If deploying had a face, it would wear an expression of sheer boredom. At first blush, deploying to Afghanistan may sound exciting, but soon reality glares and deploying is little more than standing in lines, waiting:
Waiting in a long line of trucks. A spectacle of military might, yes. But worst than an Atlanta traffic jam, measuring distance moved in feet, time passing in hours, slowly loading up all our equipment onto the train that will take it to the port.
Waiting at legal to complete a will. With it’s implications of mortality, it should be sobering. But any thoughts of death are erased by boredom. Will they please just call my name so I can finish the will I never believe I need?
Waiting in line to talk to a mental health professional. No, I don’t have thought of hurting myself or anyone else. No anger issues. No problems sleeping. No I don’t want to talk to some one further. The rapidity with which the questions are fired would probably prevent the identification of those who truly need help.
Waiting, the line stretches across the old basketball court. Sergeants buzz around the queue like anxious bees, insuring their Soldiers are completing all necessary tasks. Like cattle we are herded through, quickly stabbed in each arm. Anthrax, small pox, H1N1, typhoid. You won’t be able to raise your arms tomorrow
Friday, November 20, 2009
Super Secret, Very Important
(Note: the following scenario took place at JRTC (Joint Readiness Training Center) as part of our pre-deployment training. The "enemy" are composed US Soldiers or Afghan role players)
Three Soldiers layer on greasy face paint. Each stroke of a finger across a nose or a cheek bone is no distraction from the anxiety of tonight’s mission. These Soldiers, having proved themselves as the ground Commanders early warning system, his bionic ears, are paired with a security detail of Rangers, each man handpicked for this detail. Infiltration begins only as the world grows dark in the wake of the fleeing sun. Sweat runs in rivulets into sensitive eyes and beads off the nose. Shoulders ache under ninety pound loads and legs tire quickly. Near the village these ghost of Soldiers simply disappear. The hide site is well chosen after hours of planning.
With silence only born of hours of practice, the Soldiers unpack the contents of their loads. Wires are connected, cords strung out and antennas placed high in the branches. The waiting begins. Ibrahim Kamal will arrive at 2200 to meet with “the Brothers of Saboor” or his local Taliban commanders. Nestled low in the bushes, the Soldiers gaze at the world through the green, one-dimensional lenses of night vision devices and listen. Heads clad in noise-canceling headphones, they scan through known enemy communication frequencies. Slowly they begin to hear it, but it’s not the chatter across the airways that they expect. It’s a low groan, growing more audible, moving closer. Through the green haze they see the monster, climbing up the road. A tank, a nightmare. These men are light infantry, they have no weapons useful against a tank. They are being hunted. Like small game they mentally try to shrink their bodies, to disappear into the bushes, into the dirt, all while rocks bruise their hipbones and poison ivy spreads its lecherous oils.
Among the static they catch a voice. Quick, stop the scan. The enemy are moving into position, making security arrangements. They notify the Ranger team leader. Across the village the ground commander receives a radio call. His Soldiers have rehearsed the entire scenario, plus contingency plans, earlier in the day. From positions surrounding the village they stealth through the green world towards the safe house. Hundreds of meters away, a three man team, escorted by Rangers, quietly disconnect cables and pack antennas. Their job is done.
For meritorious service, going above and beyond their duty, these Soldiers were recognized as the Intelligence Heros of the Battlefield at JRTC. These men composed a Low Level Voice Intercept, or LLVI team, but came to be known by their Infantry company as SSVI – Super Secret, Very Important.
Three Soldiers layer on greasy face paint. Each stroke of a finger across a nose or a cheek bone is no distraction from the anxiety of tonight’s mission. These Soldiers, having proved themselves as the ground Commanders early warning system, his bionic ears, are paired with a security detail of Rangers, each man handpicked for this detail. Infiltration begins only as the world grows dark in the wake of the fleeing sun. Sweat runs in rivulets into sensitive eyes and beads off the nose. Shoulders ache under ninety pound loads and legs tire quickly. Near the village these ghost of Soldiers simply disappear. The hide site is well chosen after hours of planning.
With silence only born of hours of practice, the Soldiers unpack the contents of their loads. Wires are connected, cords strung out and antennas placed high in the branches. The waiting begins. Ibrahim Kamal will arrive at 2200 to meet with “the Brothers of Saboor” or his local Taliban commanders. Nestled low in the bushes, the Soldiers gaze at the world through the green, one-dimensional lenses of night vision devices and listen. Heads clad in noise-canceling headphones, they scan through known enemy communication frequencies. Slowly they begin to hear it, but it’s not the chatter across the airways that they expect. It’s a low groan, growing more audible, moving closer. Through the green haze they see the monster, climbing up the road. A tank, a nightmare. These men are light infantry, they have no weapons useful against a tank. They are being hunted. Like small game they mentally try to shrink their bodies, to disappear into the bushes, into the dirt, all while rocks bruise their hipbones and poison ivy spreads its lecherous oils.
Among the static they catch a voice. Quick, stop the scan. The enemy are moving into position, making security arrangements. They notify the Ranger team leader. Across the village the ground commander receives a radio call. His Soldiers have rehearsed the entire scenario, plus contingency plans, earlier in the day. From positions surrounding the village they stealth through the green world towards the safe house. Hundreds of meters away, a three man team, escorted by Rangers, quietly disconnect cables and pack antennas. Their job is done.
For meritorious service, going above and beyond their duty, these Soldiers were recognized as the Intelligence Heros of the Battlefield at JRTC. These men composed a Low Level Voice Intercept, or LLVI team, but came to be known by their Infantry company as SSVI – Super Secret, Very Important.
A JRTC Birthday
I celebrated my 24th birthday at a laundry mat in Fort Polk, Louisiana, eating lukewarm pizza with my Soldiers while doing laundry for the first time in several weeks. I was touched by the celebration of my day. My Soldiers took turns telling vignettes of their memories with me: something I’d done to impress them, a newcomers mistake that now made me blush, anticipation of events to come. As the night wore on and wet clothes were shifted to the dryer, I enjoyed sitting back and listening to my Soldiers talk. The conversation splashed and sparkled as the current took my Soldiers from childhood memories and times gone by.
*****************************************************
Anything meant to simulate crawling through caves in Afghanistan is a cause for concern. In southern, swampy Louisiana, complete with alligators and water moccasins, caves are rare, or at least, natural ones are. This is how I found myself standing with six of my Soldiers, looking suspiciously at the small metal pipe that allowed a creek to continue its flow underneath a road. Pounds of crushing earth and asphalt bearing down on the small enclosure. Our trainer led the way. My Soldiers followed, alternatively pushing and pulling their eighty pound rucksacks, as they crawled through the mud and water as it soaked into their clothes and equipment, making their task even harder, all the time keeping the weapons out of the mud that now clings to their clothes, their bodies, their gear. A dirty weapon won’t fire.
*****************************************************
Anything meant to simulate crawling through caves in Afghanistan is a cause for concern. In southern, swampy Louisiana, complete with alligators and water moccasins, caves are rare, or at least, natural ones are. This is how I found myself standing with six of my Soldiers, looking suspiciously at the small metal pipe that allowed a creek to continue its flow underneath a road. Pounds of crushing earth and asphalt bearing down on the small enclosure. Our trainer led the way. My Soldiers followed, alternatively pushing and pulling their eighty pound rucksacks, as they crawled through the mud and water as it soaked into their clothes and equipment, making their task even harder, all the time keeping the weapons out of the mud that now clings to their clothes, their bodies, their gear. A dirty weapon won’t fire.
JRTC
The conversations move like a late summer steam, not the mad rush of the spring snow run off, nor the frozen still of December but the gentle trickling of August, not place to be, just floating from rock to rock towards an unknown destiny. Such is the flow of conversations when held for their own sake. No information to put out, no argument, just talking to pass the long hours until chow, until lights out, until the end of JRTC, until home.
The water emanating from the shower was barely more than a trickle, far to little to rinse the shampoo from my hair. Though the thin walls of the shower trailer, Soldiers are screaming: “ Cover me. Go, Go, Go. One up. Two up. Three up.” Directly in front of the female showers they had created mock houses of ply wood and were now practicing clearing the rooms of enemy personnel, sliding quickly though doorways with weapons at the ready. Their strategic locational choice, close to naked women, is amusing, but not surprising.
For a week, JRTC was a whirlpool, struggling against a current of Soldiers who needed better training, Trainer/Mentors who wanted a different organizational structure, a boss who demanded the physically impossible to the downright illegal. During this time I never saw my cot by the light of day, leaving for a 0630 meeting and only returning after midnight, fighting to swim, or only keep my head afloat, above the riptide, seeking to carry me away.
The water emanating from the shower was barely more than a trickle, far to little to rinse the shampoo from my hair. Though the thin walls of the shower trailer, Soldiers are screaming: “ Cover me. Go, Go, Go. One up. Two up. Three up.” Directly in front of the female showers they had created mock houses of ply wood and were now practicing clearing the rooms of enemy personnel, sliding quickly though doorways with weapons at the ready. Their strategic locational choice, close to naked women, is amusing, but not surprising.
For a week, JRTC was a whirlpool, struggling against a current of Soldiers who needed better training, Trainer/Mentors who wanted a different organizational structure, a boss who demanded the physically impossible to the downright illegal. During this time I never saw my cot by the light of day, leaving for a 0630 meeting and only returning after midnight, fighting to swim, or only keep my head afloat, above the riptide, seeking to carry me away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)