From Afghanistan

Of late the days have grown longer and the laughter less frequent. War takes that away from you – the laughter. Your brothers on your left and right feel the same way; that is why you connect to them because they feel your void and try to make you laugh when you need it – just as you return the favor in their time of need. A soldier’s humor becomes a bit darker over time exposed to difficult circumstances. One recent experience in particular comes to mind. I was working on my vehicle during a maintenance day and sliced my finger – not deeply enough to require stitches, but deep enough that everyone stopped to stare and deep enough for a senior enlisted to tell me to have the doc see to it so that I wouldn’t get an infection. A staph infection is serious out here; it is not just a line you hear on, “E.R” or “Grey’s Anatomy.” When I returned with a Band-Aid™, the teasing started up to lift my spirits; my teammates joked that it would be the first time someone received a purple heart for a self-inflicted wound. They teased because they knew no one was going to make a fuss like my wife or mother would. Humor replaces compassion but ultimately they are different expressions of the same thing. That’s why we remain soldiers – because the soldiers to the left and right of you fills the void which is lost when you need it the most and you reciprocate when another requires it.

Some things can’t be laughed off. Sometimes events of shock or horror can come fast when you least expect it. A little known fact is that more military personnel die from training injuries than from war. I witnessed this firsthand the other day. We have an electrical door system to notify us when someone wishes to enter and it had shorted out. I noticed the electricity when I scraped metal over the door and sparks shot out. I went to go get the soldier in charge of repairs at the compound. In that short period of time, another soldier attempted to enter the compound. His hand grabbed the live door and he lost consciousness. The few soldiers near the door were unable to see him over the wall and thought he was joking the way he made weird noises because that’s what we do; but when he dropped to the ground they knew this was no joke. I responded immediately when I heard someone calling for the doc and asking if someone knew CPR. I told him I did and would help him. We carried the injured soldier (who had regained consciousness by now) to a table in the eating area. Doc checked his pulse while I began to remove restrictive clothing and checked for any burn marks or burned hair. While the soldier was jittery and tingling all over, there was fortunately no permanent damage. Once everyone knew he was okay, the teasing was brutal, not for him but for ourselves. We needed to calm ourselves down. From this point on to us he will always be Sparky, an endearing nickname which only we can call him. This will be a war story to reminisce about when we get home.

Sometimes I look at my current living conditions and find myself struggling to avoid feelings of self pity. When I get depressed I usually say, “I can’t believe,” then finish it off with a list of things I don’t have. Seeing someone surviving under worse circumstances is a quick slap of reality for me. We recently returned from a mission where we delivered metal containers for American soldiers to sleep in. After visiting their compound, suddenly I feel as if I live in a castle with maids and servants. These soldiers are just scraping by to live and I can’t imagine them having the time or energy to go out on missions. Every soldier who accompanied me on this mission shared what they had – all our fuel, food and extra clothes. I exchanged phone numbers as well and let them know that even with a two and a half hour drive between us – I’d do what I could to provide them what they need. The only reason I could bring myself to leave was I saw their smiles and knew they believed in what they were doing and wouldn’t have it any other way. They invited us to share the goat the town people were preparing for lunch and if the weather wasn’t getting worse we would have accepted the invitation. I went and shook ever hand I could grab to say good luck and a silent thank you. It was in those handshakes that I found renewed commitment to the task at hand. I am not here for pleasantries; I am not here for me. I am here for the Afghan people and to help them. I will eventually go home to a world apart from this one (both figuratively and literally). But while I am here, I will strive to make this place better so that hopefully next winter the losses of Afghans and their livestock won’t be as bad as this year’s. And when I start to lose my way and heart, I look to the left and right and know I am not alone, because the soldiers I am talking about are not all American they are Afghan too.

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