From Afghanistan

It is another day and we are back on the road to various places, a very uneventful day overall, mostly a lot of hurry up and wait. Even on the way back to our camp we travel a major paved road which is improved and has less than a five percent chance of having an IED, only because the War Lords own the roads and it’s paved, which is a rare thing here. So we are traveling relatively safely and come to a relaxing point where we are still being diligent to our duties but we are joking with each other on the internal communications. Just as we hit 10 minutes from our camp - our final destination, my interpreter taps my shoulder and yells in my ear over my headset, “There have been shots heard just east of our camp, mostly high powered machine gun.” I call our major in the vehicle behind us and relay the message. Our plan of action is to go to the site of the gunfire and check out the situation. Immediately the joking stops and we start our pre-combat checks as we roll down the road. I tighten my chin strap on my helmet, I test my night vision goggles, I check my weapon to make sure everything is working on it, (which I know it does, but for some reason I need the comfort of knowing it does again). Then I check that each person is prepared and the driver and gunner are set on the game plan. We try to relax for a minute as the drive seems to take forever when your adrenaline is pumping. We get to the site of gunfire and check out the situation to no avail. It’s not a false alarm; the shooters just didn’t stick around to be caught. This is the battle we are fighting, not the shoot them out face-to-face, but the cat and mouse game of they pop up, we react and they disappear. Which is fine by me, I am in no hurry to get in a gunfight, but I am sure my abdominal muscles would like a break from being in constant knots from all the danger that pops up.

If it is not one thing it is another, this morning we get a call to assist the Afghan National Police with a body recovery mission. It is just as it sounds, we are to go assist with the dead and any injured personnel. The previous plan for the day is scrubbed as the teams start the scramble to get their vehicles combat-prepped for the new mission. We need garbage bags, sterile gloves, sheets, extra first aid bags and stretchers. Every soldier then grabs his “go to hell bag,” which is a knapsack filled with extra ammunition, a few shirts, snacks, batteries, maps, and any other gear one might need to survive the worst case scenario. These bags are meant for the time when you have to grab and go fast. It should have things you’ll need in case of a firefight and for living out of for a few days. The teams then pack up extra fuel, water and food for the trip. Finally, we conduct personal pre-combat checks on each other to assure if we do get into a fight we are prepared. This starts with making sure the radios work and ends with checking our weapons once again.

As we head off towards the east, the major uses the internal communications and confirms we are going to be moving off road for 4 ½ hours. Most soldiers understand then that if we make it to the site, whoever has been seriously injured is likely dead and those who have survived the waiting time most likely would live another day. The scene we are to roll up on is a van that has fallen off a snowy cliff into the river; two dead, one severely injured and we are six hours behind the power curve. Leading us to the site is 10 Afghan National Police in a Range Rover - six of them are sitting in the flat bed in the back, exposed to the elements. Another obstacle the teams are facing is the weather; we are in winter months and heading higher into the mountains, where you can see snow capped mountains and clouds hanging around the base.

On the way out to the site, I final spot my first camel, I thought they would be bigger. It’s just another mystery of childhood crushed, but not to be outdone, we also pass packs of dogs that are just a big as the camels. I originally thought they were donkeys and understand now why my gunner calls them the hounds of hell. They look like a hyena, with a small back end and large front body. All I know is that I enjoy the break in the monotonous routine of looking at rocks for possible explosives. I start humming in my head “over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go,” passing little villages and nomad tent cities sporadically. A word to the wise, if you get car sick this is not the ride for you.

We arrive at the site and another team from the east has arrived at the site before us, so our assistance is very limited. Instead of a wave of relief from not having to help with the dead, we all feel dread for the ride back. The reason why the Afghans have called a couple of teams to the scene is because in the Muslim religion the dead have to be buried within 24 hours. The minimum you must do is to wrap the deceased in a sheet and lay them on their side facing Mecca. They also usually bury the deceased near the place they pass away. Regardless, the scene has been secured and we have a long trip back to look forward to. Now our concerns turn to driving in the dark through the mountain pass, with the mud and snow covering our headlights so we must rely on our night vision goggles and driving ability. We look to the west and it becomes apparent that this has just become a race against the sunset. We make it out of the mountains but the desert is still a long stretch in the dark. After a few hours of driving, we stop for a quick break in the pitch black for some to stretch and others to use the open bathrooms. Just as I am using the open air bathroom, I hear in the distance the lone dog howl, then two, then I don’t know how many more, but I do know it is definitely more than two and the howls are getting louder. I look to my teammates and say, “Okay- rest break is over, last one in the vehicle is dog chow.” Let’s just say the rest has been brief and we are back on the road fast and without complaints.

It has become apparent in my short time here that we are not the Afghans. They were born into this world of disarray and have grown up with life lessons the average American child cannot comprehend. When you see an American soldier with little care for all the chaos, then it is time for him to go home. It’s like the turkey thermometer popper, when the soldier’s gage of compassion drops to a point of not caring, you’re done. This soldier becomes dangerous because his decisions are skewed and he becomes complacent. I hope in a year when I leave that I leave with the same determination I started with and if my timer goes off and I become numb, then I hope my family can bring me back to being compassionate.

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