One (Long) Year in Afghanistan

Red Light

2011-09-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

Its midnight and I'm listening to sad music because I want to feel something. The best days out here have me buried in work that is the "cause" in the "cause and effect" that I wanted to experience again. The good days just have me buried in work. Anything less than that and its just anger, stress, frustration, and nothingness. The monotony can be crushing sometimes. Just the other day I spent about 20 minutes contemplating why I did a triple take on a guy I walked past coming back from the showers. This is what I decided: The first look was acknowledgement that there was someone there, the second was recognition that it was someone that I'd seen before, and the last was for refinement because I was pretty sure he was wearing orange shoes. That turned into a 20 minute thought process. I spared 20 minutes thinking about why I looked at someone, and that was 3 or 4 days ago yet I still can't get it out of my head. I can't help but describe my time in Afghanistan, this time, as sensory deprivation.

This past week has been hard on me. A lot of anger, stress, frustration, and nothingness. I'm struggling to accept the fact that the best days of this deployment are behind me. I'm not expecting many more ticks in the W column before I leave for home. I'm angry that decisions are being made that seem to ensure that this war will not end, but rather fizzle and just sort fade. I'm struggling to accept the fact that I am the last person remaining from my original team. My wife says it means that I'm stronger than the people that have gone home. I don't feel stronger. I feel disconnected and numb. "Why am I still here then?"

So this is a first...I don't want to finish writing. I am going to post this as is because I have no idea where I am/was going with it. I think I just miss my wife and I want to come home. I'm tired of putting myself through this. Maybe I'll feel different tomorrow.

Extortion. Always.

2011-08-09T12:07:00.000-07:00

I've found that in war, I turn the enemy into my own personal demon. Singular. It is not a collection of enemy fighters, but a single dynamic foe. It is the antithesis for what I hold dear. It is a demon that I can quantify and hold in front of my own face. It is evidenced by men I've never met, and a man I met few times, dying under fire while carrying the colors of freedom on their sleeves. I take that bloody nose and that black eye. I take the broken heart and I set it on fire. I enrage. Not an unfocused and distracting anger, but one that carries me through the sorrow. It steadies my head and leaves my hand shaking. Retribution.

It is my duty. It is my job. And it is my calling to drive the machine that was dropping off warriors hell bent on ensuring their brothers' safety that night. It is a machine that is as clear as day and as black as night. It is war. And it is heavy and dark. Yet it can be glorious. Nowhere in life have I experienced such an assured cause and effect. That is what brings us here. Again. It is what I have strived to achieve. The demon cannot win if I am the proper cause. Because there will always be an effect. Last night, there was an effect. There was a booming, frightening Armageddon. And their was retribution. The addicting "A", that we all love, coursing through my veins. As if I was there. I wasn't. Either night. I am the pillar on which heroes stand. Pride.

And yet shame. God, why shame? Those men were my demon. "Were." Why does shame accompany pride? Why can't I accept that I, and many, many others, are behind the curtain of the show that ends people with literal, explosive force? I am not ashamed of the end. I'm not ashamed of my role in ensuring it. I'm ashamed of being happy about it. I'm ashamed of replaying the concussiveness in my mind in an effort to replenish the fuel for my fire. It was the end of life afterall. And yet I want to tell people. These people. All people. I am telling people. I'll deal with the shame later. Retribution.

I offer no respite from the pain of loss. I expect there is none to be had. I offer only knowledge. Knowledge of retribution. Knowledge of a deserved end afforded to one... no, four. Four facets of my demon. 34 to go. 30, 7, and 1.

For those who know. Not knew. But know Extortion. And for Extortion herself. Always.

Head meet hand, hand meet paper. Step 1.

2011-07-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

Or in this case, the keyboard. I don't know why, but I just haven't written anything in forever. There have been several times that I've thought to myself, "I should write about this or that" and not once did I actually sit here and force my thoughts out of my thick skull. I've told the wife several times since arriving back in the Stan' that I would write something soon. Yet nothing. So here I am people in a scheme to trick myself back into the mindset of laying my thoughts and emotions out on the table and trying to put them in order. Note that I chose, "put them in order" instead of "make them make sense."

So I had this idea for a blog post a few days ago. Since returning to the war, I feel that I've experienced a lot of time to reflect on my life, to let my feelings soak in, and to just think. So, what I want to do is just ramble, really. I want to talk some (or as much as I can) about the things rattling in this head of mine. This will take up at least the next 3 or so blogs. See, I'm an expert at tricking myself into writing. So...

I was laying in bed about a week ago in that stage where you're almost dreaming but you're still in control of your thoughts. I was thinking about anything and nothing. Most of the thoughts revolved around my vacation and the time I spent with my wife. All very happy thoughts. Then, almost to my surprise, a memory popped into my head from many years ago of when my uncle Eddie took my brothers William and Zach and myself to a little traveling carnival in the parking lot of some chain store in Jacksonville. I'm not sure how old I was but I feel like I was in junior-high.

The three of us decided to ride one of the rides together. It was the one that has little 3-seat booths suspended under arms that stretched out from the center. The ride would lift you up off the ground and then begin spinning like a carousel and as it spun the seats would swing out to the sides and it just spun you around for a minute or two. Then it would slow and eventually you would touch back down. The seat had a simple lap bar that held the occupants in. Usually.

With William and I on either side of Zachary, we began to spin. Zach started laughing and enjoying himself almost immediately. These rides typically aren't scary and they don't make you dizzy or anything like that. Perfect for the 3 of us. Not long after we started spinning, Zachary starts yelling that he's slipping. Not a yell like that of a kid who is just scared and not wanting to participate anymore. He is screaming like his life depends on it. Sure enough, Will and I look down and Zach has started to slide out from underneath the lap bar. The thing is up around his chest already. Will and I both grab an arm and are literally trying to save our brother's life.

We're yelling for what feels like 30 minutes to get the stupid carney (I'm getting worked up typing this.) to stop the ride. Zach is bawling his eyes out and all I can think of is the image of the events that would transpire if Will or I couldn't hold on. Needless to say, the ride eventually stopped and all 3 of us made it out without a scratch. But the reason I'm writing about this, is why did I think of it? This must have been 13 years ago. There is nothing that would have reminded me of that event. (Surprise, no travelling carnivals out here.) Its not exactly a pleasant memory of mine, so why did I think of it while thinking of my AMAZING vacation?

Anyways, I guess all I have left to say is that I love my brothers very much. I'm proud that William and I were strong enough to hold Zachary in the ride. I remember being proud of him as soon as we got off of the ride. Not sure if I ever told him, though. Will, if you read this, know that I really was proud of you that day for what you did. You were young and yet I feel like you handled it like any adult would have. As for Zachary, I'm incredibly happy that you didn't fall. You're an awesome brother. I was thinking just today about how I've called you "booger" since you were just a baby. I imagine that, at some point, I'll have to stop calling you that. I can't picture you as a 20-something answering to "booger". Anyways, I love you guys very much.

PS. I would love it if any of you reading this would give me your opinion on the questions I posed or tell me about a time when a memory (good or bad) from way back caught you by surprise one day.

The reaction in Afghanistan

2011-05-02T14:35:00.000-07:00

After the news last night of the death of Osama bin Laden, I received this picture from Mike which I think epitomizes the feelings of our warfighters still in-country.

Pictures from FOB Sharana

2011-04-26T11:52:00.000-07:00

Mike shared some photos with me today that I wanted to post for people back home who are interested in what he's up to.

Sadly, this is the last picture of the crazy beard, may it rest in peace.

Mike and a couple guys from his team. They all work on the same project.

Clean-shaven Mike!

Task Force Currahee is the team Mike work with.

The country lost a soldier yesterday

2011-04-23T02:21:00.000-07:00

At the end of the most violent week of fighting that I've seen since arriving here, we lost a friend. In a week that provided me my most fulfilling day, a week that quantified my reasoning for being over here, and a week that garnered praise for my coworkers and I, I've also experienced the worst feeling to be had out here. The loss of life that, unfortunately, is sometimes required to "win".

Earlier this week, the unit that we are attached to had their most successful day so far this deployment in capturing several high ranking insurgent commanders. The mission went out without a hitch. Not a single insurgent got away, a ton of weapons were confiscated and/or destroyed, and not a single shot was fired. After all was said and done, my coworkers and I were praised and lauded. We tried our best to be selfless and to ensure that the soldiers were the ones getting 100% of the attention, but it still felt good to be recognized for our part in helping the soldiers accomlish their duties.

I told Margaret before coming out here that my number one reason for coming out here was because of the unrivaled job satisfaction. When I do my job right I see immediate, lasting, forceful results. Bad guys getting killed or captured. Having held jobs where doing my job right meant no changes would be made, no plans would be altered, no one would DO anything, I have grown addicted to the "cause, effect" that comes along with this type of work. I love being part of the "cause". But that is what makes losing soldiers tough on me. If we are praised and people try to give us (some) credit for when things go incredibily right, do I inherently claim some of the fault when things go so bad that a soldier loses his life?

After the first mission this week went so well, you could practically cut the self-esteem with a knife. Support personnel and the actioning arm alike puffed their chest out and smiled a hell of a lot more. Meetings that usually had 5 to 6 people sitting in a large conference room all of a sudden became standing room only. I personally whispered to a soldier next to me, "things go right, and they flock to it like flys on @#$%". That night, those same soldiers went out on the mission that claimed the life of one of their colleagues. What will the meetings look like now?

The soldiers were conducting an operation in Yahya Khel District or our province, Paktika. We've known that the district is a hotbed for the insurgency and the soldiers were expecting a fight. They got one. We were told that it started the moment they hit the ground. "We only had enough time to get down." The coalition forces were hit with AK-47 fire, RPG fire, grenades, heavy machine gun fire, and were being flanked by additional insurgents. They were taking fire from several buildings including a mosque. The air support overhead identified large groups of heavily armed men moving towards our forces. With the firefight on the ground lasting for two hours, the F-15 Falcons overhead deciding whether or not to drop bombs "danger close" to our forces in an attempt to protect them, and the Apache gunships doing run after run with their 30mm cannons, this was a fight made for the big screen. The soldier we lost was killed by small arms fire while clearing a building. Several of the soldiers accompanying him were severely injured as well.

All told, we killed 12 heavily armed insurgents yesterday. Among them was a high ranking leader that is part of the top 5 most wanted for this unit. Removing those men from the battlefield will make things quieter for the soldiers in and around Yahya Khel, potentially saving more lives. One of my coworkers asked me if the mission would be considered a success. I said yes, and have never felt worse about a thought like that. We lost a soldier, we had several wounded severely, and unforutunately, they were all from the same squad. The pschological effect of something like that will reverberate for years to come in the minds of their colleagues. Leave them in your prayers long after today. But we killed 12 of them and removed tools of war from their hands. Tools that would without a doubt be trained on our forces again in the future if left on the battlefield. So yes, it was a success.

During a speech to the soldiers from Task Force Currahee, an officer made a very good point. So often in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the soldiers find themselves fighting an invisible enemy. They are simply driving and an explosion happens and claims the lives of their friends and literally (and figuratively) scars the survivors for life. This was not that kind of instance. The soldiers knew exactly who they were fighting because they could see the whites of their eyes less than 20 meters away. That, that fact is something to be grateful for because their is a sense of closure when you see that man fall.

I'm doing fine everyone. I'm concentrating on the soldiers around me. As a contractor, I'm looked at as having "been there and done that." And in these cases, I have. I'm doing my best to ensure that I'm a role-model for the young soldiers around me. I let them know that it's ok to be down, but that in the end the best tactic is to swallow hard and work even harder. Please pray for the safety of the men whose job is to face the enemy down and to persevere.

Priorities?

2011-03-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

Out here, I find myself operating like a single purpose machine. Like the machine that imprints "Louisville Slugger" on the side of baseball bats. I eat, sleep, and breath in order to do my job and to do it well. I find myself dreaming about work and it doesn't upset me. I am working 16-19 hour days and I get back to my tent feeling good about the day. A huge change when compared to the typical workday back home. The daily routine out here is unwavering. I typically wake up at the same time everyday, walk to the same shower tent, stand in the same spot when I brush my teeth. It goes on all day. I eat lunch and dinner with the same people at the same time at the same table while drinking the same drinks (Snapple Iced Tea and a water). This routine is a blessing and a curse. It's great because the days just blend together. Everyone I've met out here comments on how the days seem to crawl but the weeks fly by. The flip side, I find myself having tunnel vision.

I have received a BUNCH of care packages from a BUNCH of my incredible friends and family. Seeing your name on a box during mail-call is such a great feeling. It is a blessing on so many levels. You get the feeling like it's a christmas present that you (secretly) expected but were still unsure of it coming to fruition. I ask for breakfast snacks and I get Honey Buns. Are you kidding me?! I LOVE HONEY BUNS! I ask for microwavable food items and my mom sends me bowls of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meatballs. I don't know if any of you know, but I grew up (and out) on those. My mom always said, "Mike, you're not fat. You're husky." Now THATS a good mom. By the way, thank you, Chef Boyardee, for the hundreds of pounds of Spaghetti and Meatballs that I've consumed in my life. I'm not even close to done.

My wonderful mother-in-law sent me a hand written card on an embossed personalized stationary. It was just a "I like to write instead of type sometimes...I love you and miss you." I don't know that I've ever missed my Mamma-Case so much. I know that the box she sent had awesome snacks and such, but that little letter is what I walked around and showed everybody. Just knowing that she sat down at the counter in the kitchen (taking author's liberties here) and wrote down some words because you missed me, that takes me away from this place.

Scott and Lisa. First and foremost, I tacked the pack of "Justin Bieber FAN-atic" trading cards up on the wall in our breakroom. Well played friends, well played. As for the immaculately packaged brownies, aligned 10 across and 10 down, each individually wrapped in cellophane then placed in a ziplok bag, and laid across the top of a box with care and precision, I had two major observations. The first, Lisa was responsible. I love you, Scott, but that was your wife's work. Second, I had the nagging thought that maybe I should test these before handing them out to everyone because it sure did look a lot like (what I imagine) "special brownies" are packaged like. I didn't test them and once I saw someone eating one while slouched in their chair with only their eyes above the desk, I immediately hid them. Don't worry though, we all sit like that. You know, like we all end up sitting at our work desk.

Mr. and Mrs. Davis. The nerf guns have gotten completely out of control. My in-laws sent me ones that shot 6 nerf-bullets. I was impressed. You somehow managed to find toys that shot something to the effect of 12 nerf-bullets. Then, you sent me two of each. Lets picture this. I, of course, am using the 2 new 12-shooters. David has the itsy-bitsy little pocket nerf gun you sent because he's a "itsy-bitsy pocket nerf gun kind of guy." (Kidding, David!) Jimmy has 2 of the 6 shooters, Kelly has the other 2. For those keeping track, thats 49 individual nerf-bullets in the air or impacting faces at any given time. Needless to say, nerf guns have now been banned in the office. Which presents me with a different problem, now I have 7 nerf guns just sitting in my room. "Willpower is the ability to resist temptation until you can be sure no-ones looking." That means I shoot myself often.

Leah and Clint, I just don't know what to say. I really don't. Cake-loaf? Brownie-Cake? All I know, is that the concrete block sized chocolate treat (there were 2) has been submitted to the Guinness Book of World Records for the largest "whatever it's called" in history. People in my office literally dropped to the floor in disbelief. Of course I don't mean literally, but yes, literally. I and everyone in my office are extremely greatful for you guys managing to create such a goliath treat.

I titled this blog "Priorities?" because, I appreciate all of you more than I can express. The packages you send take me home. I picture being at home stacking semi-illegal-looking brownies into the box. I picture myself in the toy section at the store finding the biggest, baddest nerf guns on the market. I picture standing with my wife in the kitchen while she bakes monster brownie/cake/loaf....things. Seriously, what is that thing called? I picture being with my mothers, both of whom I've never missed or loved more than I do right now. I'm sorry that I haven't thanked you all sooner, but work has to be high on my priority list too. I promise that I will do a better job of letting you all know how much I appreciate you.

PS. Chef Boyardee in a microwavable bowl and Honey Buns...This "husky" guy is having good dreams tonight!

Winter or Spring?

2011-03-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

So the warm weather is here. The last week has been in the 50's to 60's. When comparing that to the past month of 30's, 20's, and teens this is practically beach weather. The sun has been out and the clouds have been sparse. Beautiful weather. This is the weather I have been begging for and dreading. This is the weather that makes me feel selfish and selfless all at once. This is the weather that makes me smile and leaves me wanting to cry.

The month of February is the worst month for weather in Afghanistan. We had sub-freezing temperatures for 75% of the time. We had rain anytime it wasn't freezing and snow/sleet the rest of the time. That kind of weather weighs on you. I would open the door to my tent and be greeted by stone grey clouds, howling wind, and cold. Not a great way to start any day. There was no respite from the "under the weather" feeling. In a warzone like Afghanistan, winter means work consists of a lot of boredom. The insurgency isn't fought, from either side sometimes, in weather like that. The insurgents use that time to recruit, and rest. The coalition uses that time to refit, repair, plan, and plan some more. What this translated to, for me, was a lot of inner battles.

I was very close, on several occasions, to calling it quits out here. I wouldn't call it full on depression, but I absolutely hated my situation. I hate being away from my wife. I hated the fact that I couldn't walk out of our building and at least feel some sort of comfort from the sun on my face. I hated that I couldn't really do anything (not literally true, but it felt that way) in regards to fighting the bad guys. I didn't want to go to work, I didn't want to stay in my tent, I didn't want to spend time outside. I am sorry to all of you, but I didn't want to write about it either. My time at my computer was spent in worlds not at all related to the one I was living. I played video games (sorry, Margaret!!), I talked to my wife, and I read the news from back home. I did try to write a blog, though. I rambled on and on about the weather for about 3 paragraphs, then reread it and promptly deleted everything but the first sentence. Then I typed for what felt like hours and completed the first paragraph. That's when I shelved it. The weather was to blame. I told my wife that I just wanted the weather to change. That's all I wanted. I wanted sun and warmth because it would provide ME with enough comfort to get through the days. It's hard to imagine feeling guilty for something like that, but I did and I do.

A week ago the sun came out for good. I've found myself standing outside my office with my bearded face pointed at the sun. The warmth gets held against my skin by the beard and the breeze only hits me in the forehead and eyes. It feels so incredibily good. My attitude has improved tremendously and I have said at least once in the past week that I was confident that I would last a whole year out here. I've had some things go my way at work and so I've been excited to get into the office. I worked several 16 hour days and a 19 hour day. I felt better after those long days than I did for the whole month of February. I love my job. I love being a behind the scenes guy whose responsibility it is to assist the fighters in doing their jobs. It is on my shoulders to sharpen the tips of their spears and ensure that their shields are impenetrable. At least, that's how I picture it. It's that second piece that makes me feel selfish for wanting to feel the sun on my face.

Anyone familiar with the war in Afghanistan has heard of the "Spring Offensive." It is a term used to describe quite a few things. Firstly, it describes the beginning of the war for the new year. Both the coalition and the insurgency ramp up operations and don't let up until the winter comes back around. The coalition implements plans, hatched during the winter, to conduct operations that result in enemies being captured or killed. The insurgency does the exact same thing. Secondly, it describes a time of year. There is an unknown date that we all prepare for out here. It normally falls sometime in March. With it comes sunlight, cool breezes, and warmth. No one knows the exact date, but we all fear it because we know what comes with it.

In my line of work, I am usually one of the first to hear about rocket attacks, IEDs, TICs, and enemy and friendly KIAs. At 7pm everyday we have a meeting with all of the people in my office. The meeting is meant to bring everyone up to speed on what we, as an office, have done for the day. It's very informal and, like most things in the military, methodical. Sam briefs, then Tom, then Katie, then me, then... The phones in the office ring but the meeting goes on. People walk in and out, but the meeting goes on. Two days ago, a soldier was killed near FOB Tillman (where I worked in 2008). I knew as soon as anyone else that he was wounded, but alive. I knew as soon as everyone else that the medical helicopter was on it's way. I knew as soon as everyone else that the fighting was still going on around this soldier. And I knew the moment the soldier died. The meeting paused to allow everyone to utter their pain. "Dammit", "we lost one". Then the meeting moved on.

I hate it out here. I hate being away from my family. I hate that I have to pause at every loud sound. I hate that I live in a tent. I hate that I have to feel guilty for wanting warmth. But I hate that I lost a soldier. I hate the feeling I get when I think of what happens when they announce "blackout". I hate that I haven't done more.

I'm exactly where I want to be, everyone. I'm sacrificing by being out here, but I'm sacrificing nothing in comparison. I'm good at what I do and I'm going to keep doing it because the more I contribute, the less they have to. I'm not depressed. I'm not homesick. I'm steadfast. I'm not looking for support, because I've got all of the help I need from my God and my desire to help these men and women. I wanted to let you all know why I haven't written in so long. I love and miss you all. I will see you all again when my contribution out here is complete.

It's a war zone in here.

2011-02-08T11:24:00.000-08:00

As I turn the corner, one of my colleagues yells out to me from down the hall, "Come get this dang box." He's carrying a box big enough to fit a spare tire in. As he hands it to me and I feel the weight, he reads off something he noticed on the shipping slip taped to the outside of the box. "Nerf guns/Bullets" it reads. He then takes off down the hall to our office at a dead sprint. Flinging open the door, I hear him yell into the crowd, "MIKE'S GOT A HUGE BOX OF NERF GUNS!" And so the fun began.

As soon as I walked through the door, everyone was up from their desk and crowded around the center table in our office. I didn't have to ask for a knife to cut the tape, as I was offered no less than 4 before I could even speak. I opened the box slowly in order to build anticipation from my crowd. Right on top of everything, is a football. Now, Mamma Case had told to expect something from "Nick Saban". Knowing her brother Butch, I took that to mean I was getting some underwear or maybe even some "lawn decorations." This football was neither. Right on the side was the signature of the man himself. What was my first reaction, you ask. Total disbelief. I know my mother-in-law and to think that she held this ball in her hands and then showed the sheer willpower to place it in a box and ship it around the world, simply blows me away. Thanks Mamma! Oh, and my second thought was, "Margaret is going to be SO jealous!"

Unfortunately, there aren't any other true Tide fans in my office and the football didn't garner the type of response from the crowd as it certainly warranted. However, directly under the football was what everyone was waiting for. In all of its yellow, black, orange, plastic, NERF-y glory. I pulled out a revolver-type NERF gun. There were literally shrieks from the men in the crowd. Of course, with all of these people and just one gun I'm sure there were some sinking hearts in the crowd. But alas, I then removed a second, and a third gun. Then I removed two giant bags full of extra darts. Finally, after digging through mound after endless mound of snacks, beef jerky, breakfast bars, toilet paper, and hand sanitizer I found the item that would throw the office into pure chaos. What was it? You guessed it, another NERF gun.

Within seconds, there were little styrofoam darts flying through the air in every possible direction. There were guys laying prone under desks, guys jumping behind chairs and shooting while in the air. There were guys bouncing them off the walls Robocop style. There was even a guy sprawled out on the conference table using the piles of treats I was still removing from the box as impromptu bunkers! Needless to say, the guns stole the show. In this 4 or 5 days since we received them, I have not gone a day without someone doing target practice or an all out NERF war being waged. Just tonight, I witnessed two young men use the NERF revolvers to play out a riveting game of Russian Roulette.

Despite all of the guys being occupied by the toys, there were still plenty standing around when this next part occurred. As I was pulling out goodies by the fistful, I started setting aside the Gold Bond body and foot powder. After 3 bottles (the biggest bottles anyone had every seen) of each, I began to notice a lot of awkward looks from the people around me. After the Gold Bond creams began coming out, I felt it necessary to clarify that not all of them were for me and I did not have some strange illness that required my bathing in medicated powder every night. About half of the office believed me. The other half still won't come within 5 feet of me though.

Mamma Case, Mr. Case, and everyone that contributed to this care package, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for such great gifts. I hope that my blogging does justice to the amount of joy you are bringing to the military men and women out here. There are a lot of people out here that now recognize packages originating from Alabama as ones to behold. I'm extremely grateful and proud to be known as the most popular guy in the office thanks to you. I love you all and cannot wait to thank you in person the next time I'm down to visit.

PS. Here is a picture of me and some of the guys representing for the hometown football team. Note that they haven't been able to put the NERF guns down, even for a picture.

The Youth Take the Cake

2011-02-01T10:43:00.000-08:00

Day 1,987: Hello again from the other side of the world. I've been in a pretty good mood the last couple of days and I've been trying to find something happy to write about without providing the play by play of my daily talks with my wife. Well today, I received my muse in the form of not one, not two, but 5 care packages from a wonderfully thoughtful youth group from the great state of Alabama. Roll Tide!

The guys and gals from Chapel Hill Baptist Church Youth Ministry got together and provided myself and, more importantly, the soldiers, sailors, and airmen that I work with a truck load of great snacks and treats to satisfy every sweet tooth in the place. Since in my line of work I am unable to carry a camera while in the office, I am going to paint a picture of a few of the moments that stuck out to me as ones that needed to be captured.

So once I had checked for mail, I returned to my office (shared with about 10-15 people) with boxes stacked up to my nose. Upon entering, I immediately had everyone's attention because when someone gets a care package, we all get a care package. They had no idea how good these particular boxes were going to be. Before I opened the first box, I had a crowd of 3 to 5 people hovering over me just waiting for a glimpse of the goodies.

The first box I opened had tons of magazines in it. US Weekly and People Magazine are as good as gold to the women working in our office. The "Sexiest Man Alive" edition was nearly torn in two. Before I finished going through the rest of the goodies in that box, every magazine was open and the celebrity gossip was flowing freely throughout. That box also contained a ton (maybe literally, there were a lot) of hot chocolate mix pouches. As I am not a coffee drinker, this received high marks in my book of "awesomeness levels."

Another box contained a seeminly endless pile of Little Debbie snacks. The moment this box opened, I could have sworn all of the air in the building was sucked up by the gasps of everyone within (and maybe outside of) eyesight of the glory that is...the Twinkie. I didn't realize it, but apparently twinkies can be eaten without ever chewing a single bite, as several of the soldiers demonstrated after barely containing themselves long enough to remove the wrapper. After setting a few snacks aside to satisfy my own sweet tooth, the remainder of the snacks were placed on the table front and center of the office for all to enjoy. Hours after placing it there, I noticed several people were still munching away. A huge hit with the masses! On a personal note, I want to thank whoever packed this particular box. You clearly had in mind to pack as much awesomeness between the 6 walls of the box as possible. The fact that you included incredibly soft toilet paper indicates that "you get it." The fact that you then stuffed a twinkie into the empty roll of the toilet paper puts you in the top 5 of my "all-time most brilliant idea kind of guy/gal" list. Congratulations, you sir/madame are my hero.

Now, before I delve into the all out madness that ensued upon my opening the fifth and final box, let me just say that there are times out here when sane men and women lose all sense and revert back to caveman like behavior. Ice cream night at the chow hall is as close as I'd seen people come to being animalistic, that is until today. The very first thing I see in the box is a ziplock bag with "Peanut Butter Candy" written in marker. I know what these are. They are little golden pieces of heaven covered in peanut butter. The rest of the poor fortunate souls have no idea what they are about to experience. I passed them out and heard at least 2 grunts and what I am pretty sure was a bear's growl as everyone scarfed them down. People immediately began questioning how something so perfect could exist. I don't want to say that anyone was crying out of sheer joy, but it might have happened. The fact that I followed that up with homemade cookies pushed several people over the edge (they began running around the office screaming like school girls). As these were grown men wearing Army fatigues, it wasn't their proudest moment.

So all funnyness aside, I hope everyone at Chapel Hill knows what joy you have brought to a group of men and women a long, long way from home. Some of these military people don't get care packages that often and a day like to day helps all of them deal with the stresses that come with this line of work. I hope you all recognize that a group of very strong, very committed soldiers, sailors, and airmen are speaking praises about you and the extremely generous gift you provided. I am proud to say that you are all my friends and that you care enough to take the time and spend the money to send me and my colleagues gifts from home. To Justin and Jennifer Ray, (thanks again for marrying Margaret and I!) thank you for being a continuing blessing in my life. I can't wait to see you both again soon.

Endless thanks and lots of blessings,

Mike

PS. The bible verse paper you all sent me is hanging on my wall right next to my door. Thank you for being the vessel for the blessings that God has given me today!

The Ups, Downs, and In Betweens

2011-01-21T10:29:00.000-08:00

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!

SCOREBOARD!

2011-01-11T09:48:00.000-08:00

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.

A Man's Opinion

2011-01-07T23:04:00.000-08:00

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.

A few photos from Mike's time away so far.

2011-01-04T15:07:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day meal

Bunkers

Bagram

Sunset in Sharana

Dealing with memories

2011-01-04T00:55:00.000-08:00

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.

We meet again

2011-01-03T09:28:00.000-08:00

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.

Day One or Something Like That

2011-01-01T07:46:00.000-08:00

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.