The day was almost perfect; a bright, clear-blue sky, a slight cool breeze from the west, the sun high in the sky and barely a cloud to be seen. It is the kind of late October day that is best suited for family picnics, baseball games, small town parades, or a hand-in-hand walk in the park. This just makes the day all the more poignant because of what I am about to witness: something to touch the heart and soul.
There are literally hundreds of people, if not a thousand or more, gathering on the “main” street of our little “town”. There really is just one street that passes through our town. It is the life artery for everything that passes through here. The irony is not lost on me.
People from more than 20 nations live here and just as many languages are spoken at any one time. There are people dressed in all types of garb. There is a man with tattoos on his neck and arms. He has large hoops in his ears, a stud in his tongue and lips, and a ring through his eyebrow. He is talking to a man in new blue jeans, a long-sleeve button down shirt, and a huge cowboy belt buckle on his belt. Across the street is a woman in black slacks and a white blouse; very conservative for this place. She appears rather somber and deep in thought. Most of the people are wearing uniforms of one type or another. Nearly everyone is talking in hushed tones. Others are like the woman across the street – contemplative.
We are all here for the procession that will pay tribute to this day’s guest of honor. The street is lined shoulder-to-shoulder with those invited to this event. Every one of us took our lunch hour to see our guest of honor one more time before he or she goes home to be with family and friends. They will not pass this way again and no one wants to miss the opportunity to say goodbye and show our respect. You see, we don’t know the guest of honor, but, we do know they are important to us.
It is almost time for the arrival of our guest. Up and down the street, people stop talking and take their place along the very edge of the road. We all want to be as close as possible to the guest of honor. We want to remember this event, but out of respect for our guest of honor no one will take pictures, no one will wear sunglasses, and everyone dresses appropriately. As far as I can see, in both directions, there are people standing next to each other on both sides of our main street.
Quite some distance down the street, I can see people coming to attention as the motorcade slowly passes in front of them. We all come to attention. People in uniform render a crisp, clean salute. Others not in uniform remove their hats and place their hands over their hearts.
The armored vehicle passes in front of me. My right hand clutches my hat over my heart. I can see the flag draped coffin which contains our guest of honor: our Fallen Comrade. Oh dear God in heaven – there are two vehicles with flag draped coffins. This is unexpected and only adds to our grief. Most of us, if not all, did not expect to see two Fallen Comrades.
At the realization of the additional guest of honor, people stand a little taller, a little straighter and with a little more pride. Eyes fill with tears and thoughts of what is really important to us come to mind: family, friends, country, and our freedom.
The woman across the street is crying. The airman standing to her right and the soldier to her left are also crying. The tattooed man next to me has wet eyes. And, I admit, my eyes are also wet. How can they not be?
If our time along the street and the respect we pay to our Fallen Comrades can give comfort to the loved ones of our Fallen Comrades, then it is the least we can do for our heroes. Our heroes are fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, friends, and loved ones. We do not know their names, but we do know they are loved and will be missed by many.
I live and work at Bagram Air Field, Afghanistan. Our Fallen Comrades lost their lives in the service of their country. The Fallen Comrade ceremony is an all-too-often occurrence around here. We all gather along the main street at all hours of the day or night. It does not matter to us when the call is made: we answer the call. It is humbling sight to behold and one that I pray to God will never occur again: but, I fear it will continue.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Camp Gumby
The trip there was probably the easiest aspect of my temporary duty. Well, it wasn’t exactly flying the friendly skies to get there, but we were in one piece upon landing. The C160 is a smaller version of the C130. It is the aircraft of choice for the Germans and Italians when flying around Afghanistan. The Italian pilots must have been watching Top Gun prior to our take off. I know they all loaded up on espresso and Crodino before they even entered the cockpit.
Take-off should have given us an indication of how the rest of the flight was to unfold. We sat on the end of runway 10 (one-zero) for five minutes while revving our twin engines. You could feel the aircraft lurching forward every time the brakes slipped. (Can you smell that? Kind of like hot transmission fluid from an overworked clutch). This bird wanted to fly. As soon as the brakes were released, everyone was slammed toward the aft-end of the aircraft. Fortunately, there were pallets of parts to cushion our sudden slant to the back. The end of the runway was rapidly approaching; we used all 9000 feet of asphalt to get airborne.
I just know there were JATO (jet assist take off) bottles strapped to the frame. Well, at least by the angle of ascent, they should have been attached. Now I know what it feels like to be buckled in sideways on a vertical launch. Forty-five degrees up; hard over to starboard; rapid free fall towards mother-earth; sudden pull back on the yoke for more lift and then the steady climb to the stratosphere (with all the other low-orbit space-junk). All this before we left visual sight of the ground support personnel. This is what the Italians call evasive maneuvering on take-off. This is what I call an “E Ride” at Disney – for those of you old enough to remember those rides.
All the way to our destination we used the “Surface to Air Missile” avoidance techniques. (I didn’t know the bad guys had SAM’s). We didn’t stay at one altitude for more than 45 seconds. There did not seem to be any pattern to the climb/descent. We could climb three times in a row (about 11 miles up - I’m sure) and then fall to almost tree top level. The Vomit Comet has nothing on the Italian Air Force. And… Gary Powers could have used this type of training.
No one knew we were close to our destination until we noticed that our descent was continuous, rapid, and extreme. This is what we call a combat drop. It was almost a reverse of our take-off: 45 degrees down; hard left; hard right; wheels touch down; flaps down; props change pitch; but we didn’t slow down too much. We were on a barely improved road with gravel overlay. The back ramp started to drop before we even stopped.
Once we did stop, three Italian sharp shooters made a mad dash out the back of our sun-chariot to the nearest bunker to take up covering positions. Once in position, those of us getting off, grabbed our bag and ran like hell to the bunker. Once we were in the bunker, three others that were in the bunker made the dash to the C160. Just as soon as the last passenger was on the plane, two of the sharpshooters scrambled to the ramp and took up covering positions. Then, the last Italian sharpshooter ran towards the already moving aircraft. The ramp was lifting just as soon as the last foot hit the ramp. The engines never stopped running.
I watched the aircraft take off from the relative comfort of my new home – Camp Gumby (not its real name). It is called Gumby because you are green and rubbery after landing; courtesy of the Italian Air Force.
Little did I know that life at Gumby was going to be more “exciting” than I could have imagined.
We ate in shifts at Gumby. No one ever knows when things will become “exciting” and your meal will be interrupted. I hate cold, faux-mashed tatters with powered gravy. And the warm milk and sea biscuit can’t be beat. If you don’t eat the biscuit, you can put it in your pockets as body armor.
A typical evening goes like this – start dinner, incoming rounds (rockets or mortars), take cover, come back to eat the rest of supper, go take a shower, take cover when new rounds come in, finish shower and try to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night for trip to the porta-potty (20 yards away and not hardened – just a container), back to your hooch in the dark (gotta use that red or green light at night – no white light for the snipers to see you) – I use blue/ultra violet to see the scorpions and spiders on the ground. Wait for the next rounds to arrive and then go to breakfast.
Sometime during the day you have to do your work. Right!
One night we got hit three times and I think it pissed off the grunts in Gumby. The mortar crew asked me if I wanted to “send some downrange”? “What’s the biggest you’ve done (size of mortar)”, a grunt asked me? “80mm” I responded. “Wanna do 120’s”? “Is the Pope Catholic” I said?
Out we went to the “Pit”. It is a big hole in the ground with various mortars set up with lots of ammo stored in the back of the bunker. “What happens if we take a hit in the pit” I asked? “You’ll never know it” the grunt laughs.
Did you know that 120’s will travel 7km? And, did you know those things are heavy and loud? I didn’t have this much fun in the Seabees in the 22 years I spent in the Navy.
Once all the firing was done and we were certain that we were relatively safe, we called it a night. Off to the showers and then to bed. I had a flight to catch in the morning; right after breakfast. Don’t eat much, you might be flying with the Italians again.
On the way back to my hooch we got hit again. I was out in no-man’s-land; that spot between safe places. I was equidistant from safety. Of course, I picked the wrong way to run. I headed to the bunker when I could hear the incoming round. There were only half a dozen steps to safety, but it seemed like a mile. Time compressed and I swear that I could see every pebble on the ground that I was stepping on. I could hear every crunch under foot. I could hear the grunts yelling to take cover. I could see the lights go out in camp (the generator line was hit). I even felt my heart pounding (funny how you can remember these things later). I wasn’t going to make it to the bunker, but there was a pile of sandbags close by.
As soon as the first round hit the generator line I dove for the sandbags near the bunker. As soon as I left the ground and was airborne on my way down, there was an explosion behind me. That thrust of air and dirt drove my feet and legs over the top of my body. Some days I have trouble walking and drinking my coffee at the same time. This was definitely more difficult than walking and drinking coffee. Diving for cover was not something you can practice for. This really threw me for a loop; literally.
Again, I could see everything happening in slow motion and I knew it was going to be a bad landing. There was nothing I could do to correct my attitude, angle, direction, or velocity. But, I could put my hands out to mitigate the hurt that was about to be imposed upon my body; mostly my face and head.
I was coming down face first. I remember thinking that ‘I’m going to break my neck when I land on my face’. And, I did land on my face. But, I didn’t break my neck. I broke my nose, pinched the nerves in my neck, cracked two molars, got two black eyes, and a received a good concussion (is there such thing as a “good” concussion?). The noise in my ears was a loud ringing and it was keeping rhythm to the thump of my beating heart. The dirt, dust and sand were raining down on my head. My eyes were closed and I was doing my best to stay awake and cover my body behind the sandbags.
Fortunately, I was not seriously hurt, but was really out of sorts for the rest of the night. The 18 Delta (special forces corpsman) took good care of me and made things right. Bandages, coffee, and pain killers are a great combination after a night-out in the camp. I looked like a raccoon on happy pills.
I find irony in these events. If I had been in the Navy and this happened, I would have received at least two medals and added to my medical disability upon retirement. As it was, all I got was a little beat up and some great memories. Oh, yes… and the happy pills. Sometimes it sucks to be a civilian in a military world.
I’m back at my home base now and things are in a little better perspective about my life and my work. I still love my job and wouldn’t trade it for any quiet, comfortable desk in any city in the world.
Those people (soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines) out in the Forward Operating Base’s, Provincial Reconstruction Teams, and camps are the best America has to offer. America can sleep comfortably every night; if only they knew what I know.
Take-off should have given us an indication of how the rest of the flight was to unfold. We sat on the end of runway 10 (one-zero) for five minutes while revving our twin engines. You could feel the aircraft lurching forward every time the brakes slipped. (Can you smell that? Kind of like hot transmission fluid from an overworked clutch). This bird wanted to fly. As soon as the brakes were released, everyone was slammed toward the aft-end of the aircraft. Fortunately, there were pallets of parts to cushion our sudden slant to the back. The end of the runway was rapidly approaching; we used all 9000 feet of asphalt to get airborne.
I just know there were JATO (jet assist take off) bottles strapped to the frame. Well, at least by the angle of ascent, they should have been attached. Now I know what it feels like to be buckled in sideways on a vertical launch. Forty-five degrees up; hard over to starboard; rapid free fall towards mother-earth; sudden pull back on the yoke for more lift and then the steady climb to the stratosphere (with all the other low-orbit space-junk). All this before we left visual sight of the ground support personnel. This is what the Italians call evasive maneuvering on take-off. This is what I call an “E Ride” at Disney – for those of you old enough to remember those rides.
All the way to our destination we used the “Surface to Air Missile” avoidance techniques. (I didn’t know the bad guys had SAM’s). We didn’t stay at one altitude for more than 45 seconds. There did not seem to be any pattern to the climb/descent. We could climb three times in a row (about 11 miles up - I’m sure) and then fall to almost tree top level. The Vomit Comet has nothing on the Italian Air Force. And… Gary Powers could have used this type of training.
No one knew we were close to our destination until we noticed that our descent was continuous, rapid, and extreme. This is what we call a combat drop. It was almost a reverse of our take-off: 45 degrees down; hard left; hard right; wheels touch down; flaps down; props change pitch; but we didn’t slow down too much. We were on a barely improved road with gravel overlay. The back ramp started to drop before we even stopped.
Once we did stop, three Italian sharp shooters made a mad dash out the back of our sun-chariot to the nearest bunker to take up covering positions. Once in position, those of us getting off, grabbed our bag and ran like hell to the bunker. Once we were in the bunker, three others that were in the bunker made the dash to the C160. Just as soon as the last passenger was on the plane, two of the sharpshooters scrambled to the ramp and took up covering positions. Then, the last Italian sharpshooter ran towards the already moving aircraft. The ramp was lifting just as soon as the last foot hit the ramp. The engines never stopped running.
I watched the aircraft take off from the relative comfort of my new home – Camp Gumby (not its real name). It is called Gumby because you are green and rubbery after landing; courtesy of the Italian Air Force.
Little did I know that life at Gumby was going to be more “exciting” than I could have imagined.
We ate in shifts at Gumby. No one ever knows when things will become “exciting” and your meal will be interrupted. I hate cold, faux-mashed tatters with powered gravy. And the warm milk and sea biscuit can’t be beat. If you don’t eat the biscuit, you can put it in your pockets as body armor.
A typical evening goes like this – start dinner, incoming rounds (rockets or mortars), take cover, come back to eat the rest of supper, go take a shower, take cover when new rounds come in, finish shower and try to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night for trip to the porta-potty (20 yards away and not hardened – just a container), back to your hooch in the dark (gotta use that red or green light at night – no white light for the snipers to see you) – I use blue/ultra violet to see the scorpions and spiders on the ground. Wait for the next rounds to arrive and then go to breakfast.
Sometime during the day you have to do your work. Right!
One night we got hit three times and I think it pissed off the grunts in Gumby. The mortar crew asked me if I wanted to “send some downrange”? “What’s the biggest you’ve done (size of mortar)”, a grunt asked me? “80mm” I responded. “Wanna do 120’s”? “Is the Pope Catholic” I said?
Out we went to the “Pit”. It is a big hole in the ground with various mortars set up with lots of ammo stored in the back of the bunker. “What happens if we take a hit in the pit” I asked? “You’ll never know it” the grunt laughs.
Did you know that 120’s will travel 7km? And, did you know those things are heavy and loud? I didn’t have this much fun in the Seabees in the 22 years I spent in the Navy.
Once all the firing was done and we were certain that we were relatively safe, we called it a night. Off to the showers and then to bed. I had a flight to catch in the morning; right after breakfast. Don’t eat much, you might be flying with the Italians again.
On the way back to my hooch we got hit again. I was out in no-man’s-land; that spot between safe places. I was equidistant from safety. Of course, I picked the wrong way to run. I headed to the bunker when I could hear the incoming round. There were only half a dozen steps to safety, but it seemed like a mile. Time compressed and I swear that I could see every pebble on the ground that I was stepping on. I could hear every crunch under foot. I could hear the grunts yelling to take cover. I could see the lights go out in camp (the generator line was hit). I even felt my heart pounding (funny how you can remember these things later). I wasn’t going to make it to the bunker, but there was a pile of sandbags close by.
As soon as the first round hit the generator line I dove for the sandbags near the bunker. As soon as I left the ground and was airborne on my way down, there was an explosion behind me. That thrust of air and dirt drove my feet and legs over the top of my body. Some days I have trouble walking and drinking my coffee at the same time. This was definitely more difficult than walking and drinking coffee. Diving for cover was not something you can practice for. This really threw me for a loop; literally.
Again, I could see everything happening in slow motion and I knew it was going to be a bad landing. There was nothing I could do to correct my attitude, angle, direction, or velocity. But, I could put my hands out to mitigate the hurt that was about to be imposed upon my body; mostly my face and head.
I was coming down face first. I remember thinking that ‘I’m going to break my neck when I land on my face’. And, I did land on my face. But, I didn’t break my neck. I broke my nose, pinched the nerves in my neck, cracked two molars, got two black eyes, and a received a good concussion (is there such thing as a “good” concussion?). The noise in my ears was a loud ringing and it was keeping rhythm to the thump of my beating heart. The dirt, dust and sand were raining down on my head. My eyes were closed and I was doing my best to stay awake and cover my body behind the sandbags.
Fortunately, I was not seriously hurt, but was really out of sorts for the rest of the night. The 18 Delta (special forces corpsman) took good care of me and made things right. Bandages, coffee, and pain killers are a great combination after a night-out in the camp. I looked like a raccoon on happy pills.
I find irony in these events. If I had been in the Navy and this happened, I would have received at least two medals and added to my medical disability upon retirement. As it was, all I got was a little beat up and some great memories. Oh, yes… and the happy pills. Sometimes it sucks to be a civilian in a military world.
I’m back at my home base now and things are in a little better perspective about my life and my work. I still love my job and wouldn’t trade it for any quiet, comfortable desk in any city in the world.
Those people (soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines) out in the Forward Operating Base’s, Provincial Reconstruction Teams, and camps are the best America has to offer. America can sleep comfortably every night; if only they knew what I know.
Views from Bagram
Well.... this is a new post that will give you my views of what life is like on Bagram Air Field and other parts of Afghanistan. This is in no way an official review of what happens in Bagram, but rather a point-of-view from my perspective.
Enjoy and leave your comments. If you don't like what you read here... go elsewhere.
Larry
Enjoy and leave your comments. If you don't like what you read here... go elsewhere.
Larry
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
