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I wish I could complain about the massive amounts of work I needed to get accomplished this week. I wish I could complain about the hum drum, day to day monotony of performing too similar tasks for days on end. I wish I could complain about an overly needy client confronting us hourly with nonsensical fire drills.
I got none of that. Wishes and fishes, you know. Strange that I’d waste mine on complaining.
In another light, I’d wish there was no official United State military presence in Afghanland (call it “Afghan-bland” in this, the Week of the Bored. More refined, I’d wish that all of our troops and equipment were returned to native (and territorial) soils. Perhaps we could return once we’ve figured out how to resolve our global foreign policy fuck-ups without mighty displays of brute force. Fat chance.
The unintended consequences of bringing all of our troops home would be interesting, no doubt. Imagine if you will, a sudden influx of half a million very well trained fighting men and women, each oathsworn to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Perhaps the resistance would get organized.
On the other hand, they could be a half million inappropriately trained fighting men and women suddenly dumped into the surging unemployment rolls of the double dip. And it’s not just the soldiers, sailors, and Marines, but the hundreds of thousands of contractors who will be stateside again without the benefit of a cush job that pays triple wages. Beyond that are the hundreds of communities that manufacture the weapons of war, and the thousands of communities that provide support for the hundreds of communities that manufacture the weapons of war. And don’t forget the tens of thousands of bureaucrats that “manage” the whole mess or the small town international engineering firms that provide planning and design services in support of the effort. We’d all be neck deep in shit.
True fact - the Military-Industrial-Congressional complex squanders over eighteen gazillion dollars annually on themselves and their egos with the only real benefit of having more of the People on the dole.
So there’s my first complaint/wish – regardless of the consequences, everybody comes home. From Afghanistan and Iraq, from the Middle East and other Asian regions, and from Europe, Africa, and the Americas. We defund it all. The eighteen gazillion dollars in annual savings would go a long way to closing the federal deficit. Then, when Germany, Japan, Korea, Saudi Arabia and Israel have to start paying to defend themselves, the balances of trade might shift a bit in our favor, giving the half million highly trainable fighting men and women some of those sweet manufacturing jobs that everyone keep raving about.
Like I said before, fat chance, but this is a wish, remember?
Perhaps we could take everyone who’s already on the dole in America and send them here to do the tens of thousands of jobs that are currently being performed by local labor or by the Eastern European labor imported by Fluor as a part of their multi-Billion dollar support contract? Sure beats them sitting on their asses, watching Peoples Court and pretending to look for a non-existent job.
For the most part, I’ll be happy just getting on the plane tomorrow. This week has been dismal, but only because we’re so good. You see, this mission to Bagram involved a small team and a 75% plan set, which we would review with the client, then take CONUS to tweak for the final submittal. As it turned out, there were close to zero comments. As such, the meetings were brief. So brief that the pre- and post-meeting pleasantries took more time than the unpleasantries of project discussion.
Anyway, that was ancient history, days ago. In the mean time, we’ve visited a dozen and a half small project sites, mostly for something to do, as there’s little more information that we can glean in the field than what we had when we dropped out of the sky on Sunday. And drop out of the sky we did, which is a phrase that in this case means, “Who the hell are you and where do you expect to sleep?” Relax, already, Miss Should Have Been Trained For This. We’ll take our normal suite.
We’ll take the vehicle you offer, as well, even though we haven’t passed a base driving test (recently) and have no real destination. Ah, but it’s something to use to have something to do, and sure beats walking around the 10 mile perimeter on our sightseeing excursions.
This was my third trip to and through Bagram, so there aren’t too many holes I haven’t stuck my nose into. One of our crew, though, was on his first visit here, so we made sure to take him to the Haji Mart and the PX, and to the Green Bean for froo froo coffee beverages, and ultimately to all six DFAC’s, where the food doesn’t change too much, but the scenery and people are slightly varied. One thing I won’t do again is get an omelet at the north grill line at the main DFAC, as the cook appears to have just stepped from the pages of Stereotypic Lunch Lady Quarterly and frankly, I’m a little frightened. I fully expected ashes from her cigar to spice my breakfast.
Tonight we’re going to check out one of the local bands (our local project manager is their mouth harpist), then take another long stroll down Disney Road back to the hooch, where I’ll watch the clock and wish for more thrills and adventure the next time around.
And there’s sure to be a next time, as peace has yet to be declared, and I’m still a few years from retirement.
Lastly, happy anniversary, Sweetheart. I’ll be home soon.
Read More......
Showing posts with label Afghanistan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Afghanistan. Show all posts
2010-08-28
2010-07-15
Fly, boy
My current office is in an increasingly dusty/dirty construction trailer, sitting on one of many mismatched and broken chairs. The nicest looking ones seem ready to snap off at the pivot and the overall wheel radius is smaller than normal, so you take a chance in leaning back and putting your combat boots up on the desk. The second variety is too narrow except for the narrowest of asses, like taking a seat in your old elementary school. Fortunately, the arms seem to break off at will, making it a little easier to remove yourself. The third set has neither arms nor wheels, or rubber stops on the legs, so that the sound of them sliding across the tile raise such a screech that we banned them from use. Such is the nature of third world chairs, they’re pieces of crap.
Through the window is the construction of KCC Phase III, most of which is a block of grey, windowless concrete, three stories tall. Three or four hundred Turkish supervisors and Afghan workers scurry about, currently finishing up the mass concrete, assembling the pre-detonation/blast roof, and getting a start on the interior finishes. Their laydown yard is an inefficient mass of piles and stockpiles, trailers and equipment, scaffolding and assembly yards. Surprisingly, the Turks brought in a shiny new tower crane from China for the effort, which will leave country as soon as the work is complete.
In all, the contractor is using about every available open space on this end of the camp, taking care not to pile reinforcing steel on top of the mosque, inconveniently located on some prime real estate. Mosque coordination should work out for this project, but will be much more difficult when Phase IV enters the construction phase. Phase IV, my work, will double the finished floor space on this 15 acre camp, adding another 300,000 square feet.
During Phase IV, it just won’t be this end of the camp that looks like a construction site, but the need for suitable laydown space will eat up every nook and Afghan cranny. In the States, a contractor could schedule deliveries for the day he needed them, but that’s a little harder when your Russian steel gets trucked in through the stans, and your specialty parts move here through the Khyber Pass. Even if they got close, perhaps to a yard down the street, materials still need to spend a day getting through camp security, as we’d hate to have an exploding load of toilets.
It’ll be a mess, (the Phase IV work, not the exploding toilets, although the exploding toilets would also be a mess, it’s not the mess that’s the subject), but when it’s all over, we will have a huge administration center in the midst of Kabul. I’m not privy to what exactly we’ll be administering here, but I’m sure it’s critical to the war and peace effort and one that is absolutely unable to get suitably perform CONUS, where we have scores of wholly unsuitable military administration facilities.
Apparently, there’re some 1,000 persons on base. Our proposed improvements will allow for a population of 2,000 persons, with a surge population of 2,500. I can only imagine what a surge of 500 administrators looks like, probably a lot of flailing manila folders and Cat 6 cables. Sounds ugly. Even uglier if we don’t get the Green Bean erected in due course, as fru fru coffees are critical to unnecessary administration.
I never see all of the thousand we’re supposed to have today, except for some mass PT event yesterday morning when about 300 filled the courtyard. Otherwise, there are claims that the DFAC is too small, yet I’ve only stood in line once. They say the shower facilities are inadequate, yet I’ve never had to wait. They say that there’s a lack of parking, yet ten spaces are used for the basketball court.
No, my biggest complaint is that, despite being in the middle of Kabul, there’s no sight of the city, it all being hidden by T-walls and twenty-five foot sniper screening. I know Afghanistan is out there somewhere, because I saw it driving in and from the top of one of the existing buildings on our first day here, but the way this camp is configured makes me think that there is nothing besides the camp and the job to improve the camp.
Perhaps the next time, I’ll get to see more of the countryside.
The LOGCAP contractor came into the tent this morning to complete hooking up the air conditioning unit that's set idle since we arrived. I guess this means it's time to leave again. Wheels up in hours.
Read More......
Through the window is the construction of KCC Phase III, most of which is a block of grey, windowless concrete, three stories tall. Three or four hundred Turkish supervisors and Afghan workers scurry about, currently finishing up the mass concrete, assembling the pre-detonation/blast roof, and getting a start on the interior finishes. Their laydown yard is an inefficient mass of piles and stockpiles, trailers and equipment, scaffolding and assembly yards. Surprisingly, the Turks brought in a shiny new tower crane from China for the effort, which will leave country as soon as the work is complete.
In all, the contractor is using about every available open space on this end of the camp, taking care not to pile reinforcing steel on top of the mosque, inconveniently located on some prime real estate. Mosque coordination should work out for this project, but will be much more difficult when Phase IV enters the construction phase. Phase IV, my work, will double the finished floor space on this 15 acre camp, adding another 300,000 square feet.
During Phase IV, it just won’t be this end of the camp that looks like a construction site, but the need for suitable laydown space will eat up every nook and Afghan cranny. In the States, a contractor could schedule deliveries for the day he needed them, but that’s a little harder when your Russian steel gets trucked in through the stans, and your specialty parts move here through the Khyber Pass. Even if they got close, perhaps to a yard down the street, materials still need to spend a day getting through camp security, as we’d hate to have an exploding load of toilets.
It’ll be a mess, (the Phase IV work, not the exploding toilets, although the exploding toilets would also be a mess, it’s not the mess that’s the subject), but when it’s all over, we will have a huge administration center in the midst of Kabul. I’m not privy to what exactly we’ll be administering here, but I’m sure it’s critical to the war and peace effort and one that is absolutely unable to get suitably perform CONUS, where we have scores of wholly unsuitable military administration facilities.
Apparently, there’re some 1,000 persons on base. Our proposed improvements will allow for a population of 2,000 persons, with a surge population of 2,500. I can only imagine what a surge of 500 administrators looks like, probably a lot of flailing manila folders and Cat 6 cables. Sounds ugly. Even uglier if we don’t get the Green Bean erected in due course, as fru fru coffees are critical to unnecessary administration.
I never see all of the thousand we’re supposed to have today, except for some mass PT event yesterday morning when about 300 filled the courtyard. Otherwise, there are claims that the DFAC is too small, yet I’ve only stood in line once. They say the shower facilities are inadequate, yet I’ve never had to wait. They say that there’s a lack of parking, yet ten spaces are used for the basketball court.
No, my biggest complaint is that, despite being in the middle of Kabul, there’s no sight of the city, it all being hidden by T-walls and twenty-five foot sniper screening. I know Afghanistan is out there somewhere, because I saw it driving in and from the top of one of the existing buildings on our first day here, but the way this camp is configured makes me think that there is nothing besides the camp and the job to improve the camp.
Perhaps the next time, I’ll get to see more of the countryside.
The LOGCAP contractor came into the tent this morning to complete hooking up the air conditioning unit that's set idle since we arrived. I guess this means it's time to leave again. Wheels up in hours.
Read More......
2010-07-12
My 200th post! Collect them all!
They sent me here with a new team this time, only two with prior Afghanland experience, but everybody’s worked in this section of the world before. I’ve got an electrical, two architects, and three civils, including myself, which strikes me as one civil too many. In the contract, I’m actually a “military planner”, but I’m pretty sure that only means “skilled kibitzer”. Mostly, they’ve got me assigned as team leader on this one, not quite as glorious as project manager, but I don’t have to deal with the Company accountants.
Our project manager, safely ensconced in the home office, needed someone to watch over the production team in country – to make sure they get in and out of theatre, find their billets, show up for work, bathe regularly, and don’t make nuisances of themselves. I don’t really have much of a technical role, which leaves me obligated with the task of cat herding.
Seriously, all of my team are experienced and skilled professionals. They know what’s expected of them and take the necessary steps to accomplish their work. They are self sufficient, but perhaps to a fault, which is where the cat herder comes in, to ensure that they don’t go so far off of the reservation that they can’t be recalled if need be.
Unlike cats, though, these guys don’t sleep for twenty three hours a day. Tim and I are up at 0400 to hit the gyms before the crowds. Jim’s up soon thereafter to get on line. The others stagger up and out by breakfast at 0600. We’re set up in our construction trailer office by 0800 and hard at it well into the evening, with four or five coordination meetings and group interviews each day, analyses and inspections, hypothetical discussions, theoretical and hard design, and just plain old bullshitting.
As more detailed information is needed and time allows, ones or twos will break out and pursue base personnel, make some measurements on site, or pester the operators of the various physical plants. Armed with a schedule of the day’s events and a detailed scope of work, they’re off and doing their independent thing. Actually, they’re a relatively good group, and they don’t need much from me. Like any good cat herder, I know that they’ll be in for supper.
Read More......
Our project manager, safely ensconced in the home office, needed someone to watch over the production team in country – to make sure they get in and out of theatre, find their billets, show up for work, bathe regularly, and don’t make nuisances of themselves. I don’t really have much of a technical role, which leaves me obligated with the task of cat herding.
Seriously, all of my team are experienced and skilled professionals. They know what’s expected of them and take the necessary steps to accomplish their work. They are self sufficient, but perhaps to a fault, which is where the cat herder comes in, to ensure that they don’t go so far off of the reservation that they can’t be recalled if need be.
Unlike cats, though, these guys don’t sleep for twenty three hours a day. Tim and I are up at 0400 to hit the gyms before the crowds. Jim’s up soon thereafter to get on line. The others stagger up and out by breakfast at 0600. We’re set up in our construction trailer office by 0800 and hard at it well into the evening, with four or five coordination meetings and group interviews each day, analyses and inspections, hypothetical discussions, theoretical and hard design, and just plain old bullshitting.
As more detailed information is needed and time allows, ones or twos will break out and pursue base personnel, make some measurements on site, or pester the operators of the various physical plants. Armed with a schedule of the day’s events and a detailed scope of work, they’re off and doing their independent thing. Actually, they’re a relatively good group, and they don’t need much from me. Like any good cat herder, I know that they’ll be in for supper.
Read More......
2010-07-10
C'mon, people now,...
I hang a map of Afghanistan in my office at home, decorated with small yellow flags indicating the varying locations where I’ve got my boots dusty. In the past fifteen months, I’ve collected close to a score of little yellow flags, this past week adding one more at Kabul. Despite seeing large portions of the eastern side of this country, my tours have been largely by air, and our ride in from the airport was one of very few times that I’ve been over the wire on the ground.
At Sharana, we took an exciting MRAP ride through an adjacent scrub goat pasture to site an airstrip. At Mazar E Sharif, our private security force took us halfway around the perimeter into the proposed base expansion area. At Kunduz, we trekked a few miles through secure grounds to visit a local ANA compound. During that solo week at Kandahar, my twice daily commute was from the ANA Special Forces base into the airfield.
At Kabul, though, we deplaned at the Kabul International Airport, or KIA (irony or sick joke – I can’t be sure), with half a plane load of citizens and other contractors. We used the “new” terminal which looked old, despite having been built since the invasion, and cruised through immigration and customs, before finding some seats on the arrival hall, where we waited for our PSDs to give us a lift to the FOB. It’s not really a FOB. Certainly more FOB than COB, but the Kabul Consolidated Compound (KCC, or sometimes the New Kabul Compound (NKC)) is what we call “enduring” meaning, it’s going to be here for a long, long time.
I won’t. By the time we hit the ground, we were already into single digits before we split. This is a rapid fire, preliminary design effort. Simply drop out of the sky, scoop up as much data as possible, interview anyone who gets in the way, and find the next Kam Air flight out of Dodge. Piece of cake. It’s only Afghanistan, and this is my fifth trip here, so I think I’m getting good at this.
Still, though, bags can get lost. Tim lost his flying in. Rather a PITA, considering he had some tools and measuring devices packed away that were a requirement for the successful completion of his various tasks. Ultimately, he found his black Samsonite rollaway sitting next to the belt, along with all of the other black Samsonite rollaways. Let that be a lesson – or not. If you still have a black Samsonite rollaway, there’s no hope for you and your bag should get lost.
The loss of tools would have been a shame, though, as it would have made the job much more difficult. Despite their utility, these were on the heavy side, and we fully expected to be paying a few hundred dollars to the excess baggage fee fairies. On a lark, I thought I’d ask for “consideration”, literally, and surprisingly received it. I didn’t see a tip jar or anything, just left the agent with my thanks.
To my chagrin, the KAM Air flight from Dubai to Kabul departs at 0240, when the airport, much to my further vexation, was packed to the gills. The flight, though, was at about 60%, leading me to believe that not everyone wants to fly into Kabul, and for good reason, one of which is that the mens’ room floor is surfaced with some open cell, porous material, like a sheet of spun geotextile, instead of the more usual (and infinitely more sanitary) terrazzo. Icky bubba.
Anyway,… the ride to the camp was short and uneventful, despite our route on public roads though not quite teeming hoards of Afghanis. They were busy, of course, with their own lives, uninterested in the ramblings of some gringo engineer.
Read More......
At Sharana, we took an exciting MRAP ride through an adjacent scrub goat pasture to site an airstrip. At Mazar E Sharif, our private security force took us halfway around the perimeter into the proposed base expansion area. At Kunduz, we trekked a few miles through secure grounds to visit a local ANA compound. During that solo week at Kandahar, my twice daily commute was from the ANA Special Forces base into the airfield.
At Kabul, though, we deplaned at the Kabul International Airport, or KIA (irony or sick joke – I can’t be sure), with half a plane load of citizens and other contractors. We used the “new” terminal which looked old, despite having been built since the invasion, and cruised through immigration and customs, before finding some seats on the arrival hall, where we waited for our PSDs to give us a lift to the FOB. It’s not really a FOB. Certainly more FOB than COB, but the Kabul Consolidated Compound (KCC, or sometimes the New Kabul Compound (NKC)) is what we call “enduring” meaning, it’s going to be here for a long, long time.
I won’t. By the time we hit the ground, we were already into single digits before we split. This is a rapid fire, preliminary design effort. Simply drop out of the sky, scoop up as much data as possible, interview anyone who gets in the way, and find the next Kam Air flight out of Dodge. Piece of cake. It’s only Afghanistan, and this is my fifth trip here, so I think I’m getting good at this.
Still, though, bags can get lost. Tim lost his flying in. Rather a PITA, considering he had some tools and measuring devices packed away that were a requirement for the successful completion of his various tasks. Ultimately, he found his black Samsonite rollaway sitting next to the belt, along with all of the other black Samsonite rollaways. Let that be a lesson – or not. If you still have a black Samsonite rollaway, there’s no hope for you and your bag should get lost.
The loss of tools would have been a shame, though, as it would have made the job much more difficult. Despite their utility, these were on the heavy side, and we fully expected to be paying a few hundred dollars to the excess baggage fee fairies. On a lark, I thought I’d ask for “consideration”, literally, and surprisingly received it. I didn’t see a tip jar or anything, just left the agent with my thanks.
To my chagrin, the KAM Air flight from Dubai to Kabul departs at 0240, when the airport, much to my further vexation, was packed to the gills. The flight, though, was at about 60%, leading me to believe that not everyone wants to fly into Kabul, and for good reason, one of which is that the mens’ room floor is surfaced with some open cell, porous material, like a sheet of spun geotextile, instead of the more usual (and infinitely more sanitary) terrazzo. Icky bubba.
Anyway,… the ride to the camp was short and uneventful, despite our route on public roads though not quite teeming hoards of Afghanis. They were busy, of course, with their own lives, uninterested in the ramblings of some gringo engineer.
Read More......
2010-05-08
Bits and Chunks
War zone hazards can pop out of nowhere and strike when you least expect it most, catching you off guard and on your heels, three sheets to the wind and at a loss for appropriate adages. Dan and I were completely unprepared then, simply having lunch, when the chaplain major joined us for some drive-by morale-ing. He sat. He ate. He chatted. He subtly queried as to our emotional and spiritual needs. Discovering none, he chowed down and departed. It was all over before we knew what was happening. I felt good relating the story, so it must have worked.
A few nights later, Tim and I sat down next to a couple more Army dudes who revealed themselves as a psychologist and yet another chaplain. For the sake of argument, I introduced myself as the heathen, and Tim as the crazy person. Two on two, and I think we still had them outnumbered.
Standing on the catwalk of a perimeter guard tower, overlooking dense green croplands and a dusty brown adjacent village, I noticed close to a score of Afghan men working slowly and purposefully through the fields. Some of them armed with rifles, but most with crude slingshots. I'm pretty sure the Coalition would win this skirmish, if it had been directed at us. Instead of the human invaders, though, their quarry was more avian, trying to kill the birds, secondarily for food, but primarily for simple pest control.
Slightly drunk with just a hint of a stagger and strolling in the bright starlight through a German military encampment surrounded by mountains on a quiet northern Afghanistan plateau. Priceless.
Once back at Bagram, we were glad to be rid of the German fare. Granted, the DFAC here isn't great, but they will make you an omelet for breakfast, and almost always serve lettuce. On Wednesday and Sunday lunch, though, we head to the tent DFAC near the Corps office for ribs. Tasty, smoky, bar-be-qued ribs, courtesy of a select group of LOGCAP food service employees from South Carolina. Their brisket sucks, by the way (duh, they're from South Carolina) so my recommendation is to stick with the ribs. Or the chicken on days not Wednesday or Sunday. The line will be long, and the wait may be a half hour or more in the sun, rain, and weather, but those ribs, mmmm, might be the best thing about this place. However, the pleasure is fleeting, and ultimately pales in contrast to the massive waste of war. To quote Dan Savage, it's just sprinkles on a crap sundae.
We've had rain here for close to two weeks out of the three. Mostly cool showers, but at any time of day or night. Mud prevails at Bagram.
Somewhat surprisingly, there have been no mortar or rocket attacks on the FOBs, COBs and bases I've been on during this excursion. It's about time. Not, "it's about time we had an attack", but "it's about time I went over here and didn't get shelled."
All told, the pace was the defining element of this assignment. It was brutal. However, we all seemed to have survived the experience, some the worse for wear. Next stop, .... Kyrgyzstan.
Maybe. Maybe not.
Wheels up in six hours. Read More......
A few nights later, Tim and I sat down next to a couple more Army dudes who revealed themselves as a psychologist and yet another chaplain. For the sake of argument, I introduced myself as the heathen, and Tim as the crazy person. Two on two, and I think we still had them outnumbered.
Standing on the catwalk of a perimeter guard tower, overlooking dense green croplands and a dusty brown adjacent village, I noticed close to a score of Afghan men working slowly and purposefully through the fields. Some of them armed with rifles, but most with crude slingshots. I'm pretty sure the Coalition would win this skirmish, if it had been directed at us. Instead of the human invaders, though, their quarry was more avian, trying to kill the birds, secondarily for food, but primarily for simple pest control.
Slightly drunk with just a hint of a stagger and strolling in the bright starlight through a German military encampment surrounded by mountains on a quiet northern Afghanistan plateau. Priceless.
Once back at Bagram, we were glad to be rid of the German fare. Granted, the DFAC here isn't great, but they will make you an omelet for breakfast, and almost always serve lettuce. On Wednesday and Sunday lunch, though, we head to the tent DFAC near the Corps office for ribs. Tasty, smoky, bar-be-qued ribs, courtesy of a select group of LOGCAP food service employees from South Carolina. Their brisket sucks, by the way (duh, they're from South Carolina) so my recommendation is to stick with the ribs. Or the chicken on days not Wednesday or Sunday. The line will be long, and the wait may be a half hour or more in the sun, rain, and weather, but those ribs, mmmm, might be the best thing about this place. However, the pleasure is fleeting, and ultimately pales in contrast to the massive waste of war. To quote Dan Savage, it's just sprinkles on a crap sundae.
We've had rain here for close to two weeks out of the three. Mostly cool showers, but at any time of day or night. Mud prevails at Bagram.
Somewhat surprisingly, there have been no mortar or rocket attacks on the FOBs, COBs and bases I've been on during this excursion. It's about time. Not, "it's about time we had an attack", but "it's about time I went over here and didn't get shelled."
All told, the pace was the defining element of this assignment. It was brutal. However, we all seemed to have survived the experience, some the worse for wear. Next stop, .... Kyrgyzstan.
Maybe. Maybe not.
Wheels up in six hours. Read More......
2010-05-02
Movement
You’d think that, since we’re living feet from an airfield overfull of military assets, and being employed by the Department of Defense, that we’d be able to catch a flight from one base to another. Not so, but that won’t keep us from trying.
It took us three attempts to get from here to Camp Marmal. The first time, we sat in a couple of pickups adjacent to the rotary apron in the rain for two hours before we were informed that the helicopter we were scheduled to ride had never left Kabul. Nor would it leave that day. Our second attempt was a little more successful, in that we actually got on the bird and were in the air for nearly an hour before our pilots found the passes socked in and turned us around. The third attempt was on a much clearer day, and we finally got delivered.
Camp Marmal to PRT Kunduz was a German Air Force flight. It left on time, and delivered us on time.
Our first try from Kunduz to Bagram would have taken us through Kabul. We were strongly hoping it would be “through”, and not “to”, as we had our fears that we might get dumped in the capital and have to wait days for our second leg. Fortunately, this flight was cancelled, and our flight the next day was a fixed wing, just for us, and non-stop. I had my doubts about the stopping when we were waved off on final approach, but one more cruise around the airfield had us safety on the ground.
Yesterday, we made our second attempt to get to FOB Shank, the first try being met with a full manifest. Since we had to be at the rotary terminal at 0400, the alarm was set to 0300, so I could download a couple of emails. We made it awake and to the terminal on time, then waited 45 minutes to reach the counter, where we were informed that our “itinerary was not supported”, which I’m pretty sure meant that we were not going to get out. By this morning, we had completely given up on another side trip during this tour, and have resigned ourselves to, now, twenty more awful meals.
Read More......
It took us three attempts to get from here to Camp Marmal. The first time, we sat in a couple of pickups adjacent to the rotary apron in the rain for two hours before we were informed that the helicopter we were scheduled to ride had never left Kabul. Nor would it leave that day. Our second attempt was a little more successful, in that we actually got on the bird and were in the air for nearly an hour before our pilots found the passes socked in and turned us around. The third attempt was on a much clearer day, and we finally got delivered.
Camp Marmal to PRT Kunduz was a German Air Force flight. It left on time, and delivered us on time.
Our first try from Kunduz to Bagram would have taken us through Kabul. We were strongly hoping it would be “through”, and not “to”, as we had our fears that we might get dumped in the capital and have to wait days for our second leg. Fortunately, this flight was cancelled, and our flight the next day was a fixed wing, just for us, and non-stop. I had my doubts about the stopping when we were waved off on final approach, but one more cruise around the airfield had us safety on the ground.
Yesterday, we made our second attempt to get to FOB Shank, the first try being met with a full manifest. Since we had to be at the rotary terminal at 0400, the alarm was set to 0300, so I could download a couple of emails. We made it awake and to the terminal on time, then waited 45 minutes to reach the counter, where we were informed that our “itinerary was not supported”, which I’m pretty sure meant that we were not going to get out. By this morning, we had completely given up on another side trip during this tour, and have resigned ourselves to, now, twenty more awful meals.
Read More......
2010-05-01
Tweet
If I can’t sleep (which is usually the case), and I have a little spare time (which is rarely the case), I’ll don a pair of sneakers, grab my laptop, and head east first thing in the morning. First stop is the PX/AAFES “mall”, where the ineffective WiFi can be accessed at slightly better speeds than at the end of the day.
After an hour or so of web based frustration, I’ll trek further east to the Dragon Gym – the same name as the gym I would use on Jamaica – and sit on a stationary bike for most of an hour, sort of watching whatever AFN is showing on the big screen, but mostly trying to achieve thought without thought for a time, a Zen like state of vibrating earbuds and frantic pedaling, counting the breaths.
Stolen gym towel in hand, it’s west to the DFAC where, despite our thrill at having meat again after our German experience, Bagram food has lost most of its luster, except for that sheen on the roast beef. Even lowered expectations are no help, and the dread looms larger with each hunger pang. Still, it’s food, and they’ve got iced tea. Really just tepid to cool tea, as there’s no ice. Regardless, it’s better than the coffee, and has the blessed caffeine.
About 17 minutes later, I’ll start the mile trek back to the hooch, passing one of my favorite spots at Bagram. Most of the time, it’s just a small grove of trees. I don’t know the variety. It’s certainly not something that grows in the Midwest. Midsized, small leafed, scraggly-assed. It was blooming when we got here, but that’s mostly finished now. What remains is an immense colony of sparrow sized birds, who appear insanely happy to wake up as a flock and to get together again at the end of the day. There are easily thousands of the small creatures, but they are camouflaged so well in the foliage it sounds like the trees are communicating. If I return from breakfast too late, the birds have already gone to work, and I miss out on the spectacle. It’s too easy to miss in the evening as well, where they reconvene for just a half hour or so towards dusk before they’re settled down for the night.
Seriously, I’m lucky to have noticed anything over the past week, where our increased workload and compressed schedule translated into sub 100 hour week. I expect the same this week, then we fly. I’ll chirp loudly then.
Read More......
After an hour or so of web based frustration, I’ll trek further east to the Dragon Gym – the same name as the gym I would use on Jamaica – and sit on a stationary bike for most of an hour, sort of watching whatever AFN is showing on the big screen, but mostly trying to achieve thought without thought for a time, a Zen like state of vibrating earbuds and frantic pedaling, counting the breaths.
Stolen gym towel in hand, it’s west to the DFAC where, despite our thrill at having meat again after our German experience, Bagram food has lost most of its luster, except for that sheen on the roast beef. Even lowered expectations are no help, and the dread looms larger with each hunger pang. Still, it’s food, and they’ve got iced tea. Really just tepid to cool tea, as there’s no ice. Regardless, it’s better than the coffee, and has the blessed caffeine.
About 17 minutes later, I’ll start the mile trek back to the hooch, passing one of my favorite spots at Bagram. Most of the time, it’s just a small grove of trees. I don’t know the variety. It’s certainly not something that grows in the Midwest. Midsized, small leafed, scraggly-assed. It was blooming when we got here, but that’s mostly finished now. What remains is an immense colony of sparrow sized birds, who appear insanely happy to wake up as a flock and to get together again at the end of the day. There are easily thousands of the small creatures, but they are camouflaged so well in the foliage it sounds like the trees are communicating. If I return from breakfast too late, the birds have already gone to work, and I miss out on the spectacle. It’s too easy to miss in the evening as well, where they reconvene for just a half hour or so towards dusk before they’re settled down for the night.
Seriously, I’m lucky to have noticed anything over the past week, where our increased workload and compressed schedule translated into sub 100 hour week. I expect the same this week, then we fly. I’ll chirp loudly then.
Read More......
2010-04-29
Sense
Back in Bagram and well on our way to wasting the $400 Million they gave us to blow. Sorry, taxpayers, but we can’t all be Contractors. However, I can, so there’s the benefit (follow the money), and there’s the rub. Does the world really need another strategic airlift apron?
Of course, and a few more helicopter and mixed use aprons, and more dining facilities and headquarters, and hospitals for both humes and canines. And guard towers. Lots and lots of guard towers. And another 15 miles of concertina topped security fencing with intercepting vehicle ditches. I’m just not feeling the love here. Not even in the grilled cheeses which, in Baghdad, were chock full of the stuff.
One project we’re planning that’s not too secret is a $30 Million AAFES complex, building 20,000 square feet of sales floor to replace the overcrowded 5,000 square feet they use today. The most cost effective solution would be to declare victory, drag everyone home, and have them go to WalMart. Barring that, we (“you, me, us, them”) will build a big box store in the ‘Stans, where our fighting men and women (and complaining consultants) can stock up on shoelaces, commemorative T-shirts, junk food, towels, 550 cord, cameras, and digital camouflage notebook covers. At least, that’s what I bought. They’ve got all sorts of stuff that folks need, but didn’t bring or got used up while in theatre.
Mostly, the shopping serves a social need, just through the experience of browsing through aisles and racks of commercial goods. It’s a momentary disconnect from this place, and a rare state of mind.
I often have another one when I leave our B-hut midday. There’s a brief period when I’m approaching the door from the inside of the hooch where I can’t see the other bunks and piles of luggage, gear, and other kit, when it’s cool and the lights are dim. For just an instant, it’s just me and a door and a knob. Me, door, and knob could be anyplace, anyplace large enough for a knob, a door, and me. It’s still and calm, and I hesitate reaching for the knob.
And then I’m outside, and there are streaming, steaming masses moving down the sidewalk, ten feet off of the hooch stoop. Five feet beyond that, Disney Road is full of vehicles small and large, from Gators to MRAP’s, HMMWV’s to Jingle Trucks, cargo vans to busses. The landscape is full of expeditionary buildings and CONEX boxes. What isn’t paved is rock and dirt. It’s bright, and dusty as hell, and you can’t hear a thing when the pairs of fighters run down the airstrip.
Then I remember pretty quick where I’m at.
Read More......
Of course, and a few more helicopter and mixed use aprons, and more dining facilities and headquarters, and hospitals for both humes and canines. And guard towers. Lots and lots of guard towers. And another 15 miles of concertina topped security fencing with intercepting vehicle ditches. I’m just not feeling the love here. Not even in the grilled cheeses which, in Baghdad, were chock full of the stuff.
One project we’re planning that’s not too secret is a $30 Million AAFES complex, building 20,000 square feet of sales floor to replace the overcrowded 5,000 square feet they use today. The most cost effective solution would be to declare victory, drag everyone home, and have them go to WalMart. Barring that, we (“you, me, us, them”) will build a big box store in the ‘Stans, where our fighting men and women (and complaining consultants) can stock up on shoelaces, commemorative T-shirts, junk food, towels, 550 cord, cameras, and digital camouflage notebook covers. At least, that’s what I bought. They’ve got all sorts of stuff that folks need, but didn’t bring or got used up while in theatre.
Mostly, the shopping serves a social need, just through the experience of browsing through aisles and racks of commercial goods. It’s a momentary disconnect from this place, and a rare state of mind.
I often have another one when I leave our B-hut midday. There’s a brief period when I’m approaching the door from the inside of the hooch where I can’t see the other bunks and piles of luggage, gear, and other kit, when it’s cool and the lights are dim. For just an instant, it’s just me and a door and a knob. Me, door, and knob could be anyplace, anyplace large enough for a knob, a door, and me. It’s still and calm, and I hesitate reaching for the knob.
And then I’m outside, and there are streaming, steaming masses moving down the sidewalk, ten feet off of the hooch stoop. Five feet beyond that, Disney Road is full of vehicles small and large, from Gators to MRAP’s, HMMWV’s to Jingle Trucks, cargo vans to busses. The landscape is full of expeditionary buildings and CONEX boxes. What isn’t paved is rock and dirt. It’s bright, and dusty as hell, and you can’t hear a thing when the pairs of fighters run down the airstrip.
Then I remember pretty quick where I’m at.
Read More......
2010-04-26
Flight
Ask anyone who knows me. They’ll tell you. They know me.
I hate to fly.
I know. This is sort of a pain in the ass for assignments like this, where the entire thing starts with thirty hours of air travel, and is ultimately peppered with short hops in country every couple of days. The big birds aren’t too bad, provided there’s not too much turbulence. I actually enjoy helicopter travel (for the most part), as you can usually open a window if things get too stuffy.
It’s the smaller, fixed wing aircraft that really heap on the anxiety. It’s not the size so much, or the fact that you’re crammed shoulder to shoulder and knees to knees with the rest of the cargo, or even the tactical takeoffs and landings (those are sort of a thrill). Mostly, I think, it’s the claustrophobia brought on by almost total lack of windows. This would also explain my avoidance of cube farms and interior conference rooms, but that could just be a work thing.
Regardless the cause, I would like to do without all of the small military cargo aircraft, but this plan doesn’t always shake out, so I’m now sitting in a corridor in the local Role II (plus) CSH looking for a few doses of Dramamine for the flight out of here tomorrow. The medic at the front had nothing of the sort, so he led me to a chair in the sick call line where I started as number three, but am currently number two, with Germans before and after, and with little to do but sit and wait, which is fine. It beats a seat on a C-130.
For all appearances, this is a nice hospital, and the result of some well directed German overspending. Not that I ever want to be admitted here, but Role II generally means they can perform life saving and stabilizing surgeries, and then ship most of their patients to regional Role III facilities within 24 hours for further work before the wounded get airlifted to military hospitals in Europe for treatment and recovery. It’s a first class operation, and probably much better equipped than your local county facility except for, perhaps, their pediatrics unit.
Better yet, they’ve got doses of Dimemhydrinat in the easy to use Reisetabletten formula by Ratiopharm. I’m good to go.
Read More......
I hate to fly.
I know. This is sort of a pain in the ass for assignments like this, where the entire thing starts with thirty hours of air travel, and is ultimately peppered with short hops in country every couple of days. The big birds aren’t too bad, provided there’s not too much turbulence. I actually enjoy helicopter travel (for the most part), as you can usually open a window if things get too stuffy.
It’s the smaller, fixed wing aircraft that really heap on the anxiety. It’s not the size so much, or the fact that you’re crammed shoulder to shoulder and knees to knees with the rest of the cargo, or even the tactical takeoffs and landings (those are sort of a thrill). Mostly, I think, it’s the claustrophobia brought on by almost total lack of windows. This would also explain my avoidance of cube farms and interior conference rooms, but that could just be a work thing.
Regardless the cause, I would like to do without all of the small military cargo aircraft, but this plan doesn’t always shake out, so I’m now sitting in a corridor in the local Role II (plus) CSH looking for a few doses of Dramamine for the flight out of here tomorrow. The medic at the front had nothing of the sort, so he led me to a chair in the sick call line where I started as number three, but am currently number two, with Germans before and after, and with little to do but sit and wait, which is fine. It beats a seat on a C-130.
For all appearances, this is a nice hospital, and the result of some well directed German overspending. Not that I ever want to be admitted here, but Role II generally means they can perform life saving and stabilizing surgeries, and then ship most of their patients to regional Role III facilities within 24 hours for further work before the wounded get airlifted to military hospitals in Europe for treatment and recovery. It’s a first class operation, and probably much better equipped than your local county facility except for, perhaps, their pediatrics unit.
Better yet, they’ve got doses of Dimemhydrinat in the easy to use Reisetabletten formula by Ratiopharm. I’m good to go.
Read More......
Hesco Bar. Wunderbar.
We’ve been at a lower altitude for the past few days, generally less than 450 meters, so the headaches have subsided. The food, while awful, gets better with every lowered expectation, so I’m not dreading it so much anymore. As of this morning, I’m caught up with the project effort to where I want to be.
So far, so good.
I still can’t get on the wonder web effectively, which is why these don’t appear in real time sometimes, but I’ll try a new plan this morning. My camera self destructed as well today, while I was taking an early stroll about the perimeter, peeking over the battlements on occasion to see what lays outside Coalition control. We’ve no more meetings here, and our flight south isn’t until tomorrow morning, so it’s a good day to stop and smell the roses.
And I did so right after breakfast, and may do again at lunch, as the largest rose gardens on the camp are next to the DFAC. They’re scores of plants, and beautiful, but sometimes overwhelmed by the adjacent lilacs, which you can smell many meters away. There’s also a local hardwood which flowers this time of year, and makes the shade ever more appealing.
None of this is natural, but the Germans have a vegetation and landscaping plan for this camp, and irrigate these plantings on most of the major thoroughfares. In another eight years, there may be enough established shade to almost make the summers tolerable. Of course, there’s the war and all outside, but that doesn’t particularly mean you can’t have a garden spot and a couple of beers when you get home at night.
Or does it? The Germans appear resigned to be here for the long haul. They’re spending a lot more per square foot on the buildings they construct, and seem to be prepared to make a career out of this place. The Americans are more frantic in their development, and are continuously subject to the needs of the moment. This forced expediency causes untold inefficiencies, as this year’s work may have to be relocated to accommodate next year’s crisis.
Perhaps the Germans are just more realistic about their involvement here. We aren’t leaving any time soon, that’s for sure, so you might as well be comfortable while you wait.
Read More......
So far, so good.
I still can’t get on the wonder web effectively, which is why these don’t appear in real time sometimes, but I’ll try a new plan this morning. My camera self destructed as well today, while I was taking an early stroll about the perimeter, peeking over the battlements on occasion to see what lays outside Coalition control. We’ve no more meetings here, and our flight south isn’t until tomorrow morning, so it’s a good day to stop and smell the roses.
And I did so right after breakfast, and may do again at lunch, as the largest rose gardens on the camp are next to the DFAC. They’re scores of plants, and beautiful, but sometimes overwhelmed by the adjacent lilacs, which you can smell many meters away. There’s also a local hardwood which flowers this time of year, and makes the shade ever more appealing.
None of this is natural, but the Germans have a vegetation and landscaping plan for this camp, and irrigate these plantings on most of the major thoroughfares. In another eight years, there may be enough established shade to almost make the summers tolerable. Of course, there’s the war and all outside, but that doesn’t particularly mean you can’t have a garden spot and a couple of beers when you get home at night.
Or does it? The Germans appear resigned to be here for the long haul. They’re spending a lot more per square foot on the buildings they construct, and seem to be prepared to make a career out of this place. The Americans are more frantic in their development, and are continuously subject to the needs of the moment. This forced expediency causes untold inefficiencies, as this year’s work may have to be relocated to accommodate next year’s crisis.
Perhaps the Germans are just more realistic about their involvement here. We aren’t leaving any time soon, that’s for sure, so you might as well be comfortable while you wait.
Read More......
2010-04-23
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.
Read More......
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.
Read More......
2010-04-22
Exhalation
Seven days on the ground. Still breathing heavily, but starting to catch my breath.
Some of it’s the fact that the higher altitudes here leave me somewhat breathless, both figuratively and physically. Right now, I’m at a German camp, FOB Marmal, just southeast of Mazar E Sharif, with an elevation of, who knows, much higher than the 950 feet I’m accustomed to. Add to it the helo flight over the mountains from Bagram to get here, which took us to just about the vertical limits of both machine and unpressurized flight. High altitudes give me world class headaches, and a little nausea, and some shortness of breath, which should pass about the time I head for home.
Another some of it is the view. Stunning. Simply stunning. Great rugged escarpments crashing into snow capped peaks. Barren mountain plains at odds with verdant, irrigated valleys. It’s a beautiful place and, as the saying goes, “it’s a nice place to visit.” Sadly, there’s a 3,000 person military encampment in the middle of it, and the mad collection of b-huts and hangers unnaturally contrasts with the simple tailoring of an Afghan craftsman, or the mud plastered walls of his simple house.
Last part of the some is that we’ve been running full bore since we arrived, with far less decompression time than I’d like for both myself and my team. This started even before we mobilized, as the client cut weeks off of our preparation time, squeezing more than three weeks of effort into about eight days. He also cut a week off of the back end of the schedule, further concentrating our efforts on the ground.
Right now, though, I’ve got a free hour, sitting on my crappy mattress on my borrowed rack in a 200 man RSOI tent on some little base in northern Afghanland. It’s a dark base, so outside, you can see all of the stars, and when the Tornados aren’t buzzing the airfield, you’d think you were somewhere near the end of the world.
Breathless.
Read More......
Some of it’s the fact that the higher altitudes here leave me somewhat breathless, both figuratively and physically. Right now, I’m at a German camp, FOB Marmal, just southeast of Mazar E Sharif, with an elevation of, who knows, much higher than the 950 feet I’m accustomed to. Add to it the helo flight over the mountains from Bagram to get here, which took us to just about the vertical limits of both machine and unpressurized flight. High altitudes give me world class headaches, and a little nausea, and some shortness of breath, which should pass about the time I head for home.
Another some of it is the view. Stunning. Simply stunning. Great rugged escarpments crashing into snow capped peaks. Barren mountain plains at odds with verdant, irrigated valleys. It’s a beautiful place and, as the saying goes, “it’s a nice place to visit.” Sadly, there’s a 3,000 person military encampment in the middle of it, and the mad collection of b-huts and hangers unnaturally contrasts with the simple tailoring of an Afghan craftsman, or the mud plastered walls of his simple house.
Last part of the some is that we’ve been running full bore since we arrived, with far less decompression time than I’d like for both myself and my team. This started even before we mobilized, as the client cut weeks off of our preparation time, squeezing more than three weeks of effort into about eight days. He also cut a week off of the back end of the schedule, further concentrating our efforts on the ground.
Right now, though, I’ve got a free hour, sitting on my crappy mattress on my borrowed rack in a 200 man RSOI tent on some little base in northern Afghanland. It’s a dark base, so outside, you can see all of the stars, and when the Tornados aren’t buzzing the airfield, you’d think you were somewhere near the end of the world.
Breathless.
Read More......
2010-04-16
Last Supper
It's almost habitual that we eat our last supper outside of the shit at the Irish Village in Dubai. It's surprisingly Irish for the Middle East, with pretty good mutton and some insanely dense soda bread - if you like that sort of thing. By and large, it's an opportunity for a few pints of Guinness before heading to someplace that, alcoholwise, is drier. As an added bonus, they've got a few caustic Irish lasses doing the serving, so if you get too drunk, they'll tear you to shreds.
Not so this trip. The eruption at Eyjafjallajokull forced us into a more southern crossing of the pond, entering Eurozone airspace around southern Spain, and delayed our arrival here by more than an hour. Then, when one of our equipment crates failed to find the luggage belt, I was pretty certain that alternative dinner plans were in order.
Is one missing bag out of 18 good or bad?
Let's say bad.
Worse was that it contained my Mechanical's personal protective equipment,... which he'll be needing real soon,... in freaking Afghanland. One thought was that we take the detachable ballistic codpieces off of the vests of the five sets that did arrive and fashion something Gilligan Islandesque to at least protect his, er, cod, but none of us are that good of a seamster. Besides, a good vest are only a fourth of the system. He'd also need the helmet, ceramic plates, and respirator to make up the full set. The trip's young, though. We'll figure something out.
Now, when my Mechanical (a different Mechanical) lost his bag flying in for Afghanland II, we went through the same motions that we're doing this time - report it to the authorities and follow up, follow up, follow up - but his bag never arrived. Never. As in never ever. It's probably still out at JFK, crammed behind a pile of trash in the boiler room.
My hope is that this time will be different. Besides, the lost bag is really a hard sided plastic crate crammed with seventy pounds of mission stuff. And, we didn't fly through JFK, so it's likely holding up the lunch fridge in the boiler room at Dulles.
And the lunch fridge mentioned in the last paragraph leads us back to the supper conversation. That, in the bidnezz, is called a segue, provided I stay on topic and don't drift further and further away, a likely result and effect of a nine hour lag. Anyway. Supper. Right.
Due to lack of time, we decided to eat at the restaurant at the Traders Hotel, in which we are esconsed for the night. It's a nice hotel. Quiet, clean, free q-tips. The wait staff had a little difficulty in my request for a table for nine (my crew, the client, and two more Companymen who are headed in on a different assignment tomorrow), but once they compared the number of people standing at the table to the number of chairs present at the table, they got the idea.
The menu was prix fixe, with choice of entree, sides and starches, and one of a selection of four gravies.
Four of them. Four distinct and individual gravies. Mein gott! I was stunned.
And if that wasn't enough, on the desert buffet, next to the torts and cheesecakes and cookies and those little shredded wheat, fig paste and honey things they make over here that I could eat forever, was a bowl of gummy worms.
I wonder if they'll survive the trip in my pocket?
Read More......
Not so this trip. The eruption at Eyjafjallajokull forced us into a more southern crossing of the pond, entering Eurozone airspace around southern Spain, and delayed our arrival here by more than an hour. Then, when one of our equipment crates failed to find the luggage belt, I was pretty certain that alternative dinner plans were in order.
Is one missing bag out of 18 good or bad?
Let's say bad.
Worse was that it contained my Mechanical's personal protective equipment,... which he'll be needing real soon,... in freaking Afghanland. One thought was that we take the detachable ballistic codpieces off of the vests of the five sets that did arrive and fashion something Gilligan Islandesque to at least protect his, er, cod, but none of us are that good of a seamster. Besides, a good vest are only a fourth of the system. He'd also need the helmet, ceramic plates, and respirator to make up the full set. The trip's young, though. We'll figure something out.
Now, when my Mechanical (a different Mechanical) lost his bag flying in for Afghanland II, we went through the same motions that we're doing this time - report it to the authorities and follow up, follow up, follow up - but his bag never arrived. Never. As in never ever. It's probably still out at JFK, crammed behind a pile of trash in the boiler room.
My hope is that this time will be different. Besides, the lost bag is really a hard sided plastic crate crammed with seventy pounds of mission stuff. And, we didn't fly through JFK, so it's likely holding up the lunch fridge in the boiler room at Dulles.
And the lunch fridge mentioned in the last paragraph leads us back to the supper conversation. That, in the bidnezz, is called a segue, provided I stay on topic and don't drift further and further away, a likely result and effect of a nine hour lag. Anyway. Supper. Right.
Due to lack of time, we decided to eat at the restaurant at the Traders Hotel, in which we are esconsed for the night. It's a nice hotel. Quiet, clean, free q-tips. The wait staff had a little difficulty in my request for a table for nine (my crew, the client, and two more Companymen who are headed in on a different assignment tomorrow), but once they compared the number of people standing at the table to the number of chairs present at the table, they got the idea.
The menu was prix fixe, with choice of entree, sides and starches, and one of a selection of four gravies.
Four of them. Four distinct and individual gravies. Mein gott! I was stunned.
And if that wasn't enough, on the desert buffet, next to the torts and cheesecakes and cookies and those little shredded wheat, fig paste and honey things they make over here that I could eat forever, was a bowl of gummy worms.
I wonder if they'll survive the trip in my pocket?
Read More......
2009-08-18
That was quick,...
It was almost short enough not to notice, except of course for the whole Afghanistan thing happening all around me. Still it was (or will turn out to be) eleven days away from home, almost too short to even bother with.
But bother I do, because that's where the job sends me, and I tend to like the job, despite some less than desirable situations.
The biggest difference between this and the other trips here was that there's a cute puppydog sleeping at my feet, a gift to the Contractor from the local Afghan Nation Army commander. [How could he say no? She's cute. The commander has hundred of armed tropps,...] I'm not sure if Socks has selected my desk because she likes me, or because it's 30 degrees cooler in the office than outside.
This time, my direct report is the Contractor, who has a somewhat varied motivation when compared to my usual client, now the contractor's client, and still your government. Ultimately, I'm committed to the old health, safety, and welfare thing, but my current employer has a rather specific contract and, despite some obvious changes that could save the taxpayer some sheckles or better coordinate the work with a number of future projects in the area, I really can't add to or modify the project (i.e., the contract).
Mostly because changes at this point in the game all have time consequences and, as they say, time is money. We could develop the best project ever, but if it comes in two months later, how will the intended missions be supported? The change in attitude is just about wearing a different hat, and my suitcase is full of hats. Right now, hats and clothes and tools and personal protective gear and everything else that I brought over here, in anticipation of my flight out in a little over three hours.
What gets left behind this time is a Kandahar that's even larger and more congested than before, as more and more personnel, materiel and materials get deposited here every day. Two new PX's opened since I was here in May, to cater to the larger populations. There's the Kandahar Hotel where, for a mere $160 a night, you can get a ten foot square space in a C-can with a shared bath. There's a three month waiting list for this level of luxury.
In case you don't need to sleep, the local Green Bean now serves what they call the MOAC (Mother of all Coffees), four shots of espresso topped off with their house blend. For now, I'm sticking with the Latte. Tim Hortons continues to do a brisk business, and I usually brought back some tasty Canook donuts to the crew each morning, doing what I could to move the process forward.
I enjoyed the relative luxury of the Contractor's camp for this last week. The private room. The better quality DFAC. My assigned vehicle. The shady piazza. Sadly, they just cleaned and filled the pool last night, so I won't have a chance to go for a dip before I leave. I'll save that for Dubai, where I'll crash at a downtown hotel for the ten hours I have between flights.
I stumbled across a Helen Keller quote the other day (get it? "stumbled across"? she's blind? I swear,...) that seems apt, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."
Homebound now, and looking forward to the next one.
Read More......
But bother I do, because that's where the job sends me, and I tend to like the job, despite some less than desirable situations.
The biggest difference between this and the other trips here was that there's a cute puppydog sleeping at my feet, a gift to the Contractor from the local Afghan Nation Army commander. [How could he say no? She's cute. The commander has hundred of armed tropps,...] I'm not sure if Socks has selected my desk because she likes me, or because it's 30 degrees cooler in the office than outside.
This time, my direct report is the Contractor, who has a somewhat varied motivation when compared to my usual client, now the contractor's client, and still your government. Ultimately, I'm committed to the old health, safety, and welfare thing, but my current employer has a rather specific contract and, despite some obvious changes that could save the taxpayer some sheckles or better coordinate the work with a number of future projects in the area, I really can't add to or modify the project (i.e., the contract).
Mostly because changes at this point in the game all have time consequences and, as they say, time is money. We could develop the best project ever, but if it comes in two months later, how will the intended missions be supported? The change in attitude is just about wearing a different hat, and my suitcase is full of hats. Right now, hats and clothes and tools and personal protective gear and everything else that I brought over here, in anticipation of my flight out in a little over three hours.
What gets left behind this time is a Kandahar that's even larger and more congested than before, as more and more personnel, materiel and materials get deposited here every day. Two new PX's opened since I was here in May, to cater to the larger populations. There's the Kandahar Hotel where, for a mere $160 a night, you can get a ten foot square space in a C-can with a shared bath. There's a three month waiting list for this level of luxury.
In case you don't need to sleep, the local Green Bean now serves what they call the MOAC (Mother of all Coffees), four shots of espresso topped off with their house blend. For now, I'm sticking with the Latte. Tim Hortons continues to do a brisk business, and I usually brought back some tasty Canook donuts to the crew each morning, doing what I could to move the process forward.
I enjoyed the relative luxury of the Contractor's camp for this last week. The private room. The better quality DFAC. My assigned vehicle. The shady piazza. Sadly, they just cleaned and filled the pool last night, so I won't have a chance to go for a dip before I leave. I'll save that for Dubai, where I'll crash at a downtown hotel for the ten hours I have between flights.
I stumbled across a Helen Keller quote the other day (get it? "stumbled across"? she's blind? I swear,...) that seems apt, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."
Homebound now, and looking forward to the next one.
Read More......
2009-08-17
And then there was two
Got an email the other day, asking if I'd consider 6-12 months in Bahrain. My first reaction was instant rejection. It's 115 degrees in the shade here - how bad would it be closer to both the equator and the sea? Of course, it would be an assignment on a tropical island, and I do seem to like those.
Ultimately, I resolved to maintain my initial reaction, and hold out for a better tropical island assignment. Bahrain would certainly be interesting, but stifling could describe it as well.
Definitely stifling here today, but a full five degrees cooler than yesterday. Having little to accomplish, I headed out to the project site, and watch the surveyors host a goat rope, then observed some 12" slump (self leveling) concrete get placed as a foundation slab, and a wheeled excavator trench through a half meter of moon dust.
By then, it was barely 1000, and I had the rest of the day to fill. How I actually made it to the end is still somewhat of a mystery, but I think I can attribuite it to the selective amnesia from which some trauma patients are known to suffer. Tomorrow,... more of the same.
Read More......
Ultimately, I resolved to maintain my initial reaction, and hold out for a better tropical island assignment. Bahrain would certainly be interesting, but stifling could describe it as well.
Definitely stifling here today, but a full five degrees cooler than yesterday. Having little to accomplish, I headed out to the project site, and watch the surveyors host a goat rope, then observed some 12" slump (self leveling) concrete get placed as a foundation slab, and a wheeled excavator trench through a half meter of moon dust.
By then, it was barely 1000, and I had the rest of the day to fill. How I actually made it to the end is still somewhat of a mystery, but I think I can attribuite it to the selective amnesia from which some trauma patients are known to suffer. Tomorrow,... more of the same.
Read More......
2009-08-14
Ho Hum
Friday, now, I'm pretty sure. If there's any change to the days here, it's Friday, when local labor takes the day off, some outfits take a half day, and the bazaar's in town. I slept in, somewhat intentionally.
My plan was simply to sleep until I got up, and to throw off the last of the nine and a half hours of jet lag that followed me here. Simple enough, but at 0330, some joker in the war department decided that a half hour of outbound artillery would be a nice diversion, and it took a little while for me to recognize the specific boom of rounds leaving the KAF.
At that point, I could again drift off, and stayed drifted until 0900. Not really sleeping until noon, but the best I could muster. Perhaps I'll do better tomorrow, although I likely won't benefit from the late night of socializing I enjoyed on Thursday.
Another benefit of my current situation is that, on many Thursdays [They say "many", but I shouldn't be here except for the one.], nice bar-be-ques are convened at a couple of rotating locations. The menu's simple - meat on the barby - served on some of the local flatbread. The guest list was more varied, including logistics contractors, service contractors, education and training contractors, heavy contractors, and a couple of high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
I'd like to mention that there were a couple of cold beers, but I won't be mentioning that (the slushy Tiger Lagers), because we don't drink here,... especially the high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
Regardless, I got to sleep in, accomplishing another goal, then processed the emails that came in overnight (turning down six months to a year in Bahrain), typed a memo, and tried to get the local phone to work. This afternoon, I'll head to a brief meeting, then to the bazaar to look around, then to the PX for a cigar.
Big plans.
Read More......
My plan was simply to sleep until I got up, and to throw off the last of the nine and a half hours of jet lag that followed me here. Simple enough, but at 0330, some joker in the war department decided that a half hour of outbound artillery would be a nice diversion, and it took a little while for me to recognize the specific boom of rounds leaving the KAF.
At that point, I could again drift off, and stayed drifted until 0900. Not really sleeping until noon, but the best I could muster. Perhaps I'll do better tomorrow, although I likely won't benefit from the late night of socializing I enjoyed on Thursday.
Another benefit of my current situation is that, on many Thursdays [They say "many", but I shouldn't be here except for the one.], nice bar-be-ques are convened at a couple of rotating locations. The menu's simple - meat on the barby - served on some of the local flatbread. The guest list was more varied, including logistics contractors, service contractors, education and training contractors, heavy contractors, and a couple of high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
I'd like to mention that there were a couple of cold beers, but I won't be mentioning that (the slushy Tiger Lagers), because we don't drink here,... especially the high ranking officers of the Afghan National Army Special Forces brigade, which is situated right next door.
Regardless, I got to sleep in, accomplishing another goal, then processed the emails that came in overnight (turning down six months to a year in Bahrain), typed a memo, and tried to get the local phone to work. This afternoon, I'll head to a brief meeting, then to the bazaar to look around, then to the PX for a cigar.
Big plans.
Read More......
2009-08-12
Afghanland III
I thought "Afghanland 3 - The Redemption" would be a cool title for this one but, as it turns out, there's still little that is actually redeeming at Kandahar. Sort of like "Terminator 3: Redemption" or "Kickboxer 5: The Redemption", but probably more like "Rock Bottom - From Hell to Redemption", where Jason Mewes tries to kick Heroin.
Why can't I quit this place? 'Cuz it's fun. "It's a blast", sings Jello Biafra. Actually, he sings "Tomorrow you're homeless. Tonight it's a blast!" But who's picking nits.
Big changes here in the past three months. For one, is about a thousand degrees hotter than when I left here in May. Every day is above 100 (er,... 1000), and the air conditioners have a most difficult time keeping up with it. Construction continues apace throughout the base, with new shelters and housing and stuff all getting built at once.
They've even added short block walls to the interiors of each of the DFACs, to subdivide the space and increase PAX blast protection.
The biggest change is that this time, I'm working for one of the many contractors here, coordinating the design of some big thing between him and the design team back in the States. As it turns out, one minute after I stepped off of the plane here, I became the Companyman with the most experience in country. Hopefully, it won't turn into anything more than a fleeting honor, as I'd much rather be known as the Companyman who has the most time on a tropical island.
The hugest change is in the accommodations. This time, I've got a 40 foot C-can (we used to call them "CONEX Boxes", but that is *so* last quarter) to myself - bedroom, private bath, lounge. There's another bedroom, but noone lives there this week. This place is comparably sized to Miss Liberty, my trailer on Lincoln Swing, although my current blue and white vinyl walls and ceiling still pale in comparison to her green shag, floor-to-wall-to-ceiling carpeting.
And I got a vehicle assigned. A right drive Toyota. Not that I need to drive anywhere, but I've got one, just in case. Of course, I could drive to a more distant DFAC if I wanted to, or use it to haul donuts to the office. Probably use it to tool around aimlessly, as my legendary efficiency has resulted in me being about done with my assigned tasks, just one day into a one week gig.
I brought some books, figuring this would be the case.
Read More......
Why can't I quit this place? 'Cuz it's fun. "It's a blast", sings Jello Biafra. Actually, he sings "Tomorrow you're homeless. Tonight it's a blast!" But who's picking nits.
Big changes here in the past three months. For one, is about a thousand degrees hotter than when I left here in May. Every day is above 100 (er,... 1000), and the air conditioners have a most difficult time keeping up with it. Construction continues apace throughout the base, with new shelters and housing and stuff all getting built at once.
They've even added short block walls to the interiors of each of the DFACs, to subdivide the space and increase PAX blast protection.
The biggest change is that this time, I'm working for one of the many contractors here, coordinating the design of some big thing between him and the design team back in the States. As it turns out, one minute after I stepped off of the plane here, I became the Companyman with the most experience in country. Hopefully, it won't turn into anything more than a fleeting honor, as I'd much rather be known as the Companyman who has the most time on a tropical island.
The hugest change is in the accommodations. This time, I've got a 40 foot C-can (we used to call them "CONEX Boxes", but that is *so* last quarter) to myself - bedroom, private bath, lounge. There's another bedroom, but noone lives there this week. This place is comparably sized to Miss Liberty, my trailer on Lincoln Swing, although my current blue and white vinyl walls and ceiling still pale in comparison to her green shag, floor-to-wall-to-ceiling carpeting.
And I got a vehicle assigned. A right drive Toyota. Not that I need to drive anywhere, but I've got one, just in case. Of course, I could drive to a more distant DFAC if I wanted to, or use it to haul donuts to the office. Probably use it to tool around aimlessly, as my legendary efficiency has resulted in me being about done with my assigned tasks, just one day into a one week gig.
I brought some books, figuring this would be the case.
Read More......
2009-07-26
Mileposts
Terminal 1 at Dubai is a spectacular place. Fifty foot ceilings and fake palm trees. Food court and hotel. Acres of seating. Shopping and more shopping. One hundred more minutes, and I’ll be done with it and another step closer to home.
At Warrior, the FOB from a couple of days ago, I figured I was as far from home as I was going to get, as it would take another helo ride to get back to Sharana, then a fixed wing to Bagram Friday, then four more flights to get home over forty hours starting Sunday morning. All told, we’ll have had nineteen separate flights over the past three weeks or so. Now I’m down to my last three.
Once I’m on this next one, though, most of the potential trouble will be behind me, as, fourteen and a half hours after departure, I’ll be at Dulles, and I can walk home from there. Finding another way home from the Middle East is a bit harder. Not as hard as finding another flight from Bagram to Dubai, though, which is ultimately easier than finding another way from FOB Warrior to Sharana. There’s really no way to walk that route – no *safe* way to walk that route.
Each leg brings me closer, and while each leg gets progressively easier, the desire to accelerate my travel increases, and the waiting is getting more difficult. Another hour or so, and we’ll process through security once more, wait a bit, then board. If I’m fortunate, the food will arrive early, and sleep soon thereafter. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep for the entire flight, but any time unconscious on a transatlantic hop is time well spent.
For now, there’s reflection on another successful assignment, and wonder as to what will follow.
Read More......
At Warrior, the FOB from a couple of days ago, I figured I was as far from home as I was going to get, as it would take another helo ride to get back to Sharana, then a fixed wing to Bagram Friday, then four more flights to get home over forty hours starting Sunday morning. All told, we’ll have had nineteen separate flights over the past three weeks or so. Now I’m down to my last three.
Once I’m on this next one, though, most of the potential trouble will be behind me, as, fourteen and a half hours after departure, I’ll be at Dulles, and I can walk home from there. Finding another way home from the Middle East is a bit harder. Not as hard as finding another flight from Bagram to Dubai, though, which is ultimately easier than finding another way from FOB Warrior to Sharana. There’s really no way to walk that route – no *safe* way to walk that route.
Each leg brings me closer, and while each leg gets progressively easier, the desire to accelerate my travel increases, and the waiting is getting more difficult. Another hour or so, and we’ll process through security once more, wait a bit, then board. If I’m fortunate, the food will arrive early, and sleep soon thereafter. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep for the entire flight, but any time unconscious on a transatlantic hop is time well spent.
For now, there’s reflection on another successful assignment, and wonder as to what will follow.
Read More......
2009-07-22
Four and a Wake-up
Well, after the General briefing yesterday, we’re done here, except for that part about leaving, getting on a helicopter and four airplanes and making it back to the Midwest. If the number of flights were any indication of the depth of this shithole,…
When I say “done”, I mean that there’s no more work required to satisfy the contract requirements. Eye Eeee, how does one waste a few days in the middle of the high desert of eastern Afghanland? Besides wailing and ululating.
I started by sleeping in as long as I could, then showered and called the wife. Lay on the bed for a couple of hours, reading my fifth book (Political thriller, farce, two shoot ‘em’ ups, and now a murder mystery). I may delve into the local DVD collections this afternoon, and maybe a snooze on the dayroom couch. I did laundry yesterday, so I’m probably done with that for this trip.
We have one more excursion planned for tomorrow, but not a task included in the scope of work. The Polish airfield that we couldn’t get to earlier has a particular and peculiar drainage problem that I’ve been asked to take a look at while I’m here with nothing better to do. Somehow (who knows), air transportation became available, better late than never, so, although any information gathered won’t help our planning efforts, why waste the experience of a few engineers while they’re here. All they really had to do was say “helicopter ride” and, like the family dog with prospects of a car ride, I’d have my vest and helmet in hand and be headed towards the door. A chance to solve a problem is gravy.
As well, it’s an excuse to get off the FOB. The last thing I want is to be known as a Fobbit – a very derogatory term used to describe the various desk jockeys and support personnel, military or otherwise, who do whatever it takes to maintain the garrison lifestyle. I can’t see the appeal of traveling 8,000 miles just to hang around a large military base, but to others, there’s no consideration of an existence that doesn’t include a well stocked PX, hard sided DFAC, cable TV, and a Dairy Queen/Orange Julius franchise.
Might as well stay home.
Read More......
When I say “done”, I mean that there’s no more work required to satisfy the contract requirements. Eye Eeee, how does one waste a few days in the middle of the high desert of eastern Afghanland? Besides wailing and ululating.
I started by sleeping in as long as I could, then showered and called the wife. Lay on the bed for a couple of hours, reading my fifth book (Political thriller, farce, two shoot ‘em’ ups, and now a murder mystery). I may delve into the local DVD collections this afternoon, and maybe a snooze on the dayroom couch. I did laundry yesterday, so I’m probably done with that for this trip.
We have one more excursion planned for tomorrow, but not a task included in the scope of work. The Polish airfield that we couldn’t get to earlier has a particular and peculiar drainage problem that I’ve been asked to take a look at while I’m here with nothing better to do. Somehow (who knows), air transportation became available, better late than never, so, although any information gathered won’t help our planning efforts, why waste the experience of a few engineers while they’re here. All they really had to do was say “helicopter ride” and, like the family dog with prospects of a car ride, I’d have my vest and helmet in hand and be headed towards the door. A chance to solve a problem is gravy.
As well, it’s an excuse to get off the FOB. The last thing I want is to be known as a Fobbit – a very derogatory term used to describe the various desk jockeys and support personnel, military or otherwise, who do whatever it takes to maintain the garrison lifestyle. I can’t see the appeal of traveling 8,000 miles just to hang around a large military base, but to others, there’s no consideration of an existence that doesn’t include a well stocked PX, hard sided DFAC, cable TV, and a Dairy Queen/Orange Julius franchise.
Might as well stay home.
Read More......
2009-07-20
Over the Wire
Since I landed in country, there’ve been a mess of helicopter flights to various bases in the eastern quarter of Afghanistan, but I never got out of the FOBs themselves. Peering through the chainlink, or even standing atop the Hesco barriers that line the perimeter occasionally, I could clearly see Afghanistan. It’s awfully mountainous there, outside the wire, and there are few places on any of the bases where you can’t see some very rugged terrain in the distance, well beyond the boundaries of any camp.
But I had yet to set foot outside the wire and into Afghanland proper, until this morning. My work in Iraq was reconstruction, not military, and required over seventy missions outside the comforts and security of the Green Zone. Here, by and large, the work I’m planning is already within the safety and confines of existing base real estate, except for a few runways.
The proposed runway at one of the Polish bases was just outside the wire, and we could see the total flatness of the site from high atop a couple of guard towers. Flat ground, by the way, is a pretty good condition for new runways. From my perch behind the sandbags next to the machine gun, I could make an educated guess as to the rough order of magnitude of work required to construct the thing. Not the best of field investigations, but better than others.
At the second Polish base, project timing and security issues kept us from getting close to the FOB, so we needed to rely on firsthand accounts of site conditions from a Master Sergeant who had been there on another mission last week, and tried his best to recall the local environment. Even this was better than much of what we had in Kandahar – or didn’t have in Kandahar, as most of the time we couldn’t speak with anyone who had anything close to a detailed understanding of local site conditions.
Today, though, my Electrical and I donned our helmets and vests and mounted a few MRAPs to get boots on the ground at our new runway site at Sharana. For this mission, we were accompanied by a dozen heavily armed soldiers and their three armored vehicles providing security. It was a simple reconnoiter, really. Exit the FOB, and then encircle the base a mile or two off of the fence until we could identify the upwind end of what had previously been identified as the correct alignment. Take a few snaps, then work the two miles up the ridge to the other end of where the runway could end up.
Simple, though, lasted half a day. There were a few equipment and communications problems that required resolution before we could take off, as well as the requisite pre-mission briefing. Also with our contingent was another consultant, who was interested in seeing a different piece of land that his group is eyeing for something or other. Since this other property was closer to the gate, we went there first and, since we’d already dismounted to look it over, the LTC figured we could just walk the rest of the way. So we did, spread out over a hundred meters or so, our shooters nearby, and the three MRAPs running mostly parallel to us on the bad guy side.
I’m pretty sure now that “Afghanistan” is local for “Land of Rocks and Thistles”. At least, this part of the country is. Lots of black, heavily fractured, fist sized metamorphic rocks, bedded in sand. The scrubby little plants were all thorny or thistly, and seemed to be doing their best to keep from being eaten. I spied a couple of small, very quick footed lizards, and quite a few locusts, but that was it for indigenous life.
Onward we trudged through this landscape, trying to identify from the satellite image we had which rolling ridge was the one we were supposed to be observing. About two miles later, we think we had the downwind terminus identified. The intervening distance was more rocks and thistles, rolling over minor ridges and through dry wadis and drainageways, with 15 to 20 meters differences between the tops and bottoms.
As the sun rose higher towards midday, the forty pounds of Kevlar and ceramic plates I was wearing were starting to remind me of their mass, and the thin air at this elevation was jabbing me in the chest. I looked around at my shooters, wearing not only gear similar to mine, but a weapon or two, 180 additional rounds for their M-4s, at least two spare magazines for their M-9s, plus radios, knives, first aid, and whatever other kit gets strapped to their vests or crammed into cargo pockets, plus the additional burden of making sure I didn’t get whacked. I felt lighter already.
Across one broad valley were a half dozen Bedouin tents – large, white, multi-poled structures right out of history. From the scat and evidence of very selective browsing, I wasn’t surprised when we encountered one of the Bedouin goatherds, pushing a few score of mostly black, long haired animals through his historic grazing lands – lands that will be fully within the FOB perimeter within a couple of years. The LT gave the goatherd a bottle of water and the two groups passed without a word.
Eventually, we identified our ridge, using physical features compared to an older satellite image we carried with us. Unfortunately, the site’s not flat (as it looks from space and later on a piece of paper), but continues the rolling terrain predominant through our hike so far. This condition will undoubtedly increase project costs, but probably not beyond a point where we wouldn’t build the facility.
Whenever we’d stop to confer on the map or conditions, the group would naturally clump much closer together. Standing still in a large group on top of a ridge made us an obvious target for anyone who might have less than honorable intentions, so we tried to minimize our time in this configuration and weren’t particularly surprised when we heard the rocket attack.
However, if they were aiming at us, fully exposed on open ground, their aim still sucks, as the plume came from well inside the base, and we were – safely – outside. Regardless, we hustled back to the relative shelter of the MRAPs as the second and third rockets hit, then waited for the all clear from base operations, not occurring until after the local battery let loose a small flurry of artillery to squelch the local impertinence.
Back in the MRAPs, the air conditioning was cranked and, since the past three or four miles looked the same, our assumption was that the remaining mile would look the same, and our boots were no longer required on the ground. We drove back via the last mile of potential runway, then back to the base for more hydration.
Read More......
But I had yet to set foot outside the wire and into Afghanland proper, until this morning. My work in Iraq was reconstruction, not military, and required over seventy missions outside the comforts and security of the Green Zone. Here, by and large, the work I’m planning is already within the safety and confines of existing base real estate, except for a few runways.
The proposed runway at one of the Polish bases was just outside the wire, and we could see the total flatness of the site from high atop a couple of guard towers. Flat ground, by the way, is a pretty good condition for new runways. From my perch behind the sandbags next to the machine gun, I could make an educated guess as to the rough order of magnitude of work required to construct the thing. Not the best of field investigations, but better than others.
At the second Polish base, project timing and security issues kept us from getting close to the FOB, so we needed to rely on firsthand accounts of site conditions from a Master Sergeant who had been there on another mission last week, and tried his best to recall the local environment. Even this was better than much of what we had in Kandahar – or didn’t have in Kandahar, as most of the time we couldn’t speak with anyone who had anything close to a detailed understanding of local site conditions.
Today, though, my Electrical and I donned our helmets and vests and mounted a few MRAPs to get boots on the ground at our new runway site at Sharana. For this mission, we were accompanied by a dozen heavily armed soldiers and their three armored vehicles providing security. It was a simple reconnoiter, really. Exit the FOB, and then encircle the base a mile or two off of the fence until we could identify the upwind end of what had previously been identified as the correct alignment. Take a few snaps, then work the two miles up the ridge to the other end of where the runway could end up.
Simple, though, lasted half a day. There were a few equipment and communications problems that required resolution before we could take off, as well as the requisite pre-mission briefing. Also with our contingent was another consultant, who was interested in seeing a different piece of land that his group is eyeing for something or other. Since this other property was closer to the gate, we went there first and, since we’d already dismounted to look it over, the LTC figured we could just walk the rest of the way. So we did, spread out over a hundred meters or so, our shooters nearby, and the three MRAPs running mostly parallel to us on the bad guy side.
I’m pretty sure now that “Afghanistan” is local for “Land of Rocks and Thistles”. At least, this part of the country is. Lots of black, heavily fractured, fist sized metamorphic rocks, bedded in sand. The scrubby little plants were all thorny or thistly, and seemed to be doing their best to keep from being eaten. I spied a couple of small, very quick footed lizards, and quite a few locusts, but that was it for indigenous life.
Onward we trudged through this landscape, trying to identify from the satellite image we had which rolling ridge was the one we were supposed to be observing. About two miles later, we think we had the downwind terminus identified. The intervening distance was more rocks and thistles, rolling over minor ridges and through dry wadis and drainageways, with 15 to 20 meters differences between the tops and bottoms.
As the sun rose higher towards midday, the forty pounds of Kevlar and ceramic plates I was wearing were starting to remind me of their mass, and the thin air at this elevation was jabbing me in the chest. I looked around at my shooters, wearing not only gear similar to mine, but a weapon or two, 180 additional rounds for their M-4s, at least two spare magazines for their M-9s, plus radios, knives, first aid, and whatever other kit gets strapped to their vests or crammed into cargo pockets, plus the additional burden of making sure I didn’t get whacked. I felt lighter already.
Across one broad valley were a half dozen Bedouin tents – large, white, multi-poled structures right out of history. From the scat and evidence of very selective browsing, I wasn’t surprised when we encountered one of the Bedouin goatherds, pushing a few score of mostly black, long haired animals through his historic grazing lands – lands that will be fully within the FOB perimeter within a couple of years. The LT gave the goatherd a bottle of water and the two groups passed without a word.
Eventually, we identified our ridge, using physical features compared to an older satellite image we carried with us. Unfortunately, the site’s not flat (as it looks from space and later on a piece of paper), but continues the rolling terrain predominant through our hike so far. This condition will undoubtedly increase project costs, but probably not beyond a point where we wouldn’t build the facility.
Whenever we’d stop to confer on the map or conditions, the group would naturally clump much closer together. Standing still in a large group on top of a ridge made us an obvious target for anyone who might have less than honorable intentions, so we tried to minimize our time in this configuration and weren’t particularly surprised when we heard the rocket attack.
However, if they were aiming at us, fully exposed on open ground, their aim still sucks, as the plume came from well inside the base, and we were – safely – outside. Regardless, we hustled back to the relative shelter of the MRAPs as the second and third rockets hit, then waited for the all clear from base operations, not occurring until after the local battery let loose a small flurry of artillery to squelch the local impertinence.
Back in the MRAPs, the air conditioning was cranked and, since the past three or four miles looked the same, our assumption was that the remaining mile would look the same, and our boots were no longer required on the ground. We drove back via the last mile of potential runway, then back to the base for more hydration.
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