Christmas Day, 2009

As I sit here in my small concrete room the night after Christmas on Camp Eggers watching Al Jazeera after my first whole day of work at the CJ6 for NATO Training Mission - Afghanistan/Combined Security Transition Command - Afghanistan (NTM-A/CSTC-A), I am reflecting on the events of yesterday - Christmas Day, 2009.

My day started on Bagram Air Field at 0300, when I awoke to the wonderful sound of nothing, thanks to the noise canceling headphones I had picked up in North Carolina for the deployment - if you haven't tried them, you should. Nevertheless, I was still suffering the effects of transiting too many time zones from the U.S. East Coast to Afghanistan in just over a day; so there I laid, tucked into my two layer sleeping bag in the "DV" tent full of single beds, wall lockers, and a multinational mix of relatively high ranking men from all branches of the service - killing time in lieu of sleep. Me and a fellow CJ6er, Matt, were to be staged and ready to load our Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicle at 0700. I figured I would get up at 0400, shave & brush my teeth, head to the MWR building to check email and see if Paulette, one of the kids, or anyone else in the family was online; and then go back to the tent and quietly finish packing so I would be ready for the chow hall at 0545; getting us out in time to drag our gear over to the staging point.

I had spent part of the previous day with my brother, Jay - touring his area, meeting his Marines and command element, taking a few pictures, and then heading over to the exchange court for some chow and a little shopping... it was Christmas Eve and we were two brothers in the heart of America's highest priority war at the time...

Along the one mile route, SSgt Vrable inadvertently saluted an enlisted soldier who had initiated a salute that was destined for LtCol Vrable. The SSgt quickly withdrew his salute and commented that he couldn't see the rank until it was too late. Subdued rank on officers (worn in combat environments) is difficult to identify, since it is the same color as enlisted ranks. This results in a myriad of erroneous and sometimes comical salute exchanges. In Iraq a few years ago, I remember saluting a soldier that I thought was a one star general; but as he drew closer, I finally looked up at his smiling baby face to see that he couldn't have been more than 19 - he returned the Marine Major's salute smartly and probably went on to tell his buddies about this dumb-ass Marine officer who saluted him.

Jay bought me lunch at Burger King in return for a couple of pairs of insulated drawers I brought him from home to take the chill off as he worked the flight line. As we walked through the exchange area, it seemed that all eyes were on us... the bulked up SSgt and the balding LtCol - both with similar faces and the same name sewn onto our uniforms. Two European-looking men dressed in civilian clothes who seemed particularly enamored with us asked if we were brothers. We confirmed and one of the men said, "Two very different paths".

Jay and I parted ways at 1330 as I headed off to an introductory meeting with the Task Force 82 J6 and Jay went back to work. That night, I paid for the expeditionary whopper and fries I had eaten with an unpleasant emergency visit to a dark "latrine trailer" that had lost power moments before. Matt thought it was quotable that I had said, "I just had a miserable experience in a dark shitter." ...back to Christmas morning...

When I checked into the MWR front desk and asked for a computer, the lady behind the counter gave me a little square wooden block with the number 13 displayed prominently. As I headed over to computer #13, I recalled that just the day before, I was given the same number for a phone that I used to call Paulette and the kids with. "What are the odds?", I thought to myself. The family wasn't online and I still had some time to kill, so I shifted over to the movie room and caught the end of "Blades of Glory" - desperate times...

When the credits began to roll, I headed back, finished packing and left with Matt for the chow hall. "Merry Christmas", Matt said with a smile as we made the chilly trek. "Merry Christmas, Matt... Almost forgot". The chow hall in Bagram was decorated by local and third country nationals with big gingerbread houses and hand crafted static displays representing the holiday. I was compelled to take a picture of the houses, since the day before I had watched an Afghan patiently place green icing on one of the houses as if it were his Mona Lisa. He wasn't the most accurate with the tube; but he obviously took great pride in his work.

"Afghanistan, at the crossroads - on Al Jazeera"... I had no idea what to expect as I turned the channel to the English version of Al Jazeera last night when I started writing this BLOG. I am shocked at the quality of reporting this network provides. Reporters are well researched and credible; stories are compelling and well produced; and there is no sarcasm or flip humor. I find myself wishing there was an American network like this; but quietly hoping that Al Jazeera will show me something that justifies the apparently jaded view of the network I had prior to ever watching it.

As Matt and I walked to the staging point, I looked at him and said, "I drew number 13 this morning at the MWR building... that's twice since I've been here." The uneasy look on his face was priceless. I know, you shouldn't screw with an Air Force guy before they jump on a convoy in hostile territory; but I couldn't resist. Hell, it was already screwing with my head a little... my first convoy in Afghanistan, first ride in an MRAP, it was Christmas day, and I drew the number 13... not once, but twice. I can't say the thought didn't go through my head that this could be it. Why wasn't anybody online this morning?

As we waited for the three MRAPs to arrive after fueling up, Matt and I took pictures of each other as the sun peeked over the snow-capped mountains in a beautiful panoramic scene behind us. Shortly after, a female soldier came up with a German Shepherd, a rather large break-down plastic kennel, and a few bags. "Is she riding with us or inspecting our bags?" I thought. The dog and owner were both young and unassuming. I invited the dog over, squatted down and encompassed it gently with my arms as I patted and talked to it in an attempt to show both dog and owner that there was no cause for concern here.

Thoughts of the convoy started to creep into my head… “Can I sit back and let the convoy commander run the show if something happens?” We are normally directed to do just that - we are passengers and this is his show. I recalled one particular convoy in 2003 that Master Sergeant Donaldson and I had jumped on as we made our way from Kuwait across Breach Point West up into Camp Viper just South of An Nasiriya… the Lt in charge of the convoy got us lost, making wrong turns on two occasions. After passing the same horrendous scene of dogs eating charred human remains not once, but twice, the convoy finally came to a long halt and the Lt walked up to my HMMWV (Hummer) driven by the Master Sergeant and said, “Sir, I heard you have an Iridium, is that true?” “Yes I do, what happened to your comms, Lt?” I said. To which, he replied, “Sir, right now, you’re the only person in this convoy with good comms; and I need to find out where the Hell we are.” So, naturally, I’m a little hesitant when someone tells me to let go of the reigns and just sit by in the “passenger seat” until it’s over.

The convoy team leader was thin, tall, and very serious as he ran through a laundry list of instructions and information about the one and a half hour journey we were about to embark on. He asked if any of us were "CLS". I hesitated, first because I didn't recognize the acronym (thought it was an Army term), then again after I put it together (Combat Life Saver) because I wasn't sure if the quick pre-deployment "refresher" course I had received qualified me to answer in the affirmative... note to self - see doc in the coming weeks for some more training. I have had Red Cross certifications and quite a few hip-pocket Marine-speak classes in the past; but it's all a spotty memory now for this 42 year-old. In that moment, I felt unprepared and embarrassed; yet, at the same time comforted by the competence of the convoy team. These young men have it under control.

The words, "Do not exit the vehicle until you are told to by a member of the convoy team", "Ensure that your seat belt is secured tightly as you may be thrown around in the vehicle", "Should the vehicle end up on its side, the exit hatches are located...", and, "The back hatch weighs about 900 pounds, so you have to push hard if you are required to open it manually" were the most memorable.

The dog owner took a moment to brief us as well... "If anything happens to me, my dog is the priority. She won't fiercely protect me because she's still a baby. She will come to you. Please make sure she is taken care of first if something happens to me. If something happens to her, I will care for her. I have everything I need for her care in my bag." She went on; but those were the memorable comments.

Since Matt and I were helping to load the bags in one MRAP, we were the last two passengers to board without realizing it. I remembered the words, "There are four available seats in the lead vehicle and five in the second!" Matt and I looked at each other and I wondered if the same thought went through his mind, "Is this the defining decision?" I said, "Do you have a preference?" He did not, so I headed toward the lead vehicle... if something happens, the lead vehicle is most likely to be involved, I thought. As we approached, we realized there was only one seat left. I told Matt I would take it and he headed back to the second vehicle.

I was barely able to contain my excitement as the three vehicle convoy departed. The Navy E3 in front of me seemed nervous, so I asked him if there was an in-flight meal. It seemed to curb his distraction as he laughed it off and commented, "I have beef jerky." I pulled out my camera to capture some of the unknown I was about to experience. I snapped pictures and recorded short videos along the route of the beautiful mountains, the local populace embroiled in their daily toil, the tattered buildings, and anything I thought would evoke a sense of understanding.

As we departed, I struck up a conversation with the Army Colonel sitting to my left – he was just returning from a two-week “R&R” (Rest and Relaxation) trip back to the States to finish up the remainder of his year in country. I found out he was a reserve lawyer who looked to be a few years older than me. He was a gentleman with a friendly demeanor and a myriad of random bits of advice for the newcomer. Since he and the soldier sitting in front of him were on a first name basis, I assumed the other guy was a Colonel as well. Not wanting to miss anything, I politely ended the conversation and turned my attention outside the vehicle.

I had just finished a short video, when I heard a loud yell from the convoy commander - an Army Lieutenant who was half exposed above the vehicle as he occupied the turret gunners position... he was the early warning system for the lead vehicle. Thankful I had done as the convoy team instructed regarding the seat belt, I felt the pressure as the driver slammed on the brakes... "dut dut dut dut dut" I heard, wondering if it was the sound of distant machine gun fire. "Mother-F***er!!!" someone yelled. "What the f***!!". "He's dead! he's got to be dead!" The vehicle came to a complete stop, then backed up slightly. As the Lt was ducking out of the turret, I tried to assess the situation. I didn't see what had happened, but based on the comments, I gathered that we had hit someone. I quickly turned around to look behind us and noticed the second vehicle barreling at us at a rate too fast to stop. My first thought was, "He's going to nail us", but I was relieved to see that the driver of the second vehicle was actually rushing to get his vehicle into the lead position to protect the convoy.

"Somebody get up there!" the Lt yelled as he pointed to the vacant turret seat. Before I could react, another member of the convoy team was already unbuckled and half-way to the 50 cal. The Lt rushed out to the front of the vehicle to assess the damage. "Call for a medevac!" I heard someone shout. The Sergeant who was driving had already jumped out, looked at the motionless Afghan, rushed to the back of the vehicle, looked at me and said, "Get me that bag!". As I handed him the bag, I said, "How can I help?" Hoping that would be my ticket out of the vehicle and excuse to take an active role in whatever this was to become. "I need someone to cover that flank!" he shouted as he snatched the bag and rushed back to the Afghan. Without a second thought, I jumped out of the vehicle, made a quick left turn as I pulled out my pistol and went to condition one (magazine inserted, round in the chamber, weapon on safe, and trigger finger straight and off the trigger). As I scanned the scene with M9 Pistol at the ready, I felt my legs shaking slightly - was it because they were cold from the vehicle or the crisp Afghanistan morning air; or was it the rush of adrenaline? I wondered why the Hell I wasn't issued an M4 - or at least more than 30 rounds for God's sake! "His back is broken!" someone shouted.

"Who's CLS?" I heard the sergeant yell. Without answering, I started moving toward the scene when a Navy Corpsman emerged to my relief… “Thank God”, I thought, as I ran through possible outcomes of trying to stabilize the guy myself. Corpsmen live combat life saving techniques; and have a much higher probability of success than a Marine communications officer. I stayed in position as the Corpsman rushed to the aid of the Afghan.

Traffic was beginning to back up on the highway behind us; and in the oncoming lane as the rubberneckers gawked at a crawl. At that moment, an ANP (Afghan National Policeman) with what looked like an AK-47 strapped to his back ran up to the scene from behind the third vehicle. My grip tensed on the pistol, thumb on the safety as the man approached... "Was the pedestrian's act part of an ambush?" I wondered. Then I saw the ANP's left arm wave in a big sweeping motion telling the passing vehicles to keep moving. It was clear enough to me at that moment that the man's intentions were not hostile. I quickly shifted my focus back to the flank I was supposed to be protecting; then I made my way toward the front of the MRAP just far enough to see what was going on. We must have been close to an ANP checkpoint, because there was already a small crowd of ANP around the U.S. team rendering aid to the Afghan.

"I need a camera! Who has a camera?" The sergeant yelled. "Right here!" I responded. As I handed my camera to him, I wondered if I had just surrendered my right to the dozens of would-be cherished pictures and videos I had taken prior to and since my departure from North Carolina... "The flank!" I thought to myself. As I scanned the scene, three young Afghan children walked by about 50 feet off the road in front of me. The little boy, all of about seven, smiled at me as if he was completely oblivious to the tension in the air or to the tragic scene he had just walked by. All he seemed to care about was eliciting some sort of acknowledgment from me. I obliged with a wink and a slight smile which seemed to make his day... "The flank!"

I noticed motion inside the cab of a fuel truck parked perpendicularly to the road about 100 feet out... "Over 25 yards - can I hit him from that range?" I thought as I recalled the 1,000 practice rounds I fired over the summer in preparation for this. I knew I could hit inside the 10 ring fairly consistently from 25 yards, so chances were good, I thought... or were they? 25 yards at an indoor pistol range with no external pressure is vastly different than 30-50 yards and a chaotic scene in the middle of an unfamiliar war zone. "Keep an eye on that cab", I told myself. I walked around to the back of the vehicle to see a "beautiful man" as my wife would put it, directing traffic. He was an extremely fit, handsome ANP with a confidence that commanded attention. He looked at me with a big smile, hands still waiving traffic through and said with a noticeable break in confidence, "How are you?" "Very good, thank you." I replied. "You do a good job" I said. He nodded and returned his focus to the traffic. "The flank!"

"Sir, take this!" I heard as I turned to see another U.S. military member handing me an M-16. I didn’t know who he was or even which branch of the service he was in… "Thank God!" I thought, as I holstered my pistol and grabbed the rifle. I pulled the charging handle slightly to the rear to observe the round in the chamber; then I slapped the magazine, tapped the forward assist to ensure the round was well seated, and closed the ejection port cover. I recalled how, on the Joint Staff in Korea, we Marines used to joke that if the shit hit the fan, we would never be at a loss for a weapon because someone from another branch would inevitably drop theirs and run... "The flank!"

"Stretcher!!!" someone yelled from the front. "He's stable, but if we don't take him now, he won't make it." I heard a voice say. "Cank the medevac!" shouted another. Vehicles continued to pass by containing people of all sorts... a car full of Afghan men all intently examining the scene and seemingly studying my every move; a family with an old baby seat in the car; a brand new silver civilian Hummer H2 - I thought about my boy and his love for that vehicle... "The flank!"

In what seemed like a moment, the man was carefully placed on the stretcher and was being moved to the vehicle. The convoy commander made a failed attempt to communicate with the small crowd of ANP, who seemed to be ok with the team's actions; but argued amongst themselves about something. I remember thinking they could be arguing about who should accompany the convoy. Once the stretcher was loaded, it was time to get the Hell out of there. I looked in the back of the vehicle I rode in on and quickly realized there was no room... the corpsman had taken my seat. I thought briefly about the two colonels and how they didn’t move throughout the entire event (it seemed). "Go up to the lead vehicle, sir." yelled someone from inside the MRAP. As I headed toward that vehicle, it began backing up with the rear hatch open as if to tell me I was moving too slowly. I picked up the pace and boarded.

After a short time, we arrived at the KAIA (Kabul International Airport) medical facility. We didn’t dare call it KIA for obvious reasons. My thoughts flashed back to my arrival in Kuwait International Airport (abbreviated KCIA vice KIA… the ‘C’ being ‘City’) in 2003. I remember wishing I had my camera for that leg of the journey, since we had entered the city of Kabul; and the sites were much different from those we had observed on the first leg. I watched with envy as Matt recorded the scenes with his video camera... maybe I can get a copy.

We stepped out of our vehicles at the rear of the medical center and recounted the events amongst each other and for the CSTC-A Joint Operations Center (JOC) Army Major who was already onsite prepared to gain as much SA (situational awareness) as he could to pass back to the JOC for the Commanding General. The consensus among those who saw the incident was that the Afghan was standing in the median; and, once the MRAP was so close that its momentum would push it through him, he walked out directly into its path and stood face-to-face with the vehicle driver. He then crossed his arms casket-style, put his head down and absorbed the full impact with his entire body. All of those who witnessed it were convinced the man knew what he was doing and had every intention of dying.

I could imagine only four possible reasons for such an act:

1. The man was convinced that his family would receive a handsome solatia payment if he were to be killed by an American vehicle.

2. The man was mentally incapacitated.

3. The event was the prelude to an ambush, which we fortunately discovered was not the case.

4. The man was compelled to perform the act so the enemy could gauge our reaction, analyze our tactics, techniques and procedures (TTPs), and adjust their future tactics accordingly.

We may never know.

When I asked the sergeant for my camera back, he said, "I already gave it to you, sir." I looked down and it was fastened inside my M16 magazine pouch.