ANOTHER WRETCHED TRIP
Name: Old Blue
Posting date: 11/13/09
Returned to: Afghanistan
Milblog: Afghan Quest

Just returned from another wretched trip to Pogadishu, once again challenging my moral endurance. One of the more blatant signs of disconnection from reality; several Soldiers complaining vociferously about Pizza Hut running out of beef while nearby a Soldier who was passing through Bagram to go on leave had come from a FOB where running out of water for days at a time was relatively common, and where needed supplies were unable to be delivered due to a lack of airlift capacity. The ridiculousness of the concerns of the denizens of Pogadishu is highlighted in the presence of those who pass through their midst on the way to and from the real war.

The Soldiers who pass through are treated to visions of high-rise (three-story) conex condos while they themselves are subjected to the horrors of the “transient tents.” These hovels house nearly two hundred men who share four shower stalls, two urinals and three toilets. Overflow capacity is provided by several porta-johns nearby. I haven’t been to the east side of Bagram in two years, but I hear that conditions over there are even more horrific.How that can be escapes me, but there must be another level of depravity on that side of the runway.

In the north transient tents, one tent, which is not an Army tent but the type of enclosure that might hold diners at an outdoor wedding, holds double-deck bunk beds that house at least 175 men. It is nearly always filled to capacity, a scant foot or foot and a half between bunks. Dimly lit, it is like a holding pen for a level of Hell that is filled to capacity. Bare plywood floors are perpetually dusty, and there is an air of resignation.

The other tent, of the same construction, has standard Army cots separated by the same intervals. This tent easily houses a hundred men. It seems more pleasant because of the ability to see from one end to the other. Not all of the occupants are transients. Many Soldiers and contractors are “housed” there for weeks at a time before getting more “permanent” housing, likely in one of the many B-huts which have small living areas separated by cubicle-like “walls” with lockable “doors.” The “walls” cannot go all the way to the ceiling because there are only two Chigo (heating and air conditioning) units, one at each end of the hut. Often a dozen men will be housed in one B-hut. B-hut living is tolerable, but it is sheer luxury compared to the Spartan living in the transient tents.

In the transient tents, privacy is a matter of mind over matter. The iPod is a savior. If one puts in the iPod, one can almost forget the man snoring 18 inches from his left ear. As I lay there on my cot, the roar of two F-15’s taking off shattered the near-serenity of Pachelbel’s Canon. I restarted the tune, immersed in the quiet dignity of what is likely my favorite piece of classical music. A bit later, another pair of fighters took off, afterburners punctuating Steppenwolf’s invitation to a young woman to join them on a Magic Carpet Ride. Brilliant.

I think that the iPod saved my sanity.

But there is no saving one’s sanity from the utter fobbitry. NFL on Fox made the trip to Afghanistan, only to root themselves in the land of those who serve, forward deployed, but not in any way, shape or form actual participants in the hostilities. As we were conducting training for several days with one of the headquarters elements, we moved through what is to us something out of Alice in Wonderland. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I were approached at Bagram by a huge, time-management-challenged rabbit. So, eating in one of the dining facilities during lunchtime, we saw Terry Bradshaw and Howie Long as they exited. They had been seated in the large, cramped DFAC and had signed many autographs. Asked by a friend back home if I had said anything to them, I replied, “Nah, this place is full of fobbit jock-sniffers. I don’t want to be one of them.”

I was informed that coffee being shot through the nose is very uncomfortable and stains shirts.

I am reminded that Toby Keith heads out to FOBs and COPs where he has played for very small groups of Soldiers on an acoustic guitar. It was a nice gesture for NFL on Fox to head to Afghanistan, it really was. When I first came to Afghanistan, half of the people I knew weren’t even tracking on this country. It was the forgotten front of the War on Terror. Iraq was where all the money, troops and attention went. So for Fox to come to this land was a great gesture. But the kids at Bagram have everything.

Except beef on their pizza. At least for a few days.

There are Soldiers and Marines all over this country who get squat -- even water -- while Bagram has “Karaoke Nite” and “Salsa Nite.” Then the spoiled wonders there even have the temerity to rant out loud about not getting beef with their pepperoni for their Pizza Hut pizza (delivered, no less). Now, I can’t fault them for making their lives as comfortable as possible, but there is silly and then there is ridiculous. Salsa Nite is silly.

Housing the warriors who normally live in Spartan conditions that the fobbits at Bagram would riot over in those pathetic “transient tents” is ridiculous. You do not see field grade officers spending the night in those wretched holes. If a full Colonel ever got stuck in there for a night, lots would be made of the event shortly thereafter. But it is perfectly fine to “house” a young Sergeant with two Purple Hearts, who has lived for days without clean water and who has no electricity on a regular basis, in the slums of Bagram while the full-time denizens of that massive disconnect from reality are housed in apartment complexes formed of stacked shipping containers, with cable TV and internet service in their rooms.

The word is disparity.

“I can’t believe that they have the nerve to even open their mouths about not having beef on their
pepperoni pizza,” the young Sergeant stated, “but it just reminds me that they are nothing.” He continued, “They come here and then they go home and talk about how they went to Afghanistan, but they aren’t even in this war. This is like an American town in the middle of Afghanistan. This isn’t Afghanistan, and these people ain’t shit. Hearing stuff like that pisses me off, but it reminds me that I’m an Infantryman, and I’m in it for real.”

Bagram really needs to do something about the shameful disease vectors that it calls “transient housing.” There should not be a soul living in pampered condos while the warfighters themselves pass through the scummy misery of those fetid tents. Tons of money is being spent there on construction, and yet a man who lives in crap out on a FOB has to share four shower stalls with over two hundred other men? Bagram is a hub for all who pass in and out of Afghanistan. The notoriously snarled air traffic leaves people hanging for days at a time -- to suffer the indignity of an ill-run “transient housing” situation. It is unconscionable.

They didn’t show the celebrities the “transient tents.” Why? Why not show them where the real warriors get stuck when they pass through on leave, or when rushing home in family emergencies? Because they are not idiots. If you chain your child in a closet, you know better than to show anyone. Certainly not anyone with a camera. Not only is Bagram disconnected from the war, but they treat anyone who actually is connected to the war like some kind of animal. For anyone going on leave, Bagram is just part of the hellish journey that only gains some semblance of normal when you reach Atlanta.

It’s a shame.

I’ve caught yet another upper respiratory infection in the transient hell of Bagram. If you ever really just have a burning desire to get sick, go to the transient housing office at Bagram and tell them you need a place to stay.

Posted at 09:03 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBack (0)

WELCOME TO THE REAL WILD WEST
Name: Mike T.
Posting date: 11/4/09
Returned from: Afghanistan
Milblog: c/o Afghan Lessons Learned

For those of you who will be stationed out in Western Afghanistan for your tour, as I was, I have some advice:

1. Do not listen to the bullshit that people state about the West: It's dangerous like everywhere else.

2. The West is mainly desert near the Hari Rud to about Shindad, which starts to become mountainous. From there to the main city of Herat you will find various builds of infrastructure. Herat is the cultural center of Afghanistan. Read The Great Gamble. This is the only book that mentions so much about Western Afghanistan and how much it played a role in the Afghan-Russo War.

3. The war in the West is as isolated as anywhere else in-country, but we are mainly under ISAF ROE. There are many areas in the West that you can stumble into an ambush. We operated in higher terrain, but my Oakley boots did very well there. The West isn't as built up as back East so be very prepared to live on your own. ISAF dominates the West and they are a bit slow to help out. Marines are flooding the area but they have their own agenda (still good guys though).

4. Our friends to the West of us do not make our jobs easy in the ETT/PMT world, so be prepared for that as well. Bala Marghub to Golestan (Route 1) is a treacherous drive. It sometimes disappears on you out there, so make sure you have plenty of GPS batteries.

5. Back to your ISAF friends: The Spanish and Italians play by different rules so simply understand that they can't do much for you. There is a single main FOB out there and if you're ETT, get used to little support from our own as well. The logistics are strained. Understand CERP and "Afghan funding", which is actually the money you sign for, research about prices in the West compared to the rest of the country when negotiating contracts for work. Out West is less expensive, don't let them fool you.

6. There is a vendor on the main FOB who can get you anything. You will find out his name when you get there. Ten American bucks for 1000 Roshans (cell phone units). Don't let him tell you otherwise!

7. Back to the terrain: You will find it more interesting than most other Corp Areas. Shindad, Farah, and Herat have their own ethnic issues. If you're running into Tajiks out there -- be prepared to fight. They are not your friends. It is mainly Pashtu or Hazaras.

8. Herat Airfield is run by NATO. Even as Americans you have to play by their bullshit rules to get on there. Do it. Great food if you can get in past all the god damn NATO/ISAF forces who lounge on that bad boy.

9. Teeth hurt? Go to the airfield, there's no dentist yet where you are going. The Spanish have hot nurses and will take care of you, but make sure you can bring someone who speaks Spanish!  I didn't, and boy it was a rough go at first.

*ISAF ROE: International Security Assistance Force Rules of Engagement

ETT/PMT: Embedded Training Team / Police Mentoring Team

CERP: Commander's Emergency Response Program

Posted at 11:01 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

A FEW MEMORABLE WORDS
Name: K
Posting date: 11/2/09
Returned from: Afghanistan
Milblog: Embedded in Afghanistan

BRIBERY

Marine: “Since we just had an IED blow up outside the base, just down there in the town, I think we should search the town down there.”

ANA commander: “No, not a good idea.”

“Yes, it is a good idea. We can’t let them get that close to us. The villagers at least need to know that if they aren’t our eyes and ears out there, then we’ll put them through some inconvenience by searching their homes.”

“I don’t want to do it.”

“I know you don’t but we have to.”

“Couldn’t do it even if I wanted to because we already made the schedule and a search of that town is not on the schedule for this week.”

“Right, but this little operation is based on new information. Remember what we talked about changing operations based on new information and intelligence?”

“Can’t do it and won’t do it.”

“Ok, I’ll give you one phone card to call your family with if you do the op.”

“No.”

“Two phone cards.”

“No.”

“Two phone cards and I’ll buy a cow for the soldiers.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Ok, two phone cards, a cow, and we’ll find you a new wife. Plus I’ll throw in a summer house in Nuristan.”

(laughing) “Seriously, we’re not doing that operation.”

“Roger.”

THERMALS FROM THE SKY

Apache Pilot: “I got a guy on my scope moving all nimbly-bimbly through the trees!”

Air controller on the ground: “Yeah, that’s probably a monkey.”

SOVIET WAR HEROES

Marine: “How come every officer I meet claims he was a commander during the war against the
Soviets?”

ANA mullah: “Because some of us were.”

Marine: “Maybe, but not Commander Hanif here. He looks way too young to have been commanding anything during those times. Maybe he was the chai boy.”

Commander Hanif: “You may be right.”

WE'RE READY

ANA officer: “We’ve got intel that the base is going to be attacked tonight.”

Marine: “Sounds like a great opportunity to kill some people -- but how are we going to prepare for this?”

“We are at stand-to.”

"What does that mean?”

“It means we are ready.”

“Are there more soldiers on duty? Are they sleeping in their gear?”

“No. None of that. But we are ready.”

“Yes, but are we doing anything differently than before?”

“Yes, we are ready now.”

“Well, alright then.”

PRELUDE TO A FIREFIGHT

Unknown insurgent on handheld radio: “I am going to do something.”

WE MEET AGAIN

Marine: “Hello there Haji Z. Been awhile.”

Haji Z: “Here you are. Where have you been? I didn’t give you permission to leave my valley.”

Marine: “Ah, yes, but I have to take orders from someone and can’t always be where I want to be.”

Haji Z: “Let me talk to this person!”

KORENGAL TANK

ANA officer: "You know what would help us? A tank! We need a tank out here."

Marine (egging him on): "Oh yeah? A tank? Great idea! How would we employ a tank here exactly?"

"Easy. We'll just drive it around and the Taliban will shoot at it. Then we'll shoot them with the big gun."

"Hmm. You sure we can drive a tank around this valley? It's kind of narrow and the roads might not hold a tank."

"Oh, we don't really need to drive it anywhere. We can just park it out there somewhere."

"Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of a tank?"

"No. No. It would work great."

(laughing) "You guys need tanks in the Korengal about as badly as you need a navy."

(petulant) "If you Americans cared about us you'd get us tanks out here."

(placating) "Okay, okay. We'll see what we can do."

Posted at 11:46 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

HERO
Name: Old Blue
Posting date: 10/30/09
Returned to: Afghanistan
Milblog: Afghan Quest

Recently, an email came in from an officer who quoted an ANP* chief in a district in which I did some work as a mentor. The ANP chief said that he was looking forward to winter so that the leaves on the trees could no longer the Taliban and he could kill them all. Fair’s fair, after all. They’ve repeatedly tried to kill him.

He’s been wounded twice since I’ve known him.

We were getting ready to do a conference for trainers from all over the Army and some of our Coalition allies, and it was brought up how great it would be to have the ANP chief, a Colonel, come and speak to these officers and senior NCOs about his experiences. Since I knew him, I said that I could perhaps help. Through a series of communications, we were able to get through to the Colonel and schedule time for him to come and speak.

I met the Colonel just over two years ago. He had been handed a very challenging district and was struggling to turn it around. He was cheerful, soft-spoken and, I was to learn, fearless. Whenever word came of ANP troops involved in a fight, he gathered more ANP soldiers and ran towards the sound of the guns. He was wounded and nearly lost his hand in one fight. An American medic twice braved fire to run the length of the convoy to work on the wounded ANP officer. He was never recognized for his bravery, because the American officer in charge at that point put himself in for a Silver Star for the action. Recognizing the medic was not on the agenda.The ANP Colonel was medevac’ed to an American hospital and his hand was saved.

He was wounded again just over a year later, this time in the chest. Again he was flown to an American hospital and recovered. His driver was also wounded in the ambush which was set specifically for him. He hates the Taliban and they hate him back.

The Colonel has also made massive changes in his district. While certainly not entirely free of insurgency, the district is a far cry from the condition it was in during the spring and early summer of 2007. I’m going to go and revisit the district soon. The Colonel tells me that it is very different from when I last saw it. I hope so; it was viewed with considerable foreboding back then. The ANP have also improved.

In the early summer of 2007, the ANP would scarcely leave their district center for fear of attack by very strong insurgent forces. At least one officer was a Taliban spy, and two officers were running an arms trafficking ring along with a local baker. The district was a mess. The bazaar was an ugly smear running alongside the only major road. The Taliban and HIG* held sway. An NDS* officer was hanged in the village square and an order given not to cut him down. His body hung for three days as a warning to all not to aid or participate in the government. The town, and the district named for it, have changed.

Police checkpoints line the road and dot the valley. ANP move about at will, and there is a sense of hope. The road is paved now. Schools are functioning and the bazaar thrums with activity. The town has a new lease on life. Most of the ANP that were on the payroll in 2007 have been replaced. The Colonel has hired many from other areas, bypassing any tendency towards cronyism or local favoritism. He was not alone, and he thanks his American mentors and the Coalition soldiers who have assisted in the long, hard road to recovery for one district in Afghanistan.

The Colonel was delayed a full day in reaching us. He was ambushed at a spot I know well as he drove to be with us. All were okay, but he was delayed.

Although we had shared much conversation, time and a few missions, I wondered if the Colonel would recognize me. He did, and a hug was accompanied by greetings in Dari, which is much better than my atrophied Pashto. We exchanged typical Afghan greetings, inquiring into each other’s health, and the health of the family. He was curious what we wanted him to speak about. I told him, “Just share your experiences. Tell us how the district has changed. Tell us about the fight, and how it is going. Tell us about your experiences with mentors. Tell us about getting along with the ANA and the Coalition forces. Just be truthful.”

“I always tell the truth,” he said.

“Don’t spare our feelings,” I continued.

“I will tell them exactly how I feel,” he said. “We have nothing to fear from the truth.”

The Colonel is one of the most humble men I have ever met. Soft-spoken, I was concerned that he wouldn’t be an effective speaker. He spoke well, but didn’t overdo it. Always considerate, he left time at the end of the period he was allotted for questions, which he answered succinctly. Following a standing ovation, Major General Formica sought him out and presented him with his personal coin for excellence. Afterward, the Colonel stared at the coin in his hand, a distinctly U.S. Army bauble of military achievement, and discussed his experience of hearing speakers and speaking to all of the Coalition leadership he had addressed.

“This is very good, for everyone to learn from each others' experiences,” he said, “and all of this needs to get out into the provinces, or it will do nothing.”

“I know.”

“And these officers must all realize that what works in Kabul is not right for the provinces and districts, because each one is different. If they only listen to the people in Kabul, but not in a district, they will not understand the district that they are in. They need to listen to the local people, who know what they need,” he continued.

“That’s why we asked you to come here,” I said. “I hope you will come back and speak again.”

“Whenever you call, then I will be here,” he said.

I think that he is the bravest man I have ever met.

*ANP: Afghan National Police

HIG: Hizb-I Islami Gulbuddin

NDS: National Directorate of Security

Posted at 11:36 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

GEAR FOR AFGHANISTAN
Name: Bouhammer, Old Blue, WOTN, Vampire 06
Posting date: 10/28/09
Milblog: Afghan Lessons Learned For Soldiers

This is one of a series of posts designed to help and inform the thousands of troops headed to Afghanistan, some of whom had expected to deploy to Iraq. Those who thought they were headed to Iraq now find themselves behind the power curve in coming up to speed on the peculiarities of Afghanistan.

The first version of the list below was published in January, 2007, and is the single most popular post ever put up on Bouhammer.com. It lists good equipment to have, based on our experiences and those of our friends.

Some of these things won’t be needed until you get in country, so you may want to set those off to the side and have them sent once you get settled.

1. Any extra Class VIII you can bring with you is good to have.

2. Wolf Hook Single Point Slings.

3. Desert Tan spray paint.

4. Space blanket(s).

5. 100 mph tape, 550 cord, TP, other expendables you think would come in handy.

6. Drop Leg Holster (BlackHawk or SERPA) and Uncle Mike’s Paddle-Holster for wearing around every day (drop leg will wear a hole in ACUs over time). I also have one for my IBA so I can have my 9mm handy when in the gun hatch going through towns.

7. Weapons lube that doesn't attract sand. (Miltech or Remington Dry Lube only).

8. Two copies of addresses, phone numbers, account numbers, etc.

9. 2 pairs of good boot insoles.

10. A good tactical flashlight (SureFire, even though you will get issued one with M4).

11. Red/white light L.E.D. headlamp.

12. Spare pair of running shoes.

13. MP3 player with estra pair of headphones.

14. Enough batteries to last you 30 days.

15. ChapStick.

16. Lotion.

17. 30 SPF or higher sunblock.

18. Bar soap -- for some reason it's almost always in short supply.

19. Small compact rolls of TP. A lot of places make travel size. Half the time you get to a Porta-Potti and the jackA$s before you yanked the TP.

20. Baby wipes -- 30 days' worth. Expect that the power and water will either go out, or the water will be contaminated, at least once a month.

21. Gold Bond Foot and Body Powder.

22. Small clip-on LED light. Clip it to your IBA. It will come in handy -- quite often.

23. Drink mix for 16- and 20-ounce bottles of water.

24. Weightlifting supplies.

25. Small photo album with pics from home.

26. Hand sanitizer (small bottles to put in ankle pockets).

27. More books/magazines than you think you will need.

28. DVDs, for you and to loan out for swapping purposes.

29. Tactical gloves -- military gloves are sort of clumsy. ( I love the $9.95 whitewater brand gloves from the clothing sales.) Also standard flight Nomex are good.

30. Lens anti-fog agent. Shaving cream works in a pinch, but you have to apply it every other day or so.

31. Good pair of shower shoes/sandals. I recommend the black Adidas -- lasted me all year.

32. Small pillow (air inflatable).

33. Cheap digital camera (at least 2.1 mp).

34. Boot knife.

35. Gerber multitool.

36. Fabreze -- sometimes the laundry opportunities are few and far between.

37. Armor Fresh.

38. Extra boot laces.

39. Stainless steel coffee cup with screw-on lid.

40. Soccer shorts/normal T-shirt to sleep in, hang out in your room in.

41. Sweatshirts for wintertime hanging around

42. A couple of poncho liners for privacy, cover for nasty mattress, etc.

43. A set of twin sheets with pillow case.

44. Good regular-size pillow.

45. One or two good civilian bath towels.

46. Buy a good set (more than $200) of winter desert boots. All they will give you is a regular summer set and a set of Gore-Tex-lined for waterproof needs. Desert is a cold place at these altitudes in the wintertime.

47. Bring a laptop. Also may want a PSP or some other handheld gaming device.

48. Get an external USB harddrive (greater than 120 GB). You will need this to back up data to, and to store movies and MP3s that you will fall in on from previous teams.

49. Get a Skype account and download the software from skype.com. This is how I talk to home 95% of the time. If you call computer-to-computer, it is totally free. You can also Skype out from your computer to a regular phone for 2.1 cents a minute. There is nothing cheaper than that.

50. Decent headset with mic for computer (Skype).

51. Webcam for video calls back home.

52. Bring a minimum of 18 each M4 magazines per person. Nine that are loaded and nine that rest. Plan to do M4 mag changeover once per month.

53. Bring 8 each 9-mm mags, for same reason above. Change these over every two weeks.

54. Order a LULA Magazine Loader & Unloader. It will be the best $14 piece of plastic you every bought. I have 12 mags loaded at all times, and when I do change over, it will do it in a fraction of the time and save your hands and save the ammo.

55. Try to get your state to get, or purchase yourself, one 12V DC to 110V AC inverter per man for your trucks. They are crucial on mission to charge personal items, cell phone, ICOMs, and especially ANA radios (they only have rechargeable batteries).

56. Dump the IBA tactical vest you get issued. Get a Tactical Tailor MAV chest rig. (Does not matter if you get  a one-piece or two-piece, as you want to keep the front open for lying in the prone. You don’t want mags pushing into your chest making it hard to breathe.)  I wish I had bought mine at the start. It makes a huge difference on the back and shoulders when carrying a loaded rig.

57. Get a comfortable pair of desert boots. I wear only the Converse eight-inch assault boots (non-zipper ones). Oakley, Bates, and several others are similar in style and comfort.

58. Bring some good snivel gear for the wintertime. Extra polypro winter hat, gloves, neck gators, etc.

59. Lock deicer for the wintertime.

60. Disposable hand and feet warmers.

61. Canned air, lots of it for electronics, weapons, etc.

62. Lens wipes for optics.

63. Screen wipes for computers.

New Updates from an ETT in 2009:

64. Firing Pin Retaining Pins. Brownells is a good source.

65. DVD ripping program for your laptop, so you can transfer all your DVDs to electrons and store on a hard drive.

66. A good assault pack. I have one from Tactical Assault Gear with aluminum stays in it for support. It's been a lifesaver several times. The one the Army issues is a P.O.S.

67. MBITR pouch from Tactical Tailor.

68. An aviator's kneeboard.

69. Personal GPS (Garmin, etc).

There are probably many other things that could go on this list, but a lot of that is personal preference. The purpose of this list is to provide some insight into things that could make anyone’s tour easier. Feel free to add your own tips via Comments.

Posted at 07:31 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

THE PIRATES OF POGADISHU
Name: Old Blue
Posting date: 8/31/09
Returned to: Afghanistan
Milblog: Afghan Quest

During our recent trip to the provinces we had to pass through the space/time portal known as Bagram, which has been dubbed, by some of those who operate outside the wire but have frequent brushes with it, “Pogadishu.” As many others have noted, it is a world separated from the war by a million miles of cultural and tactical vacuum. A rocket attack on the base in the recent past brought home to the denizens of this burgeoning city of tens of thousands that there is a war on -- but on a daily basis you couldn’t tell it from Disney Drive.

You can’t tell from the actions of those running the place, either.

Whether in business or in warfare, processes are developed. Processes are what are performed by bureaucracies. Bureaucracies are created to serve people, but they exist to serve processes. Once a process is developed, it becomes the goal, the purpose. The people and their needs, which the processes were developed to service most efficiently, become the pain in the system. The very need that spawned the beast becomes the fleas infesting its fur, driving the beast mad. Add some paranoia to it, and you have a beast that is not only ungainly and unproductive, but actually counterproductive and dangerous.

Pogadishu is the petri dish of fobbitry. At all times of the day you can find its denizens unconcernedly strolling the main road, Disney Drive, often in PT gear of whatever service sentenced them to their tour there. There are two PXs, movie theaters, the famous clamshell where they have Karaoke Night and Country and Western Night, two Green Beans Coffee establishments, Burger King, Dairy Queen, shops, an expensive and inefficient private internet service with charges scaling from less than $50 to over $100 depending on the bandwidth purchased, and 24-hour shuttle buses.

That’s just for starters. Sergeants Major and bored officers lurk like trap door spiders to pounce on the unwary who sport any semblance of field wear or who do not wear their reflective belt. For most, the workday is similar to that performed back home, if under more crude circumstances. Only 7% of them will ever leave the wire. Many arrive at Bagram, leave only to go on leave, and finish their tours without ever having left the wire save by air. There is no end to the fobbitry inherent to the streets of Pogadishu.

On a recent trip, one of our junior NCO’s was confronted by a Lieutenant Colonel who stopped in mid-jog to assail him for having turned the cuffs of his ACU jacket inward, a common alteration that allows more air to circulate around the arms, increasing the ability of the body to cool itself. This alteration, while I don’t believe it is specifically forbidden by the ARs*, is sometimes expressly forbidden by certain units, due to the fact that some Sergeant Major doesn’t feel that it’s a “good look” to be sporting. Also, should the street suddenly burst into flames, the Soldier so attired could suffer burns to parts of the arms that may have been retrieved less well-done than other parts of his corpse had the cuffs been tightly sealed against his wrists.

In any case, the LTC stopped in mid-stride to assail the young NCO, berating him for his wear of the uniform as well as his mustache. This young soldier, who leaves the wire every day, may wear his mustache slightly outside the bounds of ARs, but it is tolerated operationally based on the commander’s evaluation of the cost/benefit analysis. The LTC demanded that the NCO remove his mustache, apparently on the spot. The Soldier was unable to comply and so the LTC demanded that the NCO present himself to some Sergeant Major at 1400. Having been sent on a mission by a full Colonel that included drawing certain equipment and returning forthwith on a convoy that left Pogadishu at 1300, the NCO regretfully left the wire without sating the bloodlust of the LTC.

The NCO duly informed the Colonel, upon his return, of the confrontation.

“Screw him,” the Colonel replied, “If he wants to call me, I’ll tell him the same thing to his face.”

Our Colonel is not a Pirate of Pogadishu. What matters to him is getting the job done, not looking like some hackneyed recruiting poster while you do it. That’s not to say that there is no discipline, but it’s not about sweating the small stuff that has no bearing on the mission. It’s about sweating everything that does.

Instead of stopping to chew out junior NCO’s over field modifications to uniforms and moustaches that are not in direct contravention of mission accomplishment, it might be a better idea to identify when four or five teams of people are trying to accomplish a similar goal within a single organization inside his battlespace and put one person in charge of them all so that they actually work together to get it done. Then, after that’s accomplished, if the LTC still has time on his hands, perhaps chewing out random NCOs over what is NCO business might be more productive behavior.

The LTC at one point screamed at the NCO that other Soldiers were going to die because they would burn up, howling in pain because they had seen this NCO and would emulate his jacket cuff style. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a Pirate of Pogadishu.

Our trip would prove to be a dozen times more challenging because of the Pirates of Pogadishu. Like many teams in this country, we are dependent upon our interpreters to accomplish our mission. They are members of our team. We travelled to Pogadishu with two terps, both combat veterans with more than three years of service. Upon arrival we were greeted with, “Oh… them. You shouldn’t have brought them.”

“No?” we queried.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. You can’t bring terps in here like that.” Three heads shook in unison.

“But we need them to do our job,” we pled. A quick conference followed. Eye patches were donned. The Underpirates talked quickly amongst themselves, the uncovered eyes darting to and fro nervously.

“You must go and see the wizard,” came the decision from what appeared to be the Chief Underpirate for Domestic Placement.

“The Wizard?” we asked. “Who and where is this wizard?”

“The Wizard is the Chief Overpirate of Fobbit Tranquility, and may be found in the Directorate of
Overpiracy, just down the way.”

“Uh……huh. Okay. And if they do not heed our cries?” we explored.

“Then your local nationals shall be banished to the vagaries of the outside world, that which is forbidden to be seen, from which you quite obviously plucked them at random just prior to your entry to Pogadishu.”

“And if the great Wizardly Overpirate deems them to be less than fatally harmful to our alien life
processes?”

“Oh, well in that case, they can stay with you. But they cannot eat,” they stated in unison, which had a creepy echo effect.

“They can’t eat.” More a statement than a question at this point, all disbelief having been suspended over the course of the prior several minutes.

“No. They cannot eat. See their ID cards? They have no priveledges. They cannot eat. Not in Pogadishu, anyway.” Again with the stereo effect.

Well, we were off to see the wizard. After a brief ceremoney involving a hair from each of their heads, two ID cards, chicken bones, two separate drums and another set that were joined together, and a strange but very sweet-smelling metallic powder that burst into flame delightfully when the wizard cast it into a small fire, it was determined that if the Captain ever has children they will belong to the wizard and our terps could stay. Everyone was happy save for our deeply insulted interpreters.

“It is like being in a prison, Sir,” they told me.

“I know.”

That’s not the best part.

The best part is that after having risked their lives, finding an IED, driving through an reported ambush which did not materialize and doing a fabulous job of interpreting, our two interpreters were removed from the manifest for the return flight (which turned out to be the exact same Canadian C-130 we had flown up on,) escorted to the gates of Pogadishu and forced to ride back to Kabul in a taxi while still wearing American uniforms, thereby endangering their lives.

Without their luggage, which had already been palletized.

Our two team members were humiliated; which is one of the worst emotions in the world for an Afghan. “It is not your fault, Sir,” one of our terps told us. “It is our fault for working with you and putting ourselves in the position where someone can do this to us.”

The Pirates of Pogadishu had had their revenge.

*AR: Army Regulations

Posted at 01:31 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)

MAPS
Name: Bouhammer, Old Blue, WOTN, Vampire 06
Posting date: 7/10/09
Milblog: Afghan Lessons Learned For Soldiers

With the renewed focus on the first battleground in the War On Terror, Afghanistan, we offer some maps for readers less familiar with some of the terrain and locations that often come up in discussions on our site. Other readers will be intimately aware of these areas in question and perhaps even recall the fine talcum dust so prevalent there.

In the fine tradition of military style traditions, I'll begin with the One Over the World. (Afghanistan is the green spot.)

Clearly, it is on "the other side of the world," but as we look closer, we can see some of the challenges:

One of the first things to notice is that it is landlocked. Another important point is the tumultuous neighbors: Iran, Pakistan, and China. Less obvious in this 2003 map is that the old neighbor -- the Soviet Union -- is now a number of neighbors, emerging young nations such as Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan. These are plagued with active attempts by Iran to spread Islamism, as well as attempts by AQ surrogates to overthrow their young governments.

Looking a bit closer, we can see the that the terrain itself is difficult:

That terrain is understated in the above map, and it is also not the only challenge. The ethnicities are as varied as the terrain:

 

Some of the areas that pop up the most are:

Herat: a city and a province on the Iranian border (northwest).

Kandahar: a city and province on the Pakistani border (southeast), which was the Taliban capital.

Helmand: a city and province in the South and heavy in the poppy trade.

Paktia and Paktika Provinces: which border Pakistan and are deep in the Pashtun areas from which the Taliban find their base of support. The particularly rugged terrain in this area makes the border difficult to define and hard to defend. Taliban have a tendency to cross over easily.

The Northern Provinces: less volatile than the South and East (areas bordering Pakistan) and are less noted in our reports, partially because our NATO allies are responsible for these safer regions.

War on Terror News c 2009, ARM, all rights reserved.

Posted at 11:47 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

COIN: THE FLIPSIDE
Name: Vampire 06
Posting date: 4/29/09
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Folsom, CA
Milblog: Afghanistan Shrugged

Often what’s most neglected here in Afghanistan is the battle we fight within our own forces. Overcoming the fear and xenophobic tendencies that quite a few of the soldiers deploying here posses is a decisive point in the fight that not many discuss.

A new unit just arrived here in our battle space. I say “our” in that it’s the ANA’s country so it’s their battle space; I count the ETTs with the ANA.  Now, the commanders that arrive here continually refer to themselves as "battle space owners." I’d advocate for a rebranding as "battle space renters."  But, as in all good COIN fights, the battle isn’t at the Battalion level. It’s really with the individual soldier that interfaces and spends the most time with the Afghans.

Some of the soldiers that have arrived here have previous experience working with indigenous forces. That experience is with the Iraqi Security Forces, and I’ll borrow a line from my friend Troy  at Bouhammer.com: “Afghanistan isn’t Iraq." The Afghans are much different from the Iraqis. (Troy, I’ll give the royalty check to Kesterson.) 

These preconceived notions get in the way of them working, training and just generally interacting with the Afghans. They call them “Haji” and are afraid of them. Afraid may seem like a strong word to use here, but it accurately describes what I’ve seen. Here’s an example.

The ETTs and CF move onto the ANA side of the FOB to get ready for a dismounted patrol into the local area. As we walk onto the ANA side I hear the sound of 30 M4s being locked and loaded. Look, we haven’t even gotten near leaving the FOB and these guys are locking their weapons. What does that communicate to the ANA?  When I ask why, they reply with various answers that all revolve around, "What if the ANA attack us?"

So the second front in the fight has emerged. We as ETTs are in the middle, the ambassadors of goodwill, or as I like to say, COIN's Bob Hope Tour. We need to break down the walls and get these guys together. “Can’t we all just get along?"

Our Bob Hope Tour started at the basic level. MSG Famine began giving classes to the CF squads about COIN and what’s going on here. Each Private needs to understand that their actions are pivotal in the COIN fight. What we’ve seen is that the officers and senior NCOs get the classes but “Joe” gets ignored. One more way that the US conventional force is missing how COIN works: Joe is the key interface with the populace and the Afghan National Security Force.

Next, we started taking them over to the ANA for Chai and meals.Many of you have already read my posts about Chai and it’s importance within the Afghan culture. But the initial response to this was poor. Only one squad leader wanted to bring his guys over and they were met with ridicule and called “Haji Lovers." But eventually we started seeing more interest. I took some squad leaders over and got them some Nan -- Afghan bread -- to share with their squads. Eventually, more guys expressed an interest. I knew we were starting to win this phase of the fight when I overheard this exchange in the US chow hall:

“Dude, your squad is a bunch of Haji Lovers for going over there, “ one Joe said to another.

“You know what man, they’re not Haji, they’re Afghan, and these guys were beating up the Hajis centuries ago and then were kicking ass on the Russians. So yeah, they’re pretty cool to hang out with,” the other Joe replied with a sense of pride.

Finally we started joint training with the US and ANA. We started with the medics. What I’ve found is that generally the medics are a little more receptive and accepting. So, my medic SSG Doc planned a mass casualty exercise (MASCAL) in which the Afghan medics would receive and triage the casualties, move them to the US Aid Station for joint stabilization, and then the US and ANA would move them to the LZ for medevac. The genius in this plan is that MASCAL requires the whole FOB to mobilize, so the rest of the US Forces have no choice but to see all the medics working together.

You know what? It’s worked. Since then we’ve had squads asking to go do PT with the ANA and do joint training with them. We’ve got our foot in the door and it’s working. We’re pushing back on the second front now too, and like any Bob Hope show you can’t help but walk away happy.

During my incredibly arduous ETT training (that’s a joke by the way) no one ever mentioned the idea that we’d have to battle our own forces to start winning the COIN fight. But it’s critical to start building that bond and breaking down those prejudices. These guy will have to fight alongside each other at some point, and you don’t want that being the first time they meet.

Nothing like a little Chai, Nan and a MASCAL to start the process.  

Posted at 01:58 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE
Name: Vampire 06
Posting date: 4/20/09
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Folsom, CA
Milblog: Afghanistan Shrugged

The white flash splits the Afghan night and I see the world in reverse color for several moments. Then the concussion hits me and I feel it through my chest and into my heart and lungs. KARUMPH!

Our little cabal is huddled in the lee of a high ridge, doing our best to avoid an enactment of Kipling on Afghanistan’s plains. An airstrike just crushed the ridgeline beyond the one that is currently giving us shelter. 

Our ridge rises above us and perched on top like Masada is a Combat Outpost (COP) occupied by US soldiers.

Three of us are kneeling around a map, our ACHs* touching; actually putting our heads together to stave off the enemy. Pools of red, green and blue light spill from our headlamps, lighting the map in a mosaic of color. Two armored vehicles are parked to our front, their doors standing open and red light oozing from them, the radios they contain barking and hissing information.

Double, double, toil and trouble. The three of us plot our next move, sorcerers of death's construction. A mist coats everything; hopefully something else is coating the ground to our east. Circling overhead, like sharks waiting for their next meal, are the aircraft.

The COP reports to us that they’re seeing movement farther along the ridge to the south. The next iteration begins. But much to our dismay the squad leader in the sky has intervened.

Now we’re forced to relay through several bases back to the aircraft circling over our heads, because of guidance from higher. Whoever decided this was a good idea can probably barely recognize their own name two out of three times. As the situation now stands we have enemy immediately to our east firing rockets at us, and the headquarters miles to our north has decided they can control the fight better than us. At this moment I’m unsure who is trying harder to kill me.This isn’t the first time it’s happened.

Suddenly another KARUMPH! The headquarters isn’t even bothering to notify us now when the aircraft release ordnance. This is F#$%ing unbelievable! To shed a little light on what’s occurring, imagine this scenario:

You’re trying to guide your buddy to park a car in a specific spot in a parking lot. You can see him and the lot, and he sees you and the lot. Now instead of you just telling him where to park, you have to get on the phone, call someone thirty miles away and tell them, who then relays to your buddy. By the way, the guy thirty miles away can only see through a camera phone mounted on the hood of the car. Hell, I can barely make sense of what I just wrote, much less guide 500 lbs bombs on target in this manner.

I can envision how it went down:

“Sir, what do you think of controlling the close air support for all troops in contact?" Major Crackdemon asks.

General Ego, a highly egotistical guy who always preaches about empowering his subordinates, says, “Um, I think that sounds fine, but why?"

“Well sir, if we don’t, what’re we going to write on our awards forms and OERs?*” MAJ Crackdemon replies.

“That’s a superb point MAJ Crackdemon, I hadn’t thought of that!” GEN Ego exclaims.

Now, SFC Commonsense interjects, “But sir, does that make sense that we should control a fight miles away?"

“Hell yes it does," GEN Ego shouts, "The Army obviously wanted me to be the best Company Commander in Afghanistan, in fact with these new cameras I can probably even be a squad leader!”

SFC Commonsense doesn’t give up easily. “Sir , then what are all those officers and NCOs down there going to be doing?"

“Well, somebody has to go out there and get shot at so I can bring the aircraft in." GEN Ego wanders off to admire himself in the mirror and thank God that they gave him all this great technology. Hell, a year from now he might not even need soldiers.

I’m jerked from my reverie by the smash of artillery and more airstrikes, none of which has been coordinated through us on the ground. It’s on autopilot now. We’re bystanders gawking at the lightshow that was our previously-self-orchestrated defense. We’ll sit here the rest of night slowly getting wet in the mist, wondering if the enemy is coming and we don’t know.

Something is rotten in the State of Denmark!

*

ACH: Advanced Combat Helmet

OER: Officer Evalutation Report

Posted at 11:36 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

THANK YOU
Name: Vampire 06
Posting date: 4/6/09
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Folsom, CA
Milblog: Afghanistan Shrugged

In jujitsu there’s an action referred to as tapping out. It’s when your opponent has reached a position that is so advantageous that you must submit. You indicate this by tapping them or the mat three times. If the Taliban could see this they would simply tap out:

A while ago I complained that the food here at the FOB was almost non-existent and of extremely poor quality. "Crap" would be a generous term to describe its consistency, quality and desirability. My buddy Troy, from Bouhammer, put out the call for support. On top of that, Soldiers Angels, Web of Support and Operation Cookiejar picked up the gauntlet to support us. Let’s put it this way: Tons, and I mean tons, of people started sending us stuff.

Now, let me step back for a second and put this into perspective. I’m sure some of you by now are saying, "Vampire 06 has lost it and I have no idea where he’s going with this." Well, welcome to every day of my wife’s life with me. Most days she just watches me in pure wonder that I can function in the grown-up world without hurting myself.

Operation Enduring Freedom has been going on for about eight years, and the war in Iraq for six. So the American public has been supporting a huge number of troops for quite a while. Food, hygiene goods, movies, and books; lots of stuff has been sent to show deployed troops that the American public supports them.

Enter Team Vampire and our food dilemma.

It is absolutely amazing, the amount of stuff we’ve been sent. As you can see from the photos, we could open a 7-11 in our house. In fact we received so much stuff that we’ve been passing it on to the rifle company located with us here on the FOB.  And it just keeps coming!

I have two Romanian officers here with us and they’re shocked by all of this. They continually ask if we have to pay for any of this stuff. When we say no, they skeptically ask, “So Americans you don’t know just send all this stuff to you?"

Yeah, Americans we know and don’t know send this stuff!

You've sent us clothes, toys, books and a myriad of other items for the Afghan people and children we’re attempting to keep free. We’ve tried to explain to some of the population where all of this stuff comes from, but to them it’s totally beyond comprehension. On most days it’s beyond our comprehension.

More people than I ever expected in my life purchased Team Vampire shirts to help us give back to Soldiers Angels. I’m floored by the number of shirts we sold -- so many that they’re now on a several-week back order.  

We have another plan up our collective sleeve. It will be coming in the near future to benefit another great organization. It’s something near and dear to many of us and we hope to have a big impact. More to come...

So, where does the Taliban fit into this whole deal? Well, if they could see the support that people give us they would think twice about doubting our commitment to seeing this mission through here in Afghanistan. Little did they know when they attacked us on September 11th that they would not only be fighting highly skilled and determined US troops but the American public themselves.

It's your support that humbles us so much; that eight years later so many people continue to give their time and resources to support us and the Afghans. We can’t think of enough ways to say thank you for what you’ve all done for us.

All that we can really say is that when we step off this FOB into battle we take each and every one of you with us, symbolized by the Stars and Stripes we wear on our right shoulder. You’re here with us showing the entire world that the United States of America is the greatest country this planet has ever seen.

Thank you from Team Vampire, and God Bless America!

(P.S.  Mr Taliban, that strangling sensation you have right now is the American public with a rear naked choke on you. Just tap now, before they really hurt you. Really, just tap!)

Posted at 11:42 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

VICTORY IN AFGHANISTAN
Name: Vampire 06
Posting date: 3/30/09
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Folsom, CA
Milblog: Afghanistan Shrugged

There’s been a lot in the news lately about what “victory” in Afghanistan looks like. I really don’t know, nor do I want to venture an opinion. People at much higher pay grades than mine can figure that one out. All I can speak for is the little piece of Afghanistan that I share with my ANA and the local populace of Bermel.

I’ll tell you this; it’s little things. Try to accomplish much more and you’ll begin a slow circling of the drain leading to frustration and self-induced psychosis. What I’m about to tell you about is this: 5 kilometers. That’s 3.1 miles, not very far. But it might as well be a light year.

When we arrived here the fighting season was drawing to a close. It typically runs from late March to early December.Then snow shuts down the rugged passes used by the Taliban to enter into the country. During the fighting season military operations focus on what’s termed kinetic, meaning fighting the enemy directly. As this time drew to a close we were somewhat at a loss about our next course of action.

We sat down and started brainstorming for a direction in which to proceed. As an ETT* in a remote area we have quite a bit of leeway in determining our strategies. We started with the central premise of counterinsurgency (COIN) warfare. Separate the insurgents from the local populace. How could we do this using the assets at our disposal?

I can’t claim sole responsibility for our course of action as it was developed by me and one of my CPTs here, CPT Brain. He’s an extremely intelligent, well-read and insightful individual who was called out of the Individual Ready Reserve to serve with us here in Afghanistan. He’s doing great things for his country.

We noticed that our contact with the enemy and their means of support ran along a north/south road -- what I’ll call the line of friction. This is the best description I can think of. It wasn’t open conflict all the time, thus "friction" seems better than "conflict." This line traced the western wall of the desolate valley in which we live. Along this line lay the main villages, and it served as the major travel corridor. Our hope was to push the line farther to the east.

Next we analyzed our assets. Obviously we had firepower, but that didn’t accomplish what we hoped to do. The best asset we had was humanitarian and medical assistance. Tons of food, clothing, cooking oil and blankets were here on the FOB. We also had a US aid station and an ANA aid station from which we could pull medics and medical supplies for use in the local area. We saw these as our conduit to engage with the locals on a frequent and more direct basis, allowing them to see the ANA as bringers of hope and not violence.

The timeframe to capitalize was limited. We only had between December and late March, while the ACM were out of the valley and couldn’t hinder our operations. Thus, we needed to be outside the wire at least three times a week. That doesn’t sound like much, but planning and staging a military operation takes time. It was a very high operational tempo to shoot for.

Our strategy consisted of two tasks in support of our overarching goal of population separation. One, demonstrate that the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan could assist them materially and in conjunction with this conduct an information operations (IO) campaign. Two, try to gather intelligence on the local area and personalities in preparation for the upcoming fighting season. All of this was focused on the line of friction. We defined some criteria that would cause us to deviate from the line. I won’t elaborate on those but we stuck to them and didn’t lose our focus.

We also decided on criteria that would cause us to go into kinetic operations. Basically this was self defense only; we would not chase the enemy. We couldn’t allow the enemy to distract us from our task. That may sound strange, but insurgency warfare is theater in the round, and often their attacks are conducted just to provoke a response which detracts from the greater purpose.

The single theme of our IO campaign was this: “The government is here supporting you during the winter and the ACM is not." It was as simple as that. We didn’t deviate or elaborate, and as the politicians like to say we always stayed on message. Simple to the point and indisputable. The sub-governor, ANP, ANA and CF all communicated this message. If we heard about someone sending a different message we sat down with them and discussed why they’d strayed off the message. Everyone pounded this message into whoever we could, anytime we could.

Along with the IO, we brought all of the humanitarian assistance that we could find. In fact many of you reading this sent us stuff. We took anything that we could and at times used our own monies to buy firewood, food or cooking oil. We didn’t care where it came from or what it looked like. We took it out to the people.

Additionally we brought medics and medicine. The CF and ANA medics along with our interpreters would see anyone who came, no matter what the injury or sickness. We attempted to treat anyone; we even looked at some sick goats at one point. We’d treat all comers!

The ANA established an SOP* for putting these sites up. It was painful and in the beginning there were some near riots, but we worked through it and got the method down. The ANA also ensured that the materials were distributed directly to the people and not through the tribal elders. This ensured that the people knew that the government had provided the materials.

During these operations we’d talk to the locals and build relationships. We didn’t ask about ACM*, just about what was going on in the area, what their concerns were and how they thought the issues could best be addressed. We started mapping out the local tribes, their boundaries, learning their histories and any conflicts. Additionally, we took pictures of villages and the surrounding terrain. Nothing overt, we’d just take snapshots that could be used in the future if we ever had to come back there on a kinetic mission.

So what did all of this get us? It moved the main line of friction 5K to the east, closer to the Pakistani border into the foothills of the mountains. All of this for 5K. We’ve moved to the doorstep of the ACM and now we’ll start working on those villages. If the ACM stay in the mountains, so what? Nobody lives there.

We now have no IEDs along the previous line and if someone does plant one we hear about it. No rockets come from that area anymore. Taliban safe houses have been moved. Additionally, people stop by to talk to us when are out in the villages and even sometimes come to the FOB, which is invaluable. We know the local area and can discuss it in depth. It seems that we’ve accomplished most of our goals.

Did we come up with anything revolutionary? No. What we decided to do is written down in plenty of books and field manuals. We just took the leap and decided to conduct unsexy, unspectacular and at times very boring operations in support of the local populace. The temptation was there, to revert back to just killing the enemy, but we resisted. We’re not geniuses. We just made a choice, developed a plan and stuck to it.

So what does victory in Afghanistan look like? Like 5K of desert floor. It ain’t much to look at, but we got it back for the Afghan people!

*

ETT: Embedded Training Team

SOP: Standard Operating Procedure

ACM: Anti-Coalition Militia

Posted at 10:43 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBack (0)

THE DURAND LINE
Name: Vampire 06
Posting date: 2/17/09
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Folsom, CA
Milblog: Afghanistan Shrugged

De inimico non loquaris male, sed cogites.

She’s sitting there in the corner; we haven’t spoken in about 12 days. Green eyes leer at me each time I pass by; leering at me with a knowing that I’ll be coming back soon. Whether I want to or not. Jealous no more, a quiet confidence that no matter what in several days I’ll be back. A subliminal Siren’s Song calling me to return and smash myself against the razor sharp rocks of combat.

My rucksack.The green illum tape on the frame staring at me from the recess of my garage, still covered in Afghan dust.

Her ad hoc family is strung out halfway across the world, due purely to my actions. An overprotective if oft-described plump sister and hardheaded brother, my IBA* and ACH* are stored in a container in Kuwait. Waiting for my metamorphosis from normal human back to combat advisor.

The final piece of the functionally dysfunctional family -- a short, dark brother prone to loud outbursts -- my M4.  Secured in our arms rooms. The piece de resistance to the transition. Kafka would be dismayed that it happens over thousands of miles and hours of travel, more a slow Darwinian de-evolution than a sudden shocking change.

For right now she sits and waits in the garage, the garage door my own private Durand Line.* I’ll take stuff out of the ruck and bring it into the house, but not the ruck itself. As if my failure to bring it in ensures that where it’s been won’t contaminate my home. Having it here acknowledges that I must go back and ply my trade, but not at this moment.

Being home is wonderful, but it’s slowly waning to an end. The weather here in Northern California has been cold, wet and rainy, serving as a perverse amuse-bouche to my return.

Going from a land of peace and plenty back to Afghanistan; "un-peaceful and without" doesn’t seem to do it justice. So much to so little, in so quick a time.

Am I ready to go back?  No. I would never choose this, and yet I did!

But as I said before, it calls to you. Only those that have experienced the gentle, syrup-like call, know what I’m writing about. Leaving what you truly love for a scene of anarchy and violence doesn’t make sense in any rational way. However, I still go, pulled onward not just by duty but desire.

My friend Old Blue told me that Afghanistan would in some way be different upon my return. I don’t doubt that, and anticipate it with hope and dread. Things will have occurred in my absence, providing proof that no matter how important I believe my actions are, events still proceed without me.

But for now my ruck stays across our agreed-upon line of demarcation; her there and me here. The line is fragile, but what is on the far side does not belong here, and the reverse is also true.

The day is coming when I will step across the line and begin my evolutionary journey. Not today though.

It will wait, sitting, leering and waiting for my predestined return. What it does not know is that there is another line farther off on the horizon marking an end to its hold.

And each day brings it closer. 

*

IBA:    Interceptor Body Armor

ACH:   Advanced Combat Helmet

Durand Line: The 1,610-mile border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, named after Sir Mortimer                               Durand, foreign secretary of the British Indian government from 1884-1894.

Posted at 09:12 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)

THE LAND THAT WAR FORGOT
Name: Vampire 06
Posting date: 2/12/09
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Folsom, CA
Milblog: Afghanistan Shrugged

DISCLAIMER:  No Fobbits were harmed during the writing or creation of this post. I would have liked to, but they took away my weapons prior to departing.Thus, much to my not so subtle dismay no Fobbits were injured physically; notice I did not mention emotionally.

I’ve been looking forward to going on leave for quite some time, in fact since the time I was notified of my leave date; I’ve been counting down the days. The part I’ve been dreading has been the trip between Bermel and arrival at home.

My dread stems from the sometimes horrific and often epic nature of the stories guys tell upon their return. The Iliad pales in comparison to some leave stories. Sorry, Homer. Weeks are the time measure for the actual travel, you can be gone for a month plus.

There are several stages to any leave journey:

DENIAL:  My trip won’t be as bad as everyone else’s was. This is the “It won’t happen to me syndrome." Quickly dispelled as soon as snow cancels your helicopter (which happened to me) or when the C-17 you’re supposed to depart Afghanistan on belly lands on the runway with no landing gear (also happened to me). Luckily no one was hurt.*

RESIGNATION: This is as bad as I thought it would be and worse.  I’m surrounded by idiots and they control both the vertical and horizontal. This sets in after I’ve manifested for the same flight six time, four days in a row. I’m now an expert at the waiting game and fully tabbed out in the grab your armor and run to the gate to be told to return at a later time. At this later time no one will be there and anyone I ask questions of will stare at me like I just asked my Labrador what the square root of a billion is.

ACCEPTANCE: There is nothing I can do, however the ACM will pay for this upon my return. I can’t do anything to these idiots but I can exact some form of revenge on the Taliban when I get back; if I ever get back. I reach this point about the time I’m sleeping on a plywood floor in Kuwait, with the Superbowl blaring in the background and having a panic attack because I can’t find my weapon. My weapon as I stated in the disclaimer has been secured for others' safety in the arms room at Bermel.

My leave travels were much like getting a tattoo. I know that I’m going to be happy with the design and colors after, but as soon as the needle bites I know it’s going to be long, painful and out of my control. Once it starts you’re committed. Yes, permanent scarring occurs in both instances.

Here’s are a snippet from my trip into the heart of darkness:

Setting: Bagram, home to thousands of Fobbits. I’m walking to the chow hall -- yes I still call it that -- during darkness. I’m squeezing between several plywood B Huts on my way to the divine grounds of hot chow. I’m lost when suddenly Bob the MP Fobbit stops me.

“Hey, where’s your road guard belt?"  He confronts me in that arrogant, you stupid ass tone they use.

A road guard belt is a belt made of reflective material which you wear while running so you don’t get hit by a vehicle. From the look of Bob he hasn’t ever used his belt during PT hours but he can probably tell me where the chow hall is.

“What?"  I respond in an exasperated manner. I have limited time to get some chow and get back before the time my plane is rumored to leave. This rumor will later morph into a lie on the part of the terminal personnel.

“Your road guard belt. You’re required to wear one during hours of limited visibility regardless of uniform." He tells me this in a way that leads me to believe he thinks I’m an idiot.

Currently, my uniform consists of the same ACUs I’ve been wearing for the last seven days, my IBA and my ACH helmet.

“Where’s your belt”? Bob asks again.  I’m considering asking him if he has a brother --  a Chief named Retard working at another FOB.

“Obviously, I don’t have one or you wouldn’t be asking me where it is. I’m from a remote FOB and I didn’t bring one. Where I’m from we try really hard to have people not see us!" This seems like a darn fine answer to me and makes obvious sense. I start to move out smartly toward what I think is the Fobbit feeding grounds.

“Well, you’re going to have to get a ticket then." Bob informs me. Evidently, a violation of Supreme Fobbit Directive #1 results in a $35 ticket.

“You’re kidding, right?" My leave hasn’t even begun and I’m $35 bucks in the hole. Heck, I haven’t even made it out of Afghanistan. My wife is going to love this; I blew $35 dollars because I don’t have a reflective belt in a war zone.

“No, I’m going to issue you a citation for not being properly marked during hours of limited visibility." I keep wondering why Bob can’t just say "dark."  I guess the other sounds more dangerous.

I’m deeply perplexed at this point. I have no road guard belt which means I may get run over by a vehicle, but I’m standing between two buildings where Bob and I could barely pass each other. Mostly because of Bob’s refusal to use his road guard belt during PT hours.

“So, I have to be properly marked?"  I ask, as I take off my helmet and tuck it under my arm.  Visions of beating Bob with it are creeping in.

“Yes!"  Bob replies, self-satisfied.

He seems to be thinking, "Finally, this dumb-ass war fighter gets the sheer danger he’s placed himself in by moving about the FOB without a reflective belt. I should get a Silver Star just for saving this guy from himself."

“Oh, okay, cool." I say as I notice the infrared (IR) strobe I’ve attached to the back of my helmet. An IR strobe is used by us to mark our positions to aircraft at night (hours of limited visibility) preventing us from being torn to shreds by a JDAM or depleted uranium shells. Not as dangerous as Bagram. There’s a shield on it that you can slide back and it turns into a visible strobe. Something out of a disco!

I slide the shield back and turn on the strobe.

“What the hell is that?"  Bob asks clearly fascinated by the now-bright flashing light.

“It’s my proper marking, can you tell me which way the chowhall is?"  I respond, overjoyed by my ingenious ability to scam the man.

“But you don’t have a belt," he pleads.

“True, but I’m marked; which is what you stated to me I needed." I’m now starting to wonder if maybe Bob is just trying to keep me from getting to the chowhall because he’s afraid they may run out.

“Later,” I say as I move out smartly toward a chowhall I’ve got no idea about.

That just a little glimpse into my little journey; the nonsense and pain endured just to get home.

This next ordeal is purely self inflicted:

I arrive in Kuwait at about 3 AM. We pile out of the bus and stand in a windswept open area as a Specialist briefs us about the procedures here in Ali. I’m still basking in the pure cunning I used to outsmart Bob back at Bagram.

Then I hear a magic word, a whisper of democracy and true American power known throughout the world. Proof that we’re the only remaining superpower, a hegemony of greatness and invincibility. A word not torn asunder by the Soviets, Saddam or Al Qeda.

"McDonalds!"

As soon as the briefing breaks up I take off at the double time. I’m running like the wind, falling over tent tie-downs and rocks. I look like Jeffy the Special Olympics sprinter unleashed. I know that’s not politically correct, but for God's sake it’s illustrates the point and I get paid to kill people who don’t look like me so how correct can I be. Stumbling and huffing I reach the Golden Arches, basking in their heavenly glow.

"Two Big Macs and fries please," I order with a reverence reserved for buying a Ferrari or a house. My slobber would make Pavlov proud.

And then they are delivered unto me and I devour them. Breathing infrequently and in gasps I finish them. God has blessed me and shone his face upon me. Amen!

Now, let me backtrack a little. I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t issued to me by the US Army in four months, and I just consumed enough fat, grease and carbs to support the entire village of Bermel for roughly two weeks.

About an hour later it begins. A hushed rumble, building to a cramping pain that to me verges on labor. It’s good thing that women give birth, because if it was up to me I’d never go through this again and the world’s population would greatly attenuated.

But it keeps coming and I begin my search for the latrine, commonly called "the clench and scurry", the half bent-over run of the panic-stricken. Pleadingly searching, I see it about 500 meters away. It might as well be the NYC marathon. Oh so far, can I make it? God please let me make it! I will be a better person if you let me make it, I swear, no more Jeffy jokes!

I am reduced to a lumbering ape. Pausing every few meters, pleading. It’s a long journey and I swear that at one point my life flashed in front of me; it did.

I reach the sanctuary of the latrine, but the first door is locked, the second, and the third the same. Oh how I’ve sinned and punishment is swift. I look and see another latrine is about 300 meters away -- the face of the moon.

The fourth door. I reach out, full of hopes and prayers. A life so full of promise about to be decimated by two Big Macs.

But it’s open and I quickly initiate the butt claymore. Saved! Thank you God, I really didn’t mean the Jeffy thing.

Thus are my journeys in the Land That War Forgot. I’ve finally reached home and it truly is glorious to be here, worth every ounce of the pain and suffering it took to get here, seeing my wife and our home. I know this is a crappy conclusion but it’s now dinner time and a beautiful woman and a beer are calling my name. 

* Thanks to The Duke for letting me know where I could find this picture of my original ride home.

Posted at 11:52 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

ROB YLLESCAS, R.I.P.
Name: T.T. Carnehan
Posting date: 1/7/09
Deploying to: Afghanistan
Milblog: Long Warrior
Email: longwarriorblog@gmail.com

I was going through some articles that were posted on a news service provided by the Defense Department, known as The Early Bird. It's a simple site that posts full articles from newspapers, wire services, and even television reports that deal with Defense-related topics. One was about a Company Commander in Kamdesh, Combat Outpost Keating in Nuristan Province, replacing a Captain who was struck by an IED and evacuated from Afghanistan back to Walter Reed. After several long hard weeks of fighting at Walter Reed, the Captain passed away.

The name jumped off the page: Rob Yllescas. I knew him, not well, but knew him nonetheless. We worked around each other in Iraq.  His wife, Dena, has a blog through which she's been keeping friends and family up to date with her struggle, Rob's recovery efforts, and now her coping. I remember him, for my part, as a high quality officer.That is to say he was energetic, focused, eminently capable, helpful, affable, and respectful. From what I saw, he treated all fairly and earned every one of the dear friends who have been sending his wife sympathy messages and were sending him recovery wishes. He, and all those like him, are forever missed; no peoples have an inexhaustible supply of his sort.

Dena, God bless you and your family. Rob, Godspeed.

Posted at 12:16 PM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

GOODBYES
Name: T.T. Carnehan
Posting date: 11/24/08
Deploying to: Afghanistan
Milblog: Long Warrior
Email: longwarriorblog@gmail.com

When you graduate the Fort Riley Training Mission and are granted the non-existent but still impressive title of “Combat Advisor,” you are rewarded with a final bit of leave home prior to heading out. For us, this was short -- too short -- but this is always the case.

The pre-deployment leave is a desperate, uncomfortable type of leave. With the impending separation looming large, the entire period is spent in a hushed anxiety with stifled emotion. The elephant in the room puts everyone on edge. You try and assuage the fears, and this is most easily accomplished by trying to change the subject. Confrontation is avoided as much as possible with all those around you. In this setting, one assumes that no frustration is worth a fight, so more often than not everyone agrees with everyone. Using that as a template, perhaps we should deploy both houses of Congress to Afghanistan in the hopes that they all shake hands smile, hug, kiss, and agree on everything before departing.

Such a conciliatory attitude makes the pre-deployment conversations difficult at times. When people tell me what we should be doing, my instinct is to politely ask them to “Shut the f*#! up, and sit there for two hours while I explain what I know of Afghanistan.” What an obscure country, with an even more obscure mission. This is why veterans don't discuss their experiences with their families. It’s not that you will have a Born on the Fourth of July style meltdown, pee your pants, and start screaming at the heavens. The problem is just that no one knows enough to even buy into your conversation. The ante is too great.

No one knows what FOB, ETT, PMT, PRT, DoS, M1151, RG33, DFAC, MWR, HMFIC or any of the three million other acronyms and jargon we use mean. And beyond the language, the reference points just aren't there. To have a topical, free and easy conversation about the subject, I need to have someone who actually knows Afghanistan. It’s a world away, and maybe I’m not the best at communicating it, but if you’re reading my blog posts, keep heart -- as the tour rolls on, I hope to at least partially educate (using the word loosely).

On your final leave there are too many responsibilities. Too many people to see, too many hands to shake, and too many memories to create. You want to spend quality time with every individual that you care about, but the calendar simply won’t cooperate. The time is spread a little too thinly. Really, you miss out on the depth with that one individual you’re thinking about the most. But you realize that even if you had more time, the looming deployment would keep the conversations much the same. More difficult than the amount of people, is the tone of each encounter. The urgency is palpable, and you try to turn each moment into a golden one. More often than not they turn out to be bronze, and sometimes aluminum.

Eventually, right around the last day, the visit comes to a head, and nearly all the pretense of normalcy is dropped. Very few people have a screenwriter living in their head, relaying to their mouth killer lines to deliver at the perfect moment. Instead, people say exactly what is necessary with as little window dressing as possible. Here’s an example of a final goodbye:

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Don’t worry, I’ll email or call as soon as I can.”

“Be safe.”

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

Posted at 10:43 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)

SIGNS
Name: CAPT Matt Smenos
Posting date: 1/31/07
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Hometown: Santa Maria, CA
Email: msmenos@hotmail.com

The driver pulled his cab onto the median, checked the mirror for traffic, and stepped out of the vehicle. The honking, blinking stream of vehicles blew cold, gritty wind in his face as he walked carefully to the rear, opened the trunk and removed his tool bag. The wooden signpost on the median was sturdy, but a bolt needed to be replaced in order to straighten the advertisement for his business. Kneeling between the car and the sign post, he unzipped his tools.

The busy sounds of midday traffic washed over him. He had been a cabby in this little Afghan town for many years. He had seen the Russians and the Taliban. Now the giant US humvees rumbled down the roads in convoys with the Afghan National Army. Many things changed, but the roots of the town went deep. He knew the watching, waiting eyes of the dissatisfied, the dissolute and the desperate. He knew the very ground beneath him held the bloody memory of decades of war and faith and sacrifice. He knew that many things had not changed, and that many people would suffer before they did.

He wiped sweat fom his brow as the old, rusty, broken bolt finally came free. Dropping it into the bottom of his tool bag, he reached into his pocket for a new one. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of green and turned to see a group of Afghan soldiers in a pickup truck moving slowly across the traffic circle. A crunch on the gravel road told him someone was behind him. He stood and turned, wiping his hands on a rag. A tanned, skinny fellow in a brown jacket was trudging slowly past the cabby's parked car. The cabby called out a greeting but the man just walked on, gaze fixed on the horizon, silent and distracted. He could have been any of a dozen pedestrians on the road side that morning. Nothing about him stood out.

The cabby shrugged and returned to his work, forgetting the walker and the soldiers as he renewed his efforts. The sounds of traffic continued to hum past him and the crunch of the pedestrian's shoes faded as he moved around the traffic circle. No one saw him reach into his pocket. No one noticed his lips forming silent prayers. No one noticed anything until it was too late.

My intelligence officer finished describing the detainee's statement and sat back down, as memories of the day's events continued to unfold in my mind.

I had been on the phone with my wife. Let me rephrase that. I had been on the phone with my wife for too long. I seldom get the opportunity to call home. Even less frequently do I get the chance to talk with her for more than a minute or two. Now she was filling me in on the details of our annual tax return.

"Our deployed tax-exemption actually lowers the bracket we're in and when you add it up you get..."

BOOM!

The plywood walls echoed and vibrated with the deafening roar. The lightbulbs on the rafters swung, and cast wild patterns of shadow as clouds of dust leaped up from the stone floor. A plastic coffee cup detached itself from its hook on the wall and bounced painfully off my head. Everyone stood silent as the dust settled, and suddenly it was too quiet.

I murmured a subdued farewell to my wife, hung up the phone and got started. We worked tirelessly for the next several hours trying to figure things out, radio receivers pressed to our ears, cradled in our shoulders and handed back and forth. Every military agency for miles around came up on the net, as word of the totally unforseen bombing rippled outward and up the chain of command. Radio controllers and operations officers in dozens of ready-rooms, communication stations, telephone cubicles and on cell phones shared map coordinates, manifests, detailed descriptions, rumors, assumptions, misconceptions and lies. Navigating the buzzing chaos of the command net during a crisis is like panning for gold. An experienced controller learns what to keep and what to throw away.

We didn't get most of our answers until the detainee was questioned. As my initial response force arrived, they reported a terrible bombing had occurred just a few meters outside the gate of our little base. They described overturned cars, burned and dismembered bodies, choking smoke and the cries of the wounded. Initial reports placed the suicide bomber on the roadside, having exited a taxi cab seen parked on the median. The safest course was to secure the entire area, assume the parked taxi was still a threat, and capture the dizzy, stumbling cab driver as he shook his head and tried to focus his eyes.

Over the last few months, I have read the statements of a number of detainees. I have witnessed their capture and release. This man, though treated the same as any other, acted differently. He was terribly concerned for his car and his wallet. He carefully catalogued the contents of his pockets and asked for receipts to ensure the safe and accurate return of his belongings. Most detainees suspected of collaborating with the enemy don't act like that. Most have a dead stare, like that of a doll's eyes, and a general disregard for themselves or their belongings. Most act caught. 

This man did not. He was shocked and panicky. He coughed and choked and rubbed his head. He cried, and repeated over and over his story about the sign that needed to be repaired and the man who walked past him and exploded. The Afghan and US intelligence community, when they were able to investigate, discovered that the car was clean. There were no signs of weapons or explosives, and eventually they released the driver. They returned his money and possessions. I think they did the right thing.

In the days that followed we discussed the bombing, while in the gym, while walking to chow, in the break area and in bed before falling asleep. In the past we had been rocketed and attacked by small arms fire, our little base had endured numerous blasts and projectiles, but never had such a grisly and totally random act of violence occurred so close to us, and made us feel so exposed. Many suspected the driver. They felt his sign-repair story was a sham and that he was a very talented liar in the employ of the enemy. I had my doubts about this. Not only did his behavior surprise me, but his story gave me hope. Maybe I'm naive, but I really wanted there to be a ruined sign among the wreckage somewhere.

The most common complaint I hear about the Afghan nation is that they don't have a stake in this war. That they lack any sense of nationalism and do not share a vision of making their country better. The driver we detained exhibited another perspective. Like a tomato plant in the desert, here was a guy who most definitely has a stake in what happens in his nation. Here was a man not only striving to make something of himself, to turn an honest dollar, but also a man willing to maintain things and ensure the upkeep of that which he was proud to have built.

I wondered about the driver's sign. I wondered if he would return eventually to replace it, or if this sad moment, yet another display of violence and outrage, would scare him away. Would it sway him to leave town and set up elsewhere? Would he even stay in Afghanistan? Or would the sign become another battered, unclaimed fragment of a nation buried under decades of war? Would there ever be another sign endorsing Afghanistan's people, culture and services, or would the only sign worth posting read: "Pakistan: 480 mi." ?   
   

Posted at 09:43 AM in Afghanistan | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBack (0)