeks ago. Weird.
So, I've been in Afghanistan for a lifetime now. We had a few days of scheduled downtime at Bagram. I can honestly say that it was a lifesaver. The list of things that one has to adapt to being over here is too long to think of without my brain hurting, so I will just hit a couple. The average elevation in Afghanistan is something like 4,000ft, where Virginia is somewhere below about 1,500ft. I can tell you for a fact that both Bagram and Sharana, are well above that average. The mountains surrounding both bases can and often do have snow caps well into the summer months. The elevation can leave you breathless after seemingly short walks. Imagine carrying a 30lbs backpack, a 40lbs body armor set, and two 60lbs duffle bags as soon as the doors to the airplane open. Not a pleasant welcome to the country.
Another issue is how dry the air in this country is. Many newcomers often get several bloody noses during the first few days of acclimation. I'm a pro, so I didn't get any. However, I did avoid touching, rubbing, scrunching, or picking my nose, the wife would be proud, for fear of opening the floodgates. Every sneeze is immediately followed by 4 seconds of sheer panic as you are certain that you've just begun bleeding out all over your nice new work shirt. Gross, sorry. The dry air coupled with the distinct lack of rainfall magically transports all of the dirt that should be on the ground into the air for you to breath and attempt to see through. If you are foolish enough to open your mouth while in the presence of a vehicle, during a windy day, or when in close proximity to someone that treads heavily, you will literally be chewing your air. Think, "sand in mouth at beach=beginning, middle, end of each day in Afghanistan. Sucky is a word, though underlined in red right now, that comes to mind when thinking of breathing in this country.
Now, Bagram was where I spent the time acclimating, but I can't say it was all bad. The Dairy Queen, Burger King, and Subway that I'd remembered from my previous trip had all been closed when the last commanding general took over. Oh wait, that does suck. However, what I was most looking forward to at Bagram was still around. I like to call it, "a barber shop/ massage parlor". It was basically a place where you can go to get your hair cut and/or get a 60 minute massage for just $20! I know that was obvious, but I seem to be in a joking mood at the moment. $20 gets you a full body massage for a whole hour. Back when I thought I'd spend my whole year at Bagram, I entirely planned on having one to two massages per week. Pipe dreams.
Since the day after Christmas, I have had no sense, or care for that matter, what day of the week it is. Since we will be working 7 days a week, there is no need to keep track. Also, as each day will be mind-bogglingly similar to the one previous, it makes keeping track even less important. Now this creates several twilight zone like effects. For one, I Skyped my wife at noon, and she appeared in my video screen wearing PJs. Now I know that the NRF doesn't allow this, but my first thought is not, "oh, it must be the weekend." My first thought is, "what is she doing?" It isn't until I begin running through a list of possible reasons, that the day of the week comes into play. The second most prevalent effect, is when pondering spans of time. When I say I feel like I've been here for a month now, I literally feel like the amount of days that have passed since last seeing my family has reached month long status. I'm asking Margaret if our couch is still holding up...I saw the couch something like 2 weeks ago. Weird.
So, I've been in Afghanistan for a lifetime now. We had a few days of scheduled downtime at Bagram. I can honestly say that it was a lifesaver. The list of things that one has to adapt to being over here is too long to think of without my brain hurting, so I will just hit a couple. The average elevation in Afghanistan is something like 4,000ft, where Virginia is somewhere below about 1,500ft. I can tell you for a fact that both Bagram and Sharana, are well above that average. The mountains surrounding both bases can and often do have snow caps well into the summer months. The elevation can leave you breathless after seemingly short walks. Imagine carrying a 30lbs backpack, a 40lbs body armor set, and two 60lbs duffle bags as soon as the doors to the airplane open. Not a pleasant welcome to the country.
Another issue is how dry the air in this country is. Many newcomers often get several bloody noses during the first few days of acclimation. I'm a pro, so I didn't get any. However, I did avoid touching, rubbing, scrunching, or picking my nose, the wife would be proud, for fear of opening the floodgates. Every sneeze is immediately followed by 4 seconds of sheer panic as you are certain that you've just begun bleeding out all over your nice new work shirt. Gross, sorry. The dry air coupled with the distinct lack of rainfall magically transports all of the dirt that should be on the ground into the air for you to breath and attempt to see through. If you are foolish enough to open your mouth while in the presence of a vehicle, during a windy day, or when in close proximity to someone that treads heavily, you will literally be chewing your air. Think, "sand in mouth at beach=beginning, middle, end of each day in Afghanistan. Sucky is a word, though underlined in red right now, that comes to mind when thinking of breathing in this country.
Now, Bagram was where I spent the time acclimating, but I can't say it was all bad. The Dairy Queen, Burger King, and Subway that I'd remembered from my previous trip had all been closed when the last commanding general took over. Oh wait, that does suck. However, what I was most looking forward to at Bagram was still around. I like to call it, "a barber shop/ massage parlor". It was basically a place where you can go to get your hair cut and/or get a 60 minute massage for just $20! I know that was obvious, but I seem to be in a joking mood at the moment. $20 gets you a full body massage for a whole hour. Back when I thought I'd spend my whole year at Bagram, I entirely planned on having one to two massages per week. Pipe dreams.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Day One or Something Like That
To describe myself as having been tired would be like saying the Titanic bumped into an ice cube. We said hello to our last day in the US at 5:45 in the morning and goodbye to our loved ones by 8:00. From that morning until after dark we sat around wishing our families were able to wait with us. Being only a few miles and a couple of heavily guarded gates away from our loved ones, whom we wouldn't see for months, seemed unnecessary. I know my wife, she could have made it through the gates no problem.
Once we were in the air, the real mind trip began. After an initial 5 hour leg, we spent about an hour layover in the US on Christmas day. From there we took another 5 hour stint to Shannon, Ireland. This layover afforded the men and women a glimpse of what we were sacrificing for our jobs. The TV in the terminal was showing Christmas mass at a small church somewhere in Ireland. The priest talked to the little kids dressed up for the holiday play. Each time one answered an underhanded question from the priest, we would get a chuckle out of their responses. Those were the only smiles and laughs I heard on Christmas day. We were back on the plane within 2 hours for our last stint to Kuwait. We thought Kuwait would be our temporary "final stop." We were wrong.
After another 5 hours or so in the air we landed in Kuwait. My watch told me that it was just after dark on Christmas back home. The sky over Kuwait was black but it was almost sunrise on the 26th. I refused to change my watch to local time because something about purposely fast forwarding over the day that I spent my childhood wishing would get here and never end seemed wrong. Meaningless at this point in time, but it still felt wrong.
As I said before, we were operating under the impression that we would have 3 to 4 days to recuperate in Kuwait before leaving for our ultimate destination, Afghanistan. Less than 6 hours after landing in Kuwait we were told to repack our bags, barely touched since landing, but for finding toothbrushes, shampoo, and a change of underwear, and catch a flight to Afghanistan by mid-day. At some point, I laid back on a bed in our transient tent. I was woken up by one of the other contractors telling me that I was about to miss the showtime for our flight. The Army looks at missing showtime like missing a birthday because you were watching football or something. I don't remember putting on pants, but I do remember having to carry my 60lbs bag down to the staging area. After sweet talking the front desk into allowing me to board with the rest of my coworkers, I was on the bus to the flightline.
One thing I remembered about Kuwait from my first travels through the country, was how dry it was. You find it hard to swallow, your face feels like sandpaper, and your nostrils feel like they're made of cardboard. A gatorade hurt going down. Something I recalled noticing my last time through were the old bunkers. Though I didn't pay them much attention then, I couldn't help but think about what these hulks of earth meant.
Newsflash, the first Gulf War was 20 years ago people. The CNN footage you all remember as your first glimpse of war, you were watching as grade schoolers and preteens. These mammoths were a reminder for me that we've had people in the middle east for at least that long. I was 7 when these holes were made. I can't put my finger on it, but something about that amazes me. Why haven't the holes been fixed? Why haven't the bunkers been demolished completely since? What in the hell could have made such huge dents in these things? Egh, answers probably don't exist. I snap a few pictures from the bus anyways. I look down at my watch before boarding our last plane, it's the 26th back home. I change my watch.
So, I've made it to Afghanistan safely. I still have no idea what day it is. I'm pretty sure I've been here for 4 days, but the others are saying it's only been two days. I will fight them later. My spirits aren't up that much, but I'm not too down either. I got to see my wife on Skype yesterday. That felt like nothing I'd ever felt before. I've got something like 360-362 days left out here. I've just now decided that I'm going to be happy when the 6 in 360-362 changes to a 5. Small victories are going to get me through this year. That and Skype. Come on 359!
PS: I'll add pictures in a few days.
Once we were in the air, the real mind trip began. After an initial 5 hour leg, we spent about an hour layover in the US on Christmas day. From there we took another 5 hour stint to Shannon, Ireland. This layover afforded the men and women a glimpse of what we were sacrificing for our jobs. The TV in the terminal was showing Christmas mass at a small church somewhere in Ireland. The priest talked to the little kids dressed up for the holiday play. Each time one answered an underhanded question from the priest, we would get a chuckle out of their responses. Those were the only smiles and laughs I heard on Christmas day. We were back on the plane within 2 hours for our last stint to Kuwait. We thought Kuwait would be our temporary "final stop." We were wrong.
After another 5 hours or so in the air we landed in Kuwait. My watch told me that it was just after dark on Christmas back home. The sky over Kuwait was black but it was almost sunrise on the 26th. I refused to change my watch to local time because something about purposely fast forwarding over the day that I spent my childhood wishing would get here and never end seemed wrong. Meaningless at this point in time, but it still felt wrong.
As I said before, we were operating under the impression that we would have 3 to 4 days to recuperate in Kuwait before leaving for our ultimate destination, Afghanistan. Less than 6 hours after landing in Kuwait we were told to repack our bags, barely touched since landing, but for finding toothbrushes, shampoo, and a change of underwear, and catch a flight to Afghanistan by mid-day. At some point, I laid back on a bed in our transient tent. I was woken up by one of the other contractors telling me that I was about to miss the showtime for our flight. The Army looks at missing showtime like missing a birthday because you were watching football or something. I don't remember putting on pants, but I do remember having to carry my 60lbs bag down to the staging area. After sweet talking the front desk into allowing me to board with the rest of my coworkers, I was on the bus to the flightline.
One thing I remembered about Kuwait from my first travels through the country, was how dry it was. You find it hard to swallow, your face feels like sandpaper, and your nostrils feel like they're made of cardboard. A gatorade hurt going down. Something I recalled noticing my last time through were the old bunkers. Though I didn't pay them much attention then, I couldn't help but think about what these hulks of earth meant.
Newsflash, the first Gulf War was 20 years ago people. The CNN footage you all remember as your first glimpse of war, you were watching as grade schoolers and preteens. These mammoths were a reminder for me that we've had people in the middle east for at least that long. I was 7 when these holes were made. I can't put my finger on it, but something about that amazes me. Why haven't the holes been fixed? Why haven't the bunkers been demolished completely since? What in the hell could have made such huge dents in these things? Egh, answers probably don't exist. I snap a few pictures from the bus anyways. I look down at my watch before boarding our last plane, it's the 26th back home. I change my watch.
So, I've made it to Afghanistan safely. I still have no idea what day it is. I'm pretty sure I've been here for 4 days, but the others are saying it's only been two days. I will fight them later. My spirits aren't up that much, but I'm not too down either. I got to see my wife on Skype yesterday. That felt like nothing I'd ever felt before. I've got something like 360-362 days left out here. I've just now decided that I'm going to be happy when the 6 in 360-362 changes to a 5. Small victories are going to get me through this year. That and Skype. Come on 359!
PS: I'll add pictures in a few days.
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