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October 2008
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Qalat- On Sunday morning, 4 June 2006, we loaded our bags into the Humvee's in preparation for a movement to another operating base. As we sat at the gate in our order of march, a radio check was initiated by the driver of our vehicle. The radio traffic prevented him from completing the check; as he listened he heard the call for medavac. Someone had hit an IED. As the situation was assessed over the next few minutes, it was discovered that a group of Afghan National Army (ANA) soldiers in route to another operating base had run over an IED buried at the edge of the road. A brief was given to our group and we headed out. We arrived at the scene less than fourty-five minutes later. The IED had claimed one of the ANA's soldiers lives, and wounded the other four. The scene spoke for itself. While there, assistance was provided by our group to the ANA as one suspect was taken into custody. No Americans were injured. Yet even to make that proclamation puts me ill at ease. The ANA fight along side of us here, as we train and mentor them. Their loss is also ours. The man taken into custody had been questioned both by the ANA and an American Army representative through an interpreter. He was detained while a local village was searched. No other suspects were found. As the ANA vehicle arrived to transport the suspect, the man in custody was checked by a US Army Colonel. With assistance, the Colonel readjusted the restraints that had been placed on the suspects wrists, spoke with the suspect, and then placed a bottle of water to the mans lips and helped him drink. In spite of what had just happened, the man was treated with respect. The suspect was then handed over to the ANA. His fate now lies with the rules that govern this country. The story that follows was written a few days before this. I had to give it a careful review before deciding to publish it. Each encounter with war moves us to a different place; I had written this piece still from the relative safety of the walls of the larger bases. I won't be staying in those places much. The story is out here, in the lands of Afghanistan, with all of the risks and beauty that this country has to offer. The fairy tale of Camp Shelby, for me, ended yesterday.
-------------------------------------------- Entry from 29 May 2006. I sit here this morning waiting for my flight to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Tombstone. My send off last night was the film by the same name. I have only heard stories of Tombstone, yet I already feel it was well named. A place on the frontier of operations here in Afghanistan. A wild, wild west of Muslim bad lands. So I sit outside of the main terminal, known here as TLS, or, Taliban's Last Stand, on the concrete, under the canopy of the recently constructed arched breeze-way, waiting for the ground transport that will take me to the British RAF C-130 Hercules. A ruck sack, two pelican cases, one with my computer and one with my back-up equipment whose key sits on my desk back in my room. I'll have to cut the lock if I need in. My body armor stands up on its own, supported by the Kevlar plates that claim to be capable of stopping a .3006 armor piercing round; the Kevlar helmut sits on the ground at its side. There is also my first aid bag, and of course, my camera. I hate carrying large loads; I always prefer to travel light. Even this bit of baggage is too much for my likings. A short bit of travel by bus, and we arrive at the aircraft only to be told that it is "not currently operational" with the caveat that "we remain optimistic that the flight will proceed." The British are funny about war. They never seem to be at a loss for a good brawl, yet never seem to find the need to make much of anything an urgent matter. I would venture to say that "tea" is a working part of their battle rhythm. Even after nearly 2 hours in the sun, the belated offering of water seemed to be little more than an oversight, all made well and put in the past. Who should ever worry. The flight was cancelled. All for the better it seems. A new adventure is scheduled for tomorrow. The focus of Joint Task Force Phoenix V's (CJTF V) mission here is the Embedded Training Team (ETT), and most recently, the Logistic Support Team (LST). The ETT is as it sounds, offering training and mentorship to their counterparts in the Afghan National Army (ANA) so that the Army and it's leadership can become a self-sustaining fighting force. The LST is relatively new, offering pay and financial support services and mentorship, as tactical and training missions are taken over by the ISAF units. The doctrine of LST's will be written through trial and error by CJTF V and its soldiers. The mission, however, seems to be the easy part. We are all slowly settling into the rhythm of this place. Kandahar. A remote city in the south of Afghanistan ravaged by years of war, situated in a seeming wasteland. There is the random rocket attack, which quickly becomes part of the the routine; we've even stayed up waiting for a round to land, like kids looking for shooting stars. The reality of the dangers, however, are never far from our minds. A quick trip outside the boundaries of this post in the company of anyone who has been here a while, and that reality becomes ever more present, as locations are noted of past IED's and RPG attacks. The lines of friendly and hatred criss-cross with chaotic randomness and a suddenness that one is never fully prepared for. I have travelled a far share in my life. The term culture shock has never been part of my personal set of experiences. Even with all of the poverty and differences of this culture here in Afghanistan, I find a comfortable place behind the lens to view it all as just another part of the human experience. Yet for the first time I can honestly say I understand the meaning of culture shock, as I witness soldiers around me reacting to aspects of this culture that, from the framework of American daily life, is outside the limits of our cultural education. The moment of realization seems to root itself in the things that are part of the daily rhythm here. Perhaps it is the mud huts and dusty laden roads that we are around us; the distance from home and families; or, the reality that training is over and what awaits is life or death without warning. There was the experience of the hanging meat in the butcher's room at the KMTC kitchen where flies roamed freely and where the butchers slept on the same tables that were used to quarter the meat. There have been reactions to the corruption which is as much a part of this culture as are beliefs in religion; the remoteness and vast landscapes of seeming nothingness where dust and wind blows while temperatures rise to the low 100’s, and the colors are no more than shades of gray and tan; or, the practice of homosexuality between unmarried men while their religion forbids pre-marital sex. The challenge to fulfill the objectives of the mission, to assist a developing culture must first overcome the personal challenges of each of these soldiers cultural centrism. We keep saying that we will be changed when we return from all of this, but we are already changed. The moment we set down at Manus, Bagram, or arrived in Kabul. That first vehicle born IED (VBIED) that late morning while going about our affairs at Camp Phoenix, or the first rocket attack here at Kandahar. Each step we take in this country is a step farther from what we were and closer to the person that will ultimately leave here and return home. The unknowns of a future that seem so close yet beyond reach in the day to day. There is nothing easy about being here. Beliefs in country, friends, family and spirit bridge the gaps of loneliness and isolation. Bonds between soldiers grow stronger, as the surrogate family of the military becomes part of everyone's lives. That seemingly simple realization that the mission requires of every person to take risks that might result in death, or injury. It's the process of becoming a war fighter; the civilian life is now far behind. As the memories pull and the experiences here grow, the struggles with what was and what is, find a home. That place has a name: the hard place of reason.
Archived blogs: RSS feed: Click here Copyright, Scott Kesterson- 2006 4 CommentsLeave a comment |
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Scott,
I can't tell you how much I love your blog. My husband is with the 41st as a Chaplain's assistant and just having this little bit of information brings him closer to home for me.
Thank you!
Deja Cairns
Hi Scott,
John Hirte is my "little" brother, and I'm trying to keep track of things over there through your blog from my home in Helsinki, Finland. I'm not quite "enjoying" the posts, but you write very well and I will keep reading.
Best regards,
Lisa
We just adopted John Hirte as our soldier and are sending goodies over! We are blessed to have people like you serve our country! God Bless!
I love this place!