Handfuls of Yellow Starbursts

My First Mission

Note:  I wrote this the night that it happened, what you are reading has not been edited.

 "Everyone gets everything they want. I wanted a mission, and for my sins they gave me one…"-Martin Sheen"Apocalypse Now"

I’ve always been a little bitter about my job here in the Cav. While all the rock stars of the line platoons get to go out and take the fight to the enemy, I am stuck on the outpost behind a desk. While my job is important, it is not glamorous at all. Sure, I take a lot of heat because I never get to go out on missions, but I try to convey how much I want to be in the shoes of a real scout by always wishing them good luck over the radio when they leave, and welcoming them home when they do return. We have been lucky so far, as they have always returned. The previous week, my night shift battle NCO was lucky enough to go out on a short mission to the neighboring village. He came back a new man, energized by the feeling one gets when they are doing something they truly enjoyed. I have to admit, I was jealous, but Lucky had earned his place in the command post by way of getting his foot almost blown off in a previous deployment, and could no longer physically do the job that was required of a scout. I, on the other hand, was handed my role because I had no idea what a scout does, but I’m good with computers and technical stuff.

July 14th was different. After hounding the first sergeant and anyone else who would listen, I was finally picked up to accompany a section on a mission. To the rock stars, it was a milk run, for it was nothing more than a short trip to the district center for a meeting with the local heads of government. All in all, the mission was only going to be for a couple of hours, and be back at the outpost in time to meet a general that decided he wanted to see what our little outpost was about. As they say in the army, it was too easy.

I spent most of the night painstakingly preparing my equipment. Were my night vision goggles tied down to my gear? Are all of my mags full of ammo? Water, right, can’t forget that. Casualty feeder card, bump card, ID card…everything had to be there and just right. I fell asleep that night almost dreading the morning. Not so much because of the mission, but because it was my first ever, and I wanted to make a good first impression.

The next morning came way too soon. After a quick mission brief (everyone but me had done this before), and some final preparations, we rolled out to the District Center, with our Afghan army counterparts taking lead. It was less than five kilometers from the outpost, but with the road being what it was, the trip seemed to take forever. Once there, we piled out of our trucks, and set up security for the meeting. I was paired with Huey, another Staff Sergeant who had been doing this his whole career. His wife taught at the high school, and my stepdaughter took one of her classes. I realized as we sat in one of the towers that Huey and I were a lot alike in that we weren’t that social, but as we probed around each other’s lives with awkward conversation, I realized that there were good people in this unit, and I hadn’t really given anyone a chance to get to know me. I had only assumed nobody really cared for me because I was a reclass that didn’t know anything, and worked in a ‘soft’ job at the outpost.

During our conversations, our even smaller observation post that overlooked the District Center came under attack. It felt strange to be so close to an all out firefight, yet far enough away to watch and not be drawn into it. We watched in awe as mortar rounds fell with loud ‘kerwhumps’ and heavy machine guns chattered their deadly song, the echoes of war reverberating around the valley floor.

Soon, it was time to leave. LT Z had bought Afghani bread for the whole section, and I dove in when it was offered. Of all the things I hope to leave in Afghanistan, one thing I hope to find in the states is that good afghani flatbread. We piled back into the trucks, and as we started the journey back, I joked a bit with Morrow, a civil affairs Staff Sergeant that looked more at home in an office than a war zone. I finished my bread, and noticed that one of the straps on my kneepads had come loose. I better fix that before I have to meet the general. Taking off my gloves, I reached down to adjust the loose strap.

Time stopped, as if someone had pushed the pause button on the movie that was my life. An earth shattering blast….dust everywhere….then silence. An agonizingly long silence.

Then someone pushed the play button again, and my world was plunged into chaos.

"What happened?" Who was yelling? LT Z?

"Shit, we hit something!" The driver….what was the kid’s name again?

Gunfire erupted.

"Ping, shoot back!" Ping was our gunner, I looked at him, and he was holding his head.

"I can’t" he said distantly, still holding his head, "my weapons are gone!"

"We hit an IED, we gotta get out of the vehicle!"

"My door is jammed, I can’t get it!"

"We gotta go!"

"Mine is jammed too!" The driver again….Carr was his name

"Back door might work!" Morrow again

"I got it!" Was that me? I reached over and hit the button, and the door sprang open.

Morrow was the first out, and upon hitting the ground immediately took a knee and trained his weapon off the passenger side of the vehicle. I was next, and dropped to the ground right behind him, training my weapon on the opposite side. The shooting had stopped, and all I could see was a rock wall that was level with the top of the stricken vehicle. I looked over my shoulder and realized that my entire left side was exposed to the opposite bank of the river that ran beside the road. Thinking that my position was far too exposed, Morrow told me to follow him around the side of the truck. I backed up until I bumped him, and we both moved around to the side of the truck.

What I saw will haunt my dreams forever. The truck had blown completely in two behind the front axle. The engine block and front clip had sheared away in the blast and had been thrown to the side of the road. What remained rested face down in a crater that was easily five feet deep and took up the entire width of the road. Parts were still smoldering, and every type of fluid leaked from lines that had been crudely ripped apart in the explosion. Did I just come from inside that same truck? How am I still alive?

The rest was a blur. I vaguely remember pulling security behind a rock, with my weapon trained up a small draw where the command wire that had detonated the IED was found. As I sat, my handheld radio chattered in my ear about recovery assets, chasing a possible triggerman, and somehow finding a way to fill in this big damn hole in the road. Trucks from our sister unit arrived, and before long I was headed back to the outpost in a truck similar to the one I had left behind.

We returned to find the outpost in chaos. While we were being rescued, the outpost had come under attack, with the general’s helicopter being engaged by machinegun fire as it attempted to leave. A wild firefight had ensued, with bullets flying everywhere and forcing us newly rescued survivors to duck and run for the cover of the aid station, where we were to be checked out by the medics to ensure that our brains didn’t get too rattled. Things were looking grim until a lone F-15 appeared, and put an end to all the enemy fire with two bombs that rained destruction and debris all over the outpost.

Later that night, I found myself alone on the bench outside the command post, smoking a cigarette and marveling at my misfortune. Indeed, I was lucky to be alive, for in the course of four hours, I had almost been killed no less than three times. It was a hell of a first mission. LT Landon found me, and we sat and talked about the kinds of things that I never thought these warriors would talk about: Fear. I always liked LT Landon, for he was a different breed of leader. He was what most would call a quiet professional, always getting the job done without needing to boast or put anyone else down. I remembered talking to him and begging for him to take me on a mission, which he always readily agreed to, but scheduling always conflicted.

We talked about the kind of bond that only combat can form and how this incident would bring everyone who had been on that truck closer together. He was again correct, for in the days that followed, I found LTZ to be a lot less irritating. Carr had transformed from anxious young soldier to hardened warrior. Ping had gone from another face in the troop to a likable young soldier that would ask how I was every time we would pass. Morrow no longer was just a civil affairs guy, and even Sultan the interpreter went from a solemn young man with whom I was uncomfortable being around to someone I truly admired for taking the risks that he took, knowing full well he could quit at any time. As for me, I found myself being accepted by the troop for what I had been through. Those that had the same experiences now took the time to engage me in conversation, and those who hadn’t treated me as though I had passed a crucial test.

I could feel the last of the adrenaline fading, and my body ached for sleep. As LT Landon and I stood up to part company, he mentioned how he really liked the fact that I wished outgoing patrols good luck and incoming patrols a welcome home over the radio. He explained that it put his mind at ease when he was on mission, knowing that there was someone on the other end of that radio that could help him out when he got in trouble, and was thinking about him and his men as they were out on mission. Up until then, I always thought it was a minor thing. He then grabbed me up in a big bear hug.

"Welcome home, Ski" He said, and walked off into the night.

Now I understand how much those seemingly insignificant words mean.

The Simple Things

I once watched a movie about a kid that was thrown into a world gone mad. His survival was based on a set of rules in which he lived by, one of which was "Enjoy the simple things". Out here nothing could be closer to the truth. We are here on a small outpost in the middle of nowhere, where the simple things are really all we have. That first cup of coffee that most take for granted suddenly becomes a magical elixir that makes the morning tolerable, if not enjoyable. Indeed, the simple things make all the difference. A simple "Good Job" usually means that you did everything right, but here it means that nobody died, and you best be ready to do it again. Eggs and bacon for breakfast means that you survived to see one more sunrise, and no matter how often the cooks make them, nobody complains. That simple letter or care package from home is all the difference between being on top of the world, or in the depths of despair.

When all this is done and I am home again, I hope that I can hang on to the feeling that the simple things give me here, and would hope that others can do the same. You don't have to be in a combat zone to enjoy them, so why not take the time? Savor that first cup of coffee in the morning; When it's dark outside, go out and look at the stars, and marvel. After all, you made it through another day...

Reboot

In returning to this blog, I am reminded of how it came to be.  As I look back on all my previous posts, I cannot help but measure how far I have come and the paths I have chosen that brought me here.  Unfortunately, it is also like ripping the scab from a wound almost healed.  At a time where I should be looking forward, I am finding myself looking back into the abyss that I crawled from four years ago.  This blog was born two names ago at the suggestion of a supposed loved one.  As one life ended and another began, I struggled to keep this blog alive, for after all, there were so many others that wanted to read it.  I have said that my posts will be fewer and farther between, not so much because there isn't much going on here, for there is. There are many stories that will be told in time here, but first I must deal with old issues that have arisen from restarting this blog.  

As I re-read some of my previous posts, I was struck at how well most of them flowed.  In the two year pause between my last post and now, my writing had been put on hold, relegated to correcting award citations and making evaluation reports sound better than they really were.  I hadn't sat down and written a story, or even a good piece of original writing since 2008.  This blog offers me a chance to get some of that back, yet at a constant reminder of where it all began.

So, what to do?  Tabula Rasa, or clean slate.  This is my blog, no matter how it was conceived.  It always has been, regardless of the way it wandered and twisted and brought me here.  Yes, there was a time when people clamored to read it, and left all sorts of feedback, which was good for me for that time.  However, my fifteen minutes of fame has long run out, and I am thinking this may be for the better.  After all, it really doesn't matter who reads my blog, agrees with my blog, or even leaves feedback.  The end result is still the same:  These are my stories, my feelings laid bare for those who wish to read about them.  Whether I get one visit or a million, I will continue to post as time and security precautions dictate.  No more glitz, no more glitter, and probably no more pictures, given the sensitive nature of where I am. These are the stories of my life, so if you are willing, go ahead and stay awhile.  Be warned however, my feelings and thoughts often do not fit with accepted norms, so read my posts at your own discretion.

A New Beginning

It has been two years since my last post. In the span of 24 months I have had a lifetime of experiences and adventures. Some of them good, a couple of them bad, but all came with a lesson to be learned and memories to last the rest of my life. Where do I begin? Where does one story stop and another start? What sort of tales are worthy of an audience, and which ones do I leave for myself and those close to me? Will my experiences touch the lives of others, or serve as merely a warning of what not to do?

Summer and I have been married two years now, and each anniversary finds us apart. Our first found us on opposite ends of the country, with Summer and the girls in Arizona, putting the finishing touches on school, packing, and saying goodbye to their old lives while I was busy preparing their new lives with me in the form of getting settled into my new career in the Cavalry, as well as prepare an empty house to be filled with the lives and love of my new family. Later that summer, we travelled cross country with Annie occupying the back of a moving truck towing Rachel’s boyfriend’s truck, with Summer and Vicky following in the Tercel. There are numerous stories to tell about how this came to pass, but they are not mine to tell.

The past two years has also seen a bridge built between my son and me. We have been communicating better, swapping emails, instant messages, and now letters. Although I missed much of his growing up, he still calls me Dad, and the week we spent together right before I deployed was priceless. He took well to his new stepsisters and Summer, and we really had a great visit. I’m hoping that when I come home the visits will continue and become longer.

The Cavalry has been good to us as a family, but also hard as a family as well. My new job was not quite what I had anticipated, and found me keeping the Troop running as an Operations NCO. It’s not as glamorous as kicking in doors and shooting exotic weapons, but it is a necessity that, while not being enjoyable, I found myself somewhat decent at. Being the only one in the Troop that does this job made it very hard to get to know people, as Ops is usually the bearer of bad news and the keeper of paperwork that most war fighters are loathe to complete. Then again, maybe I didn’t give them a chance to get to know me. The world of combat arms is full of type-A personalities that care very little for feelings and being nice and more about getting the job done. I quickly realized that I was not one of them, and although I may one day earn a place in the Troop, I would probably never have the kinds of friends that I had at Fort Huachuca. Here there were no Travises to have deep conversations with at all hours of the night; no Joes to encourage me to find the good in everything.

So here I am once again, one more deployment, perhaps my last. I am slowly developing the killer instinct it takes to deal with my fellow Cavalrymen, and even had a few experiences that have earned their grudging respect, as well as afforded the opportunity to get to know these men better. Mine and Summer’s marriage is still going strong despite having to spend the second anniversary a continent apart. However, this deployment is different. Summer has not only managed to keep the house running in my absence, she has been able to manage the finances in a way I never seemed to be able. In 2005, I got on a plane with the sinking feeling that my marriage wouldn’t last the deployment, and unfortunately I was right. Now it’s 2010, and four months into another year long deployment finds me not having to worry about that, because I know that Summer is a strong woman. She was there when I got off the plane from Korea, and she will be there once again when I come home from Afghanistan. The nature of where I am and the things that happen here make this knowledge golden, for this deployment is like none I have ever been on. There is no safety here, it is just us, and things go from quiet to chaos in the blink of an eye. Death is always waiting; each attack an opportunity for him to drag us into an early afterlife. We have had a few close calls, and even I have had one or two brushes with eternity, but so far we have been lucky.

Hopefully our luck holds…