Road Trip

Sunday afternoon I got a call from the Signal Officer (The Captain) of a battalion to the north of us. Our fielding team had already visited him, installed his radios and trained his operators, but they experienced some setbacks and asked me to come out for a visit. This would not normally have been possible, as the Brigade Signal Officer (The Major) is very covetous of his staff, and once he gets people he only lets them out of his sight when they have been drained either of their usefulness or their blood. Had he been consulted, my ass would've been stapled to a chair and stuck behind a desk... But he's home on R&R. And when the cat's away, the mice will play.

Staff Sergeant Jacobson, anAir Force network manager who has also been snatched up and held hostage by the The Major heard I was heading out and immediately got himself added to the convoy. He has been here for 3 months and hasn't once left KAF or even loaded his weapon, which has been draped flaccid and useless around his neck since he got here. We spoke with the local battalion logistics folks and let them know that there would be two of us moving out to their headquarters in the morning if they had room for us, and we packed for the trip.

I have learned from previous experience that there are certain essential items I should take with me anywhere I go, regardless of whether I plan to stay overnight or not--plans change. But this time it was clear I would be gone at least 2 or 3 days, so I packed accordingly. I made sure I got my microfiber travel towel and my shower shoes, as those are items I tend to forget. Also my wet weather gear and my so-called snivel gear, i.e. long underwear gloves, and cold weather boots.

Jacobson and I met in the morning and awaited the convoy, which finally arrived late in the afternoon. We climbed into an armored vehicle and set out for the FOB which lies about an hour north of KAF. The sun was setting as we drove through downtown Kandahar. While I could barely see anything out of my own window, I could see out the front and the other side a little bit and the impression I got is one of abject poverty. Business takes place right in the street, markets are formed by a loose collection of stalls and carts that are set up in the morning and taken down at night.

The street was at times crowded with young kids on bicycles. The gunner in our vehicle, on the never ending quest for hearts and minds, was shouting obscenities at them, encouraging them to get the $&*! out of way as we made our way through the throngs of people and vehicles. Most folks get over to the side of the road and stay there when the Americans roll through with their gigantic guns on top of their humongous vehicles, but 12 year-old boys know that they are invincible, so they play chicken with the MRAPs and Humvees secure in the knowledge that we are unlikely to crush or explode them.

We arrived to find a FOB under heavy construction. Too late for hot chow, we got some MREs and a bowl of cereal and met with the commo folks to discuss their network and what we could do for them.

When it came time to bed down, we were led to a small building in a walled-in compound. Every room was already jam-packed with cots, so it took some moving around and assembling to get our beds set up. There were two spots big enough to fit a cot and a backpack: a room crowded with American commos and a room crowded with French Canadians, including a female, which is a novelty out here in units below brigade. I elected to take this second room, as it was the closest I've been to a woman in almost two months.

I found out on a trip to France in 1996 that two years of French at Homewood High School only ever gave me enough understanding to ask directions, but not enough to understand them. A fact which was brought forcefully home when Chris Jones and I found ourselves lost in Nice with no idea how to get back to the hotel. Eventually we found a man who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and German, but no English. While his quadrilingual abilities proved ineffective for two-way communication, he was nice enough to walk us in uncomfortable silence to the Best Western Acropol.

Being able to ask "ou est l'hotel?" was a little less than useless with my new roommates, but we stumbled along as needed for the next two days.

After our beds were (literally) made and ready to accept us, we sat down around a firepit which was located conveniently outside our front door.

Sergeant Madden came late to the Army. At 35 he's got some graying hair and has to take orders from guys who are very much his junior. He got his guitar from a trooper at another FOB who had decided to learn how to play on deployment, but quickly and (it would seem) inexorably plateaued. So Madden brought it here and kept it in the back room of the hooch. He took it out for hours each night by the fire; two and a half years of playing has not been able to instill him with any rhythm. He strums the guitar, taps his foot and sings on three different beats, and no one can ever quite get the groove down. Jacobson and I were more than happy to relieve him of his instrument from time to time and trade songs.

My repertoire has dwindled in the last few years, as my guitar has spent most of its time hiding under blankets on the couch, or leaning up against a wall, but I was still able to crank out one or two tunes. And Jacobson taught me a few more which will get some polish when I get home.

Eventually we gave Madden his guitar back and retired to our rooms to sleep late into the morning. We awoke to hot chow and hot coffee and got to work.

The actual work there was mostly more of the same but with different people around. Jacobson got to solve some routing problems and help the battalion plan for some future expansion, and I helped them push position information through the network so that leaders can see where all of their guys are on the map in something resembling real time.

The Captain and I had what amounts to an hours-long Agree Fest. It turns out we're very nearly the same person in terms of our books, movies and music.

Authors in common: Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Tom Robbins.
Music in common: Primus (as youths), The Postal Service, Joni Mitchell.
Movies in common: Wes Anderson's films (we had the same impression of Rushmore: the first time wasn't so hot, fell in love with it the next time), The Coen Brothers, Paul Thomas Anderson.

It was eerie. He would say something he liked, and I would have to say "me too!" and I just couldn't stump him on any interest. He also played trumpet in the high school band, but he went on to play it for the Army when he enlisted out of high school. He even juggles and plays Go. He suggested that we hang out more stateside, but is a little afraid to introduce me to his wife since we're so similar and he's deployed so often.

The food at the FOB was better than what we get on KAF, strangely enough. It is made by Army cooks and not by the lowest-bid contractors on the huge bases. I watched a man labor over a huge roast with a butcher knife, slicing it into hunks which they served with spicy mashed potatoes and mixed veggies. This was the best meal I'd had since coming to Afghanistan, and it was cooked by professional soldiers in a tent on a mountainside. They ration out two hot meals a day on the here, giving you MREs to supplement during lunch.

We completed our work over 3 days, squaring everyone away as best we could. We were again passing the guitar around the fire when a guy from D Company let us know we could have a ride home the following morning, Christmas Eve. We repacked our bags and turned in for the night.

I woke up this morning, rolled up my bedding and got everything packed away in my ruck sack. I carried it, along with my body armor and helmet to the tent where we were to be picked up an hour later and walked over to the mess tent to claim my hot breakfast. As I was leaving, I heard the opening strains of The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights." I suddenly experienced one of those moments of nostalgia and regret that seem to come so often in the fall and early winter.

"Everything looks perfect from far away/come down now, they'll say."

Walking back to DCO's tent with that song in my head, I took a minute to mourn everything that is no longer a part of my life; every wasted opportunity, every relationship fizzled, the memories only made sweeter by time. Maybe it's because I'm spending Christmas alone in Afghanistan, or maybe it's my thirtieth birthday which is looming so large and just a month away, but every once in a while you have to take a look at your life and ask what you're doing with it?

After a few sips of my Army coffee, I shook off that moment of self reflection, donned my body armor, and boarded the troop carrier for home.