Hinterlands

Up at 0400 in Mazar E Sharif to a surprisingly quiet 200 man tent (actually, there were a few women, but they were camouflaged just as effectively as the men). I could have slept a bit more. Instead, I used the early morning to take advantage of an empty shower trailer and then went back to bed. For a brief moment, I considered wandering over to the perimeter fence to watch the sunrise, but looked at my feet and, seeing a pair of flops, decided against the hike.

After an unsatisfying breakfast, I headed to the office. At Camp Marmal (which is only slightly easier to say than Mazar E Sharif), the Sergeant Major secured for us a couple of table in a big open MWR space, only two extension cords away from a power source. We had barely started the day’s work when word came that our outgoing flight, scheduled for tomorrow, was moved up by about 26 hours, leaving us with about 90 minutes to reschedule and have a meeting, blow off two more, pack up and get to the airfield. Like someone said early in this process, “the scheme of maneuver is fluid.”

Despite the accommodations, I sort of liked Marmal. The Germans had a certain respect for a base master plan that the Americans cannot seem to fathom. Whereas as Bagram, any empty space was filled with vehicles, a maze of CONEXs, or pallets of materiel, the Germans maintained their open spaces, resulting in a less cramped feeling when moving about, more in tune with the open expanses of Afghanland right over the wire.

What the Germans have wrong, completely wrong, is food, and what we had at Marmel, while unappetizing, was haute cuisine compared to our current billet at PRT Kunduz. Breakfasts here consist of a variety of sour beverages, the worst coffee in theatre (so I drink the tea), various rye breads and hard rolls, fatty cold cuts, some processed cheeses, and cold cereal with plain yogurt. Lunch and dinner look like breakfast, except that the cold cereal will be swapped for mysterious soup, there’ll be some stewed entrée, and a couple of cold salads will appear that would elevate Orval Kent to the rank of culinary genius. They do serve a lot of fruit at every meal, but it’s a tossup as to whether it’s ripe or not.

If you can ignore the looming dread prior to every meal here, it’s actually one of the nicest places I’ve been to in country. Again, the Germans have designed the camp with plenty of space to enjoy the view of the mountains in each direction. Our billet (six of us in a ten man CHU), is comfortable enough. The bathrooms sparkle. We even have a nice conference room reserved for our use.

And there’s beer.

Unlike the Americans, the Germans aren’t saddled with General Order Number One, which bans (amongst many things), the possession and use of alcohol by US troops and in US facilities in theatre. It’s not like I’ve been Jonesin’ for booze, but it’s banned, so I want.

Every night, then, we’ll head to a local bar, each developed and run by separate units, and have a couple of German pils, lagers, or haffe weizens. Typically, these are sized somewhere between Meisters and the Corner Connection. They always have a television or three, tuned to yet another football match. Oftentimes, there’re pool or foosball tables and lots of local furniture.

The bar itself is constructed expediently which, here, means they’re some of the most temporary structures on the camp, pieced together with scraps and excess. There might be 2,000 troops here, and probably a dozen bars. Some of them are very nice, and you’ve got to wonder if there wasn’t at least a little theft or reappropriation of materials. I don’t think about it too much, as there’s still a mess of work to accomplish, and I’m more than pleased just to have the facilities available.