Unspoken Abandonment (3 page)

The plane landed fine, but the landing was very unique. All of the lights were turned off on the aircraft, and even the runway was blacked out
with no lights at all
.
A sniper only needs to see the slightest movement to identify you as a target, and the only advantage we would have on a wide open airfield would be to remain under the cover of darkness. The pitch black night was somewhat comforting in that aspect.

After offloading from the plane, we each had to carry all of
our gear and equipment by hand
as we were led off in a single file line. We walked for a little more than a mile, in complete silence and darkness, until we reached Bagram’s temporary barracks. We were told to drop our gear, pick a rack, and get some sleep. The room was cold, dirty, and had a horrible stench. The “bed” was little more than a thin foam mat laid over a piece of plywood on the floor. I already wanted to go home, but I know I have a job to do first. Despite the cold, the smell
,
and the discomfort, I fell asleep faster than I ever have before.

February 23,
2003
:

We got our wakeup at approximately
five
o’clock in the morning
, local time
.
We
had
n’t hit our racks
more than four hours earlier
, so it was no
t exactly a great night’s sleep.
After we ate breakfast, we were all guided to another area of Bagram Air Base. This was my first look at Afghanistan.

It was a beautiful day, but the area was very dirty, old, and quite worn. The buildings on the base were battered and showed the signs of years of war. We were instructed to stay on the roadways because of the incredibly high number of landmines left behind by the Soviets during their withdrawal from the country. We were told the landmines were very old and deteriorated but still had the ability to kill and seriously maim. My legs have done well by me so far in life, and I intend to hang on to them just a little longer.

After breakfast, I still had no idea where I was going or what I
woul
d be doing in Afghanistan. My unit was told essentially nothing. It was broad daylight, but we were still in the dark. All of the gear we had carried off from the plane was still stored in the temporary barrack from the
previous
night. We were instructed to gather up our gear and be ready for transport trucks which were en route to get us. Once we got to the barrack, two 5-ton trucks were waiting for us. We loaded our gear into the back, and
then we
stood by waiting for our “security escort.”

I think we waited for an hour
or so
until
our escort
finally
arrived. The escort consisted of six heavily armored HUMVEE
trucks, each with either a fifty caliber machine gun or fully automatic grenade launcher i
n the turret. I knew this could no
t be a good sign.

As the HUMVEEs
stopped, the rear door of one opened up, and my old friend, Sean, came running towards me from within the truck. I knew my unit was coming to replace his, and I knew he was in country, but I never expected to run into him so soon. Sean ran to me and nearly tackled me to the ground in excitement.
He has been here for six months
and
since
my unit is his relief, he
i
s going home. I asked Sean where we were going and what it was like. Sean described a small compound in the middle of downtown Kabul. He told me it was a very small area, in the heart of the city. Sean told me, “Dude, this place is really fucked up.”

M
y squad
,
along with
one other squad
,
loaded up in the back of one of the 5-ton trucks.
The rear of the truck was covered with a canvas tarp and had no doors or window
s. If we could see out
then anyone else could see in, and we would be sitting ducks. The hour-long ride from Bagram to Kabul was long, dark, bumpy, and boring. Anxiety was starting to fade into exhaustion, and I really just wanted to sleep more than anything else.

We arrived to a military compound in the heart
of Kabul. The compound, called Camp Eagle
, was very small at only about the size of a city block. The walls of the compound are right next to the city’s streets, and there are people everywhere outside of the walls. We were told our primary duties will be to accomplish tasked missions and provide safety and security for the compound’s operations against any and all threats. Recent threats to
Camp Eagle
include rocket attacks
and a
suicide bomber who used a pair of hand grenades to kill one Afghan local and two American Special Forces soldiers. One of
the guys
welcoming
us
said
, “Have fun guys. Protecting this place is like trying to protect a virgin on prom night.
Eventually someone is going to get through.
”

The housing in
Camp Eagle
is actually relatively nice, and I use “relatively” very strongly. The building in which we will be living was once the Japanese embassy. We have running water, showers, and indoor plumbing. There is no heat and although it may be cold for now, winter will be over soon. The entire squad is assigned to one room
in the basement
. W
hile
n
ine guys in one small room may seem bad, it is a lot better than living in a tent back at Bagram.

There are a lot of Afghan civilians working inside of
Camp Eagle
. It is kind of unsettling to see so many
civilian locals
inside the walls of the compound, and it is
very
apparent most of them do
n
o
t seem to like us. There are Afghan groundskeepers, translators, construction workers, and laborers. They are everywhere.

The day was filled with getting our gear sorted and getting ourselves settled in. Bed time came quickly, and by the time it had I was completely drained. It is bitter cold in here, but I am so tired I think I’ll barely notice as I fall asleep. Today was a very long day.

February 24,
2003
:

We woke up
to another early start
today.
I went upstairs to the kitchen area and I was shocked to see Afghans making our food. I was told every Afghan civilian on the compound has had a background clearance done, but I
a
m still a little uneasy with eating food made by them. Everyone who has been in the compound for a while tells me they have more than earned our trust, but I really have no choice but to eat it. As much as I hate to admit this, it was actually pretty good.

Right after breakfast, the squad was told to be ready in fifteen minutes for our first tour of downtown Kabul. We left
Camp Eagle
in a line of HUMVEEs and I was the machine gunner in the second vehicle. The vehicle has a large circular hole in the roof, called a turret, with a machine gun mount. As we
rolled beyond the safety of the gates and into the city, I sat perched out of the turret with my M249 machinegun locked and loaded. I had sat in that same position countless times in training, but never in a hostile environment. I
have
never felt
as
vulnerable in my entire life
as I did being so exposed in that
turret
.

Leaving
Camp Eagle
and riding into Kabul was an instant culture shock. The Taliban may no longer control Kabul, but it is absolutely still a war zone. Every other building is either riddled with bullet holes or gaping holes from various explosions. People are armed everywhere. Civilians are just walking down the street with AK47s and SKS rifles. I saw one child, no older than thirteen or fourteen carrying an assault rifle.

The streets are also disgustingly filthy. We passed down one narrow roadway where I saw a man in his thirties or forties taking a shit on the side of the road. One of the experienced troops that we
a
re replacing was riding in the vehicle with us. Over the loud interior noise of the HUMVEE he explains that standa
rds are very different in Kabul
and
,
although not encou
raged, this kind of behavior is no
t uncommon.

The tour continued
on for approximately an hour
with nothing eventful being seen except
the magnitude of
extreme poverty.
That is when we stumbled upon a woman being beaten by two men. The woman, wearing a dark blue Burqa, was on her knees
and
struggling to stand, as one man beat her with a belt and the other pushed her back to the ground. As we drove by t
his scene, our “guide” told us
this was very common in Kabul
,
and he said, “Try not to
let it bother you.” He told us
we were going to see a lot of things that would bother
us here,
but we cannot
get involved in this kind of
mess
. You just have to look the other way.

The women here all wear a blue Burqa. The Burqa is a long robe, which covers the woman from head to ankle. Over the face is a layer of mesh cloth that
enables
the woman to see out but
allows
no one to see her. It is a very strange feeling seei
ng a person
wear
ing
this type of thing. Every woman here is wearing one,
and
there are no exceptions.

The squad returned to
Camp Eagle
and had a lot of briefings. I found out my squad would be assigned to the midnight to eight o’clock in the morning shift for perimeter security. During the day we will be assigned to various missions outside of the compound as they are assigned. We were told we will be working seven days a week with no days off, but I guess you really do
n
o
t need a day off here; it
’
s not like there is anything fun to do. I went to bed after dinner for a quick nap before starting my first midnight shift.

February 25,
2003
:

I showed up at the front gate of the compound just a few minutes before midnight.
I was greeted by the guy I was relieving with a sarcastic “Have fun.”

A non-English speaking Afghan guard walked up to me and placed his fisted hand over hi
s heart while he said, “Salom.”

I extended my right hand, and he shook it eagerly with a large smile on his face. I could
n
o
t understand a word he was saying, but it was obvious he was happy to meet me.

There are several Afghan guards which patrol the outer layers of the compound. These guards are not very professional looking at all. This man was wearing very old clothing, layered to keep him warm, and a pair of old worn out sneakers. The only thing that made him a soldier in any way was the AK47 he gripped with his left hand. Another guard quickly came over and surprisingly introduced himself to me as Massoud. Massoud actually spoke English quite well.
He later told me his father was a doctor before all of the wars broke out, and he learned to speak English
at
a very young age.

Since it was after midnight, it was very quiet on the street
s beyond the compound.
This
g
ave
Massoud and
I a chance to talk, and
w
e got to kno
w each other for a few minutes.
Massoud then began to explain the dangers of the area. Massoud stressed to me to
always be ready
no matter how quiet things may seem.

Massoud said, “
Any one of these cars, at any moment, can stop right in front of us and explode. If you’re paying attention and know what to look for, you will live. If you are not ready, you will die.”

Massoud continued to talk to me about ways to identify possible car bombs and pedestrian suicide bombers. He also told me about other threats I would certainly be confronted with in Afghanistan.

Later in the night, Massoud told me more about himself. He said he was 27, which came as a surprise since he looked like he was at least forty-five. Massoud said life had been very hard for him and he has been at war since he was a very young boy. As a child he was a Mujahedeen fighter against the Soviets. After the Soviets pulled out of Afghanistan, Massoud’s home area became entangled in civil fighting by rival groups
,
and he was fighting again. Massoud enjoyed a very short period of peace in his life, until the Taliban began a rise to power in Afghanistan.

Massoud became involved in the fight against the Taliban and was imprisoned
and tortured by them for three years
. Massoud told stories of his life to pass the night, and many of them were truly heart breaking. I have never felt as sorry for anyone as I felt for Massoud.
In America we think of our war veterans as being tough, but this guy is
n
ot a war veteran;
h
is entire
life is
war.