Return To The U.S.A.

My year in Afghanistan is nearing an end. Rumors of extensions and political intrigues aside, I am coming home in January 2010. Where has this year gone?… To the Dawgs (bad Army joke -I’m in Dawg Company). All the excitement this long year and now it comes down to these last few Holiday weeks. Looking around FOB Fortress it seems like an anticlimax. We remain busy with missions, endless taskings and details while packing out to go home. Even though we’re largely distracted from personal matters, spending the holidays far away from family and friends is never easy; no matter how tough you think you are.

I’ve been deployed nearly a year now and it feels more like a decade; as if time has moved slower for us here and life back home has simply sped on without us. Many things have changed -as they always have to. But deployment has changed us as well. Most of the men and women I serve with are half my 44 years young. I’ve watched some soldiers grow up a little. Meeting many only a year ago as immature teenagers, some soldiers now mask the gaze of an old man. Such are things when a lifetime of experience is teemed into a single dangerous year. For better or worse, not one of us will return home the same as when we left last January.

I think back on this eventful year. I am thankful for the opportunity to come here and do my part. Regardless of political or religious differences, I’ve had a richly rewarding time of service here. Certainly Afghanistan is a very different culture than ours. I may disagree on how they conduct their business, but most people I’ve met are indeed much like we are: they get up every morning, raise their families, worship the same God many of us do (albeit in a different way) and simply make their way through life as best they can.

This very, very old man with 6 donkeys came down the road in front of us one day on his way down to the village of Kudu. Donkeys can be very willful creatures. After they all passed our patrol base, the donkeys got away from the lumbering old man and fled around our hill. A half hour later they all came back to the road with the old man limping behind them. But the donkeys didn’t continue on to the village, they headed back up the hill. The poor old man yelled and hobbled back home shaking his walking stick after the stubborn animals. I laughed out loud watching all this unfold in front of my eyes like a sitcom skit. The next morning I wasn’t surprised when the old man came to see me, the “doktar.” He was in a lot of pain from the donkey chase. I gave him a bottle of aspirin, a bag of humanitarian aid rice and doctor’s orders, “No more playing with donkeys!” With a toothleth grin he thanked me, ”Manana.”

Some of my best days here have been spent with children. To be sure, I’ve often complained about how much they scheme, lie and steal to get anything they can from us, sometimes trying to sell back candy and such they got from us in the first place. During one of my “tailgate” medical missions (prescribing medications for common ailments to local villagers), a smart-alecky kid told me he couldn’t see when he slept. Silly me with no sleep the nights before took him seriously and wanted to examine his eyes. It was all in good fun once I realized I had been dooped. I would get upset though when they’d try stealing medications that I brought for someone who might really need them. I understood they are kids living in isolated 3rd world Bronze Age poverty. Their bright eyed gazes have made some of my days here. Children are our future -always and forever. The worst moments I’ve had here were seeing young kids in a lot of pain. Luckily, none of the children I myself treated were injured by combat.

I wish somehow we had made a better world for them. But decisions about the world, and fate or the will of God are not made by simple men like myself. I simply do the best I can with what I have. Better days do lie ahead, even for Afghan children! I’ve treated so many kids here I feel connected with them, even though there is rarely any such consideration in return. Soon after I leave, they will forget I was ever here. I’m just another soldier that comes and goes in this latest of wars spanning thousands of years. No matter. I came here to serve my country, which I have done proudly, professionally and honorably. More importantly, I also came as a medic to serve humanity. And I am thankful for the joy of having touched so many lives in positive ways.

Most holiday seasons I often feel claustrophobic. I don’t like being told to be happy, especially during years when I myself was not so very happy. But this year is different. I am thankful for just being alive. Serving here with my comrades in arms has been my greatest honor. These are truly the most professional and dedicated men and women I’ve ever worked with. Seeing the poverty and harsh way of life here has moved me to more appreciate life and its simple pleasures.

I am thankful that I’ve spent such a long time away because coming home in January will remind me just how blessed we are as a country. With Christmas upon us now, its perhaps too easy to get caught up in things that we want and don’t have or lament unachievable goals over the past year. Be happy with what you do have is my life lesson. There are many, many more that have virtually nothing in this world. My Christmas, 2009, won’t include presents; no fire side naps after feasts with friends and family. But the very greatest of gifts await me when I return to American soil. And those are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Less than 4 weeks to home! I truly hope my lips don’t freeze to the runway when I step off the plane in upstate NY in January and kiss the frozen ground of my beloved United States of America.

(Tom Bauschke was in the Army 1985 to 1988. He got out early because President Reagan was drawing down the troops from West Germany at the end of the cold war. Tom ended up in San Juan County, and as he explained in his first column, he reenlisted to become a combat medic out of a sense of duty. He was assigned to the 32nd Infantry Regiment of the 3rd Brigade Combat Team of the 10th Mountain Division. The 10th has just returned to Afghanistan, and Tom is now in a combat area.).

Shots Fired! Part Two

Summer is finally waning here in Afghanistan. The nights grow cooler and the corn has largely been harvested. The enemy has stepped up his efforts of late.

Taliban fighters attacked our Badel COP (Combat Out Post) 4 times in 24 hours the other day. Across the Kunar River, near the Pakistan border, the attacks and roadside bombs intensify as well. The end of this year’s fighting season draws ever closer. We can only hope these are last ditch efforts of the enemy before cold and snows in the mountain passes shut them down for the winter.

In my first installment of this series, I promised that you would know my highs and lows, the good, the bad and the ugly of my deployment. I’ve covered every one of those except the ugly. I submit that this will be the only ugliness I will need to convey to you. There is no need for me to wallow in violence that we must sometimes participate in. The following article is not suitable for children.

September 24th, 2120 hours: A convoy had just passed by my FOB (Forward Operating Base) and was hit by an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade). One casualty - ETA 5 minutes. I was on the FOB that night. As soon as their vehicle pulled up to the aid station, I could smell the blood; the inside was covered in it. Five of us teamed up to quickly get him out and onto a litter. Both his legs seemed to be dangling by little more than skin and tissue.

The patient was conscious. Once in the aid station, he was a stunning sight. He was driving a HUMVEE when an armor piercing RPG round penetrated his door nearly severing his legs. His medic was with him every step of the way and had applied tourniquets to both legs. These were the only thing saving his life at this point. His right leg was nearly amputated halfway between his knee and hip with only some skin attaching it to his body. His left leg was still attached by bone and muscle, nearly severed at mid femur as well. He also had taken shrapnel to his left arm where a pressure bandage controlled that bleeding.

I measured his blood pressure: 80/55, which was very low from losing so much blood. The patient was still conscious and talking. His medic had given him a 10mg auto-injector of Morphine, but he still complained of pain. We incrementally gave him another 10mg of morphine through the IV line we had started to give him fluids of Normal Saline and a blood volume expander called Hextend®.

Tourniquets are very painful over and above pain of the injury, but are vital to preserving the supply of blood the body needs to survive. We had to put a second tourniquet on his right leg to stop stubborn bleeding; probably his femur as bones bleed too, not just arteries and veins. An aid station such as ours could only provide emergency trauma care while a helicopter was enroute to get the patient to a Forward Surgical Team in Asadabad.

We kept him on 100% Oxygen and kept him talking while wrapping and splinting his legs and left arm. ”What’s your religious preference, rock and roll?” I asked. He smiled, “Independent Pentecostal.” Whoa! There’s one I don’t hear every day. He was a brave kid (I’m 44 years old) and retained his sense of humor all the way to the chopper. I admired his spirit and bravery in the face of seeing his legs... knowing… And I am not fit to hang up his coat.

I was just as impressed with his medic, PFC Ruhl (4th ID). She had bloodshot eyes, ringing ears and was coughing from smoke inhalation. She was in the vehicle with the patient when they were hit. Most medics would be in shock themselves and would stand back and let the trauma team treat their patient to regroup themselves (and I wouldn’t blame them AT ALL).

PFC Ruhl stayed directly involved with the care of her patient all the way onto the chopper. The tourniquets that she applied to his legs saved his life -we at FOB Fortress aid station only maintained it. The patient later lost his right leg above the knee and may lose his left as well.

But he will return home to his family. That is one tough medic. America. I would go on a mission with her anytime. And that’s coming from an Infantry Line Medic. PFC Ruhl, you’re my hero. And if I ever run into you somewhere, the drinks are on me - NO strings attached.

There aren’t nearly as many women serving here as men, but women are every bit as involved in this fight as men and often find themselves in front line situations. Female cooks ride with us to search female Afghani’s at road check points and during foot patrols. One of our cooks, Corporal Supko, was recently awarded an Army Commendation Medal with a V device (for Valor) for her involvement in a fire fight up north. From fighter pilots to Doctors, fuelers, drivers, cooks and medics to name a few, women are definitely pulling their weight in the war on terror.

Shots fired! Part One

October 8th, 1445 hours: 15 minutes left on my guard duty shift. Abruptly, through the lazy afternoon quiet -Shots fired! I hunkered down in the turret of my truck and tried to see where the shots were coming from. Suddenly a bullet popped by my head, so close it made me blink. I felt the pressure wave near my right ear; a lucky shot from 700 meters. When a bullet whizzes by you, it’s maybe 20-30 feet away; when a bullet crackles, maybe 5-10 feet. But when a bullet pops/snaps, it’s within inches of you.

It was chance or luck that I happened to be looking at the position from which he fired at me. I saw his muzzle flash. I knew exactly where he was. Without taking my eyes off that spot, I immediately lined up the sights of my gun and sent 5 rounds directly at him. His position erupted in a cloud of dust and shards of rock. I saw no more muzzle flashes from that area and a couple minutes later two 105mm HE (High Energy) artillery rounds pummeled the site engulfing it with dust, shrapnel and flying rock fragments.

I am a medic. I came here to save life -NOT to take life. But first and foremost, I am a soldier. My platoon already knows I will treat their wounds even while under enemy fire because they have seen me do so. Now, my guys also know that I will defend them with weapons, but only if I have to. This was the first time, hopefully the last time, that I have ever fired a weapon in combat.

I told myself that the artillery rounds got him. At midnight after my next guard shift, I smoked a cigarette in the pitch dark of a bunker. I closed my eyes and whispered to myself, ”I did not kill a man today.”

I relieved the pain of an ear ache for a beautiful 5 year old girl.” I have treated hundreds of local people here over the last 9 months, mostly kids. I’ve treated everything from scraped knees and fevers to donkey bites.

ig_Bauschke_Little_Girl-1 (75k image)

I have touched many lives and families here and felt like I had done some good amidst this mayhem. Is all that good now washed away in blood? Am I now reduced to merely a killer of men?

There is no way to know if I hit my target, or if he got away altogether. I would have had to actually climb up there to see for myself. That would have been suicide. His comrades would have long since carried him off (or at least the pieces of him anyway). Even the Taliban have burial ceremonies.

I wish I could say I’ve killed no one here. Now I am not so sure I can. Duty, Honor, Country meant somehow less when the choice came down to me or him. I chose him. May God have mercy on my soul. May he forgive all our sins -Christian and Muslim alike. And may he give us peace to somehow finally end this incessant madness.

Home Again

It’s mid September already. Time is going by faster here in Eastern Afghanistan. I already have 8 months behind me for this deployment. My platoon and I have been doing well. I passed the Sergeants promotion board on July 1st. And since the E-5 promotion point’s cutoff for Medics had dropped enough by August, I wore Corporal for only a single month. The last time I wore Sergeant Stripes was in the Illinois National Guard in 1991; back to Buck Sergeant after 18 years. I am definitely an old man playing a young man’s game ...and succeeding.

At the same time I was pinned Sergeant I was pinned with my Purple Heart for the shrapnel wound I received during the May 1st attack at the Badel Vehicle Patrol Base. I felt pride to be sure and delight at being alive. But mostly I felt unworthy of wearing the Medal; so very many have died for it. Just a few feet to the right and I would have been the one evacuated stateside, and perhaps died.

ig_Bauschke-PH (65k image)

The missions are endless; often days and night at a time. Whole weeks fly by in a sleepless haze. I already have over 100 missions behind me. We search for the enemy during all night over-watches, dismounted patrols and the occasional ambush.

But as the Afghan Election approached, we spent much time out in the villages on “Presence Patrols.” We ate local food, bought movies and toys for kids back home to contribute to the local economy. Villagers are tolerant of our presence, almost welcoming, so long as we’re spending dollars.

On August 13th I boarded a helicopter heading west and set out for my R & R Leave. Arriving at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, we were welcomed home in true Texas style.

Local fire trucks gave our plane a shower as we taxied up to the gate. On the long concourse below people stopped what they were doing, put down their bags and applauded us as we walked to customs. It was a truly touching moment.

Many of us had to fight back tears. My love for this country has never been greater. After all, we were fighting to preserve this very wonderfully blessed way of life. After customs we filed out and were greeted by upwards of 50 veterans from WWII, Korea, Vietnam and many military wives and widows. They gave us the warmest welcome I could ever imagine, offered us cookies and use of their cell phones.

That same night I kissed the ferry landing in Friday Harbor, Washington. Other people getting off the ferry gave me curious looks (I was still in Uniform). I didn’t care at all. I got down on my hands and knees and put my lips right down onto the asphalt. Smooooootch! How could they understand how good it was just to be there after all I’d seen and done in such faraway places.

My home base in the Army is Fort Drum in upstate New York, but it’s not my home. The San Juan Islands are my home and it was so good to be back there again. People waved at me as I walked down the street. Old friends stopped and got out of their cars to greet me as they drove by.

Even with our current economy, I have work anytime I need it. San Juan County is still the only county in Washington State without traffic lights. I was glad to see that much had not changed.

Some things had changed however. Life does in fact go on while we’re deployed, it just has to. By now a handful of good friends had passed on. I sat at the American Legion Post 163 in Friday Harbor and couldn’t take my eyes off certain empty bar stools. Unless the bar was full, those bar stools and chairs still remained empty as if the missing persons would somehow return to take their rightful places again. I missed them already having known of their deaths, but the true gravity of their passing only hit me when I came home again; “A toast: To absent friends.”

Living on an island surrounded by the ocean, seafood was on my mind all along. I ate fresh salmon, crab, oysters and clams. And by fresh I mean caught that day or even that hour. Restaurant owners bought my dinners. Bar tabs vanished before my eyes. I looked out over the ocean as I ate and renewed ties with old friends. A band stopped playing that first Friday night when I walked into a bar and began to play the National Anthem. I’d been gone 2 ½ years that seemed like a lifetime.

The views from San Juan Island still captivated me. Leaving that beautiful place was a huge life decision. I wanted to make a difference in this lingering war. And I got my wish more than I could ever imagine.

My parents drove out to the islands from Illinois to spend a week with me. My Leave time went slower with them there as they kept me busy. Privacy is nonexistent while deployed. And that is what I craved most on Leave. But the catch is that privacy would have meant days speeding by me alone on a couch watching TV with a hangover. I know myself after all.

Spending time with my parents kept me in check. And in all candor, at 43 years of age, I only now feel like I’m getting to really know my parents. So my parent’s visit was wonderful on many levels; completed my Leave time I would say. Thanks Mom and Dad.

“Home.” In Afghanistan home seems like a distant dream; a previous life. Seeing the stark and often harsh way of life here has earned my respect for the Afghan people. All the little things we take for granted and only when out of our element do we truly realize what we have.

Take heart, dear reader, if we are the guardians of our way of life, you are the sentinels. For it is YOU that lives the life back home that we want to preserve back home. We depend on you to live that life to the fullest. When we get back, things will have changed some of course, they have to. But coming home on Leave shows us that our beautiful country and wonderful way of life will still be there waiting for us, no matter the bleak, desperate and sometimes lonely moments we may have over here.

I had 4 months left in Afghanistan on my return to my platoon. I needed to get back to my platoon. On Leave I laid awake nights wondering if they were OK. Time to finish this deployment. Time to finish this war. The missions will continue and the days will pass one at a time. Soon though, finally, we’ll get on a helicopter for the last time -heading west to Jalalabad and Bagram and… home.

And we think of you America, always, and can’t wait for the day when we ALL come home for good to get on with this fantastic thing called, ”The Great American Way of Life!”

After The Attack

These are the dog days of deployment for me. Since the last enemy attack (stories below) we have had little or no down time. The attack shook us up tremendously as our platoon sergeant was injured in the first minute. Although his wounds are healing and his physical therapy at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington D.C. for his torn right bicep is going well, we will not see Sergeant Craighead for another 8 weeks or more, if ever.

The days seemed buried in a quagmire of endless paperwork, equipment inventories, missions and guard duty. Our platoon leader, Lieutenant Keogh, had been transferred to be A Company’s executive officer some weeks ago. His newly arrived replacement, Lieutenant Nicorvo, will have big shoes to fill to join a platoon that had trained together for over a year before deploying and have arguably seen the most enemy action in the Battalion in an area that has seen the most enemy contact in the Brigade. A former section Sergeant, SSG Tetreault, returned to replace our platoon sergeant. Major personnel changes always bring much disarray and confusion with them as everyone settles in to their new positions and must learn to do so many things differently.

Amidst all this chaos I received a Dear John letter from my girlfriend. I was stunned. My shrapnel wound, though small, hadn’t even healed yet. The guys even noticed how quiet and temperamental I became. Now I was additionally busied with contacting my buddies back in upstate New York to somehow get all my things out of her house, an issue which she has made to linger. The last thing I wanted was to get back from deployment and have to go back to that house and have her and some guy help load up my stuff.

I am 43 years old and getting dumped still seems to hurt every bit as much as it did in high school. Having someone to come back to made so much of the incredible inconveniences of deployment somehow bearable; not to mention the hope plans for our future brought me. Alas, my dating career reads like a rejected manuscript for a Harlequin romance novel with a recurring catastrophic ending. Some of my dumpings are legendary indeed. In 2002, I was dumped right before I took a canoe down the Mississippi River. That was a lovely send off. December 20th of the very same year, I was dumped by the next girlfriend.

I am furious this time too. Sure, maybe she just got scared of the whole idea of war and the fear of my demise drove her off. Or more likely, she simply met the next. Assuming this, I have asked her not to tell me and I have told my buddies in New York not to tell me. The mystery at least allows me a night’s sleep; all 4 hours of it. Maybe I should admit defeat and finally go gay; not merely Fabio gay, I mean full blown Liberachi gay! Just kidding dear reader; trying to cheer myself up. Everyone please roll your eyes with me,” Laughter is the best medicine.”

At night we wear night vision goggles on guard duty. The sky is filled with many more billions of brilliant stars when looked at through these goggles. The Milky Way Galaxy is truly magnificent to behold. The first time I saw this I nearly came to tears. Now I chance glances up at those stars, the very same stars that shine down on “the one who shall not be named” and I dream of what could have been. At these many moments, I have to catch myself, turn my head back to the mountain and remain focused on my job. The men I look for through those goggles are quite literally trying to kill me and have very nearly missed once already.

Trust me when I tell you that I am not the only soldier with relationship problems here. Girlfriends of deployed soldiers commonly find new boyfriends, and marriages end far more often than in civilian life. We call our replacements ‘Jody’, and even sing cadences with his name in them. How many soldiers do you imagine have been dumped during wars? I would venture to say they number in the millions.
The costs of war are staggering. Losses of life, destroyed property, corrupting lies of politics, broken homes and yes, broken hearts are just the short list. Why does war seem so easy to start, but so dammed hard to stop? When we are 2 years old we gain the concept of “mine.” We fight over building blocks or stuffed animals even when they obviously belong to others. From an early age we fight for what we think is ours. Between this lingering confusion we call The War on Terror and my sordid personal life, I wonder if most of us ever really grow up at all.

To add to this month of months, I approached my date for the Sergeant’s Promotion Board. This is where I stand in front of a panel of a Sergeant Major and First Sergeants and impress upon them that I am in fact ready for the responsibility of being a leader of soldiers. In between missions, long harrowing sleepless days and burning resentfully over my girlfriend I study everything from Army regulations, manuals to weapons systems, leadership principals and of course The NCO Creed.

As it happened, my date has been postponed to July 1st instead of June 1st. My God! was I relieved. I am torn. After the major enemy attack on May 1st I feel intense loyalty to my platoon: 3rd Platoon, D Company. Promotion to Sergeant would bring me a more than $500 a month raise but also probably means a transfer to a sergeant’s position somewhere else in the Battalion. Going to the board conflicted, frazzled and barking at the Sergeant Major could only have led to disaster. Emotionally I am spent after these long four weeks.

Finally though, Memorial Day came upon us and nearly passed us by; so much to do and so little sleep. My unit, 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment, has been fortunate (knock on wood) and has had no one killed in action yet this deployment. A number of us will be pinned with purple hearts. Our Battalion Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Frederick M. O’Donnell, came to our FOB and addressed us on Memorial Day. It occurred to me as he spoke that I’ve read the monthly numbers of killed and wounded for years, but for May 2009 I am among those counted. A humbling revelation, dear reader, that I am a statistic of war. And I am so very grateful for having lived to tell the tale. Other nearby units have not been so fortunate. We, like you, had a moment of silence here in the dusty 106 degree sun of Kunar Province, Afghanistan. With all the hardships endured here including long hours, relentless pressure, army food, no sleep and broken hearts, we must always take pause, be thankful for what we do have, realize that it could be much, much worse and never forget those who make the ultimate sacrifice for us and our country.

I close with a prayer for the fallen:
May the Lord bless you and keep you.
May the Lord have mercy on you and shine his countenance upon you,
and may He give you His peace. Amen.
Next time: Our interpreters talk about Afghanistan

Attack at Karamār Mountain - Part Two

Note: This is the rest of the story (part one is posted after this one) from Mission 40 from Part 9. These events continue on 1 May 2009 at perhaps 2045hrs. -Ed

2nd Platoon, D Company was on QRF (Quick Reaction Force) back at our FOB and was spun up to evac SFC Craighead to the Battalion Aid Station at Headquarters FOB. We continued dressing wounds and monitoring vital signs. SFC Craighead was alert and oriented (joking about morphine) complaining about his left arm, lung sounds remained clear and vitals trended stable. I administered 4mg of Morphine IV as he smiled.

We put him on a litter with a 2nd IV of 500mL Normal Saline and covered him. His lung sounds were still clear. I had to make sure his lungs weren’t punctured possibly causing a pneumothorax (the 2nd leading cause of preventable battlefield death). He was still alert and oriented.

With more than 40 shrapnel wounds covering the front side of his body and probably a broken left hand, he was still in pain, so I administered another 4mg of Morphine. That did the trick. I estimate QRF arrived 15 minutes later. By that time enemy weapons fire had quieted down.

With SFC Craighead evacuated, we turned our attention to other soldiers at the VPB; checking everyone for wounds they might have missed in all the excitement. PFC Koenck had a bullet graze his Left pinky. CPL Meza had a bullet graze his Right thigh. A few guys had scraped and banged up knees from scrambling up into gun turrets. Lucky men all.

I climbed up into my truck to get a snack of Famous Amos Chocolate Chip cookies and thanked the Lord Almighty out loud for not being injured. Then SGT Lemay and I sat to drink water, chain smoke cigarettes and talk it out. I stood to get another bottle of water and noticed discomfort on my right side. I looked at Lemay and said,” Ya know, not to be paranoid, but could you look at my side, I think I scratched myself on one of those cots I threw.”

SGT Lemay found an entrance wound that looked like a bullet wound. My breathing was fine, but I started to feel queasy and shocky from such dire news. I calmed myself down by watching my breathing. 2nd platoon came back to get me. The treatment team at the Battalion Aid Station found and removed a small piece of shrapnel from my side. My medic Platoon Sergeant, medic Platoon Leader, our Physician’s Assistant, my Battalion Command Sergeant Major and Battalion Executive Officer were looking on.

My lung sounds were clear and they irrigated and closed my wound with a single suture. At 2010 hours on 1 May 2009, at Karamār Ghar, I was the luckiest man in Afghanistan. Word was that SFC Craighead was stable, but he would take a couple months to heal. My Battalion Command Sergeant Major, CSM Carabello, let me use his blackberry to call my parents. Then I was driven back to my guys at the VPB by 0030. I have never been so glad to see 3rd Platoon, D Co 1-32 Infantry.

Why did my Platoon Sergeant get badly hit and not me? I was standing right there too. How can I still be here after an RPG landed 11ft from me? The small piece of shrapnel hit over a rib. A hit between ribs could have punctured my lung. I guess my work in this world isn’t done yet.

Reenlisting in the Army at age 41 and making it in the infantry is a miracle in itself. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You can tell someone,” I’d die for you.” But you never really know if you could until you actually risk it. I know my job. My first combat casualty lived! (and HEY! So did I) Now I know I can perform my job under unbelievable conditions. And my guys now know this too.

Summer is upon us: the fighting season. Behind us are the days where locals would just take pot-shots at us and run. The men who attacked us on 1 May were well trained, organized and are here to stay. They hit us with a well executed complex attack using multiple weapons systems from multiple positions. We suspect they had night vision capability as well. Those men were a new batch of fighters instructed at Al Qaeda training camps just across the border in Pakistan; the same men who orchestrated the attack in Mumbai. The same network we’ve been fighting since before 911.

The typical American infantry soldier often wonders just what we’re doing here. We arrest high ranking Taliban leaders after months or years of investigation and President Karzai pardons them (our President has the very same power of pardon by our own Constitution). Are we just cannon fodder? Are we just wood police? After 1 May 2009, I’m reminded of a chief reason we’re in Afghanistan: better to fight Al Qaeda here than at home. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Next time (unless something comes up): Preparing for the Sergeant’s promotion board.

Attack at Karamār Mountain - Part One

I returned from another mission at a VPB (Vehicle Patrol Base) this morning and I thought I would give you a slice of mounted infantry life. I keep a diary of sorts; a mission log. Added explanations are in parentheses. Enjoy.

Mission 40: 30 April 09, 1500hrs -" VPB @ Karamār Ghar (mountain) near the village of Kudu. 4 day rotation.

Arrived about 1530hrs. Hot as hell, but quiet today. They’ve finally begun paving the road from Kudu. (We call it Route Compton) Specialist Nix (a medic), who I’m relieving, said they met with local elders and told them if we keep taking enemy fire from within the village (Qaleh Wonah), their safety could be in jeopardy. The VPB took fire from the ridge above and from within the village later that night after the meeting. Mortar fire was called in on the ridgeline above but one of the rounds strayed into the village, luckily there were no civilian casualties. No enemy contact in 2 days since.

Guard duty was unbelievably hot all day, must have been in the 100’s. Even the bunkers were hot. About midnight I thought I saw movement up on Karandār Mtn near known enemy position #xxxx. The rocks were still so hot from the day’s heat that it was hard for our thermal sights to see if they were even men let alone carrying weapons. Could have been goats for all I know, but my gut tells me otherwise.

1 May 09 - What a long hot day. Everyone just sat in vehicles or a bunker listening to their IPOD’s and playing PSP’s between guard shifts. This was the first time SFC Craighead allowed electronics to the VPB. The first person seen with an IPOD on guard will get all electronics confiscated. I only ate parts of MRE’s as the heat saps my appetite. I didn’t have my usual dozen locals a day come up here wanting medicine.
2000hrs - Guard had just changed shifts. SFC Craighead was telling stories about Pathfinder, BNCOC and ANCOC Army schools. A group of us were sitting on the back steps of the trucks listening.

2010hrs - Shots fired! I first heard whizzes then crackles (which means the bullets were within 10 ft). This was accurate fire that was honing in on us. Everyone scrambled to their weapons or climbed up into turrets. KABOOM! An RPG hit at the corner of my truck 11ft in front of me. A cloud of choking smoke and dust surrounded me. My ears were ringing. I could see maybe 2 feet into near darkness. I heard hissing and creaking metal from the trucks. Was I still alive? Was this really happening? This was war (KABOOM! A 2nd RPG hit the truck next to mine) in all its brutal ugliness.

Someone yelled, “M-E-D-I-C!” It was our Platoon Sergeant SFC Craighead. I reached up and grabbed my aid bag next to me off the steps of my truck and moved toward him through the smoke. He was buried under a pile of cots. I felt like Superman and flung cots in every direction. I asked where he was hit. “I took it in the chest!” All our guns were blazing by now. I yelled, “Is anyone ELSE hit?! Sound off!” No response as I knelt. I heard enemy small arms fire now from Karamār Mtn to our front (12 O’clock), Lund Naw riverbed (8 O'clock) and also from “gumdrop hill” in between (10 O’clock). I opened his ACU shirt and assessed his chest. I saw no bad bleeds on his chest and his ribs were OK, but I saw much blood under his right armpit and on his right shoulder and neck. I asked how he was doing. “I need a medivac right f-ing NOW!” OK, so he had a patent airway. Continuing my rapid head to toe blood sweep, I found no life threatening bleeds, thank God. Our .50 Cals, 240B’s and 40mm Mark 19 rounds were filling the dark sky above me. Tracer rounds were blazing in the directions of 3 enemy positions. Afghan Army .50 Cal DISHKAS, 7.62mm PKM’s and 82mm mortars were returning fire from the top of our hill behind me. The night was filled with flash, smoke and thunder.

I got a roll of Kerlix gauze on his neck and SGT Lemay (my senior medic) appeared out of the smoke. We began to cut open SFC Craighead’s uniform to expose any further wounds. I took out my stethoscope and checked his lung sounds: clear bilaterally. KABOOM! Another RPG hit somewhere behind us. KABOOM! Yet another RPG hit near us. Immediately, we helped him get into the nearby vehicle so we could finish our detailed physical exam and begin treating wounds. Our Section Sergeant, SGT Quinones, called for a medivac, but 105mm Howitzer rounds were now impacting on the mountain to the front. Aircraft can’t fly through artillery so we would have to evac him by ground. The earth shook beneath my feet and the truck rocked back and forth. I took vitals while a Navy Corpsman, Dorsey (embedded with the Afghan Army unit to train them), who had run down the hill through enemy fire, documented everything we did. Between the artillery, mortars, .50 Cals, PKM’s and AK-47’s firing from above me, our own .50 Cals, 240B’s and Mark 19’s firing next to us, I couldn’t hear myself think. My ears were still ringing.

Next time: Attack at Karamār Mountain -Part 2

Wood Police

Can’t-tell-ya-where-I-am-istan: where everyone means well, nobody smells bad and the food… is to die for. I just got off of guard duty so I’m celebrating with an MRE (Meal Ready to Eat): Pork Rib, Boneless, Imitation; followed of course by a Macanudo Cigar.

We saw fires and heard drum beats into the evening from Kudu, a nearby village, and expected gun fire (in the air) from locals in celebration as well. We weren’t invited to any local festivities, of course, but as it happened we had to interrupt the mood a little.

About 1930 hours, through our thermal night sights, we spotted a group of 9 people making their way up the Kowtgi Ghar (mountain) to our West carrying packages the size of ammunition or weapons crates on their backs. This particular area is prime real-estate for weapons and ammunition smugglers. A couple of Kiowa Attack Helicopters happened to be in the area so we called them over. One pilot opened up with his 50 Caliber machine gun showering tracer rounds across the mountainside near the “suspects”, but not at the suspects. Our rules of engagement (ROE) prohibit us from firing on anyone unless they fire on us first or we have positive ID (PID) that they are carrying weapons. The star filled night sky over my head was filled with thunder and red tracer rounds.

The “suspects” split into 3 groups then scattered and hid behind rocks, in small caves and fled back into the Kowtgi Village (good luck finding it on any map). The crates were left behind on the trail. The pilot then hit the area with missiles containing white phosphorous. Whoosh! Kaboom! This set an area the size of a football field ablaze on the barren mountainside, burning the packages. I watched all this with a grin on my face. 4th of July fireworks have lost their charisma forever.

We could see exactly which homes (walled in compounds) the men fled to on the north side of the village through our sights. A platoon of The Afghan National Army (ANA) went into the village and began house to house searches. We heard much commotion all through the village. The Afghan National Police (ANP) was involved by this point, and they aren’t exactly gentle in the fulfillment of their duties.

The ANA would climb the mountain in the morning to retrieve the crates, or what turned out to be evidence of the crates. Needless to say, once the village and local farm animals calmed down after the searches were complete, the evening remained quiet. No more celebrations. The dogs were even quiet. Only stubborn donkeys continued their bellowing into the night.

At first light, we set out on foot with the ANA up the mountain and found only charred remains of wood. We called it Operation Morning Wood. Come to find out, this valley is known for its smuggling and had 2 recent run-ins with the ANP specifically over wood smuggling. A few decades ago, Afghanistan’s mountains were perhaps 33% forested. Forage for building materials and firewood have reduced that number to below 2%. Since wood is now very scarce in these dry barren mountains, lumber is commonly smuggled in from nearby Pakistan. Our logic in pursuing any and all smugglers is that the same money and networks that smuggle wood also smuggle opium, marijuana, and weapons. So now we are wood police.

This was an odd time to ring in a New Year. Only Vegas could rival it with Christmas in July. Afghans are familiar with multiple calendars. Urban Afghans know the Roman names of the months that we use in the West, probably from British and Russian occupations. Rural village dwellers however follow Muslim lunar months, which would seem strange to us as the dates of Muslim holidays are about 12 solar days earlier every year. For instance, The Prophet Mohammed’s birthday was April 21st in 2005; this year I was told it was celebrated on March 10th. Some Muslim holidays begin at the first sighting of the moon in a particular phase, which can be hidden behind clouds or sandstorms. Thus Muslim holidays are often celebrated at different times in different locations, sometimes days apart.

Dates for the solar months, used in the Afghani media, correspond to the signs of the Zodiac. Hence the Afghan year begins March 21st in Aries (Wray), then Taurus (Ghwayay), Gemini (Ghbargolay), Cancer (Chingâsh), Leo (Zmaray), Virgo (Wazhay), Libra (Tala), Scorpio (Laram), Sagittarius (Lindëy), Capricorn (Marghomay), Aquarius (Salwâgha) and finally Pisces (Kab).

Time here in these rural mountain villages is measured differently to be sure. Years of events are described in vague terms. Calendars and clocks are rare (except on ubiquitous cell phones). No one here is in a hurry, dear reader, not even the enemy. If a meeting time is set, including, say with the Provincial Governor, the meeting begins whenever all the parties eventually arrive. Most of the meeting would then involve pleasant conversation and the drinking of excellent Afghan tea (Chai).

Muslims believe that whatever happens is the will of God (Allah). Business and political meetings or even major national construction projects begin and eventually end according to the Will of God (Insha Allah). So when I ask the local villager, Ishal (Izzy) who does our laundry, when my uniforms will be done, the response is always the same, ”Insha Allah,” with a grin and a shrug… and then we drink Chai and laugh in the sun while my uniforms remain contently unwashed.