Thanks For A Noble Country

A few months ago, I returned from Iraq. I was made to feel very welcome still far away from home:

I arrived in Atlanta early that morning, enroute to Texas. I had just flown 12  hours with a plane-load of soldiers both eager and anxious to get home. When going back and forth to the combat theater, I encounter surreal feelings that seize at odd times. When going home, the notion of having ever been in the war-torn devastation that is Iraq seems alien, far off, unreal  –  the idea that people live in a place like that seems beyond imagining. Yet our soldiers willingly go there and sacrifice life and limb to be there.

On the way to Iraq, I encounter the flip side of that feeling: Could a place called the United States really exist, where people live in general peace and prosperity? While in Iraq, that notion seems as far off and ephemeral as the vagueness of Iraq seems when I am home.

I opened my eyes that day I landed in Atlanta, and knowing where I was immediately brought me awake. Soldiers still wore the uniforms, but weapons were gone, stored for another time.  We stepped across the airplane’s doorway into freedom, and friendly faces greeted our weary eyes. Moms and Dads celebrated, families hugged…some wept in quiet solitude…there would be no warm reunion for them.

I changed my clothes and rented a car and headed south to Ft. Benning.  Thirty-three years ago, I was there with my wife beginning a new career and a new family.  A week before our daughter was born we had stopped at a little town along this road called Pine Mountain. It had been a 4-way stop with a gasoline station, some shops, and a restaurant. Not much had changed in those 33 years. The road was wider, there was a light signal where the stop sign had been, and the buildings showed a community of people who cared.  

I parked my car and walked into the Aspen Mountain Grill. A pretty young girl greeted me and took me to my seat, but no one paid particular attention to my being there. I sat quietly, very tired while sipping a cold one, and chomping on the best BLT known to man. I felt exhilarated for being in the land of the free, and I watched how free people live. They come and they go, and they laugh and they cry, and they act with courtesy and respect. They’re young and they’re old and everything between, and they walk without fear of repression. They talk and discuss both quietly and loud, and don’t worry about offending a tyrant.

 My mind trailed back to places I’d been with names like Taji and Tarmiyah and Abu Ghrayb, where people live behind high, concrete walls, and travel through checkpoints with soldiers with guns. That’s what they have to do to buy milk for their little ones. They live in fear of saying too much, or not saying enough when required. But when American soldiers are near, they feel safe – to work, to play, to go to school, and to buy groceries.

People often ask soldiers why they do what they do. Why they leave families and friends and travel to far off places in heavy armor to shoot and to fight and to suffer depravity.

I finished my BLT and wrote out a note. “Thank you,” it said, “for my welcome home; it made me feel like I had finished a job well done.” I left as quietly as I had come, with the light banter continuing as I walked out the door. I got in my car and drove away with a lump in my throat because I had seen the answer to that same question of why soldiers do what we do. We do it so that good people can gather and live in peace and prosperity in places like Aspen Mountain Grill in Pine Mountain, Georgia. Thanks.


A Texan Thanks Pine Mountain, Georgia For A Warm Welcome Home by Lee Jackson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported

Calling Home

This is a gathering place. It's the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation center, the MWR, and every FOB, Patrol Base, Camp or any other military facility I’ve had the privilege to visit in Iraq or here in Afghanistan has one. Sometimes they are dank little tents with plywood floors and poor lighting made even darker by confined access points to blot wayward light-shards from escaping to the attention of watchful insurgent eyes. Sometimes, they are well furnished and well lit facilities furnished with pool and ping-pong tables, electronic games nooks, theatre rooms, phone and computer banks, and lounge areas with access to wifi. Always, the story is the same: war-weary American fighters and their support elements finding a place to cool down, relax – and contact home.

The lines for the phones and computers can be long and slow – when busy, a 30 minute time-limit is enforced. During those times, people working on their own computers via wifi can be seen to grimace often as they are repeatedly knocked off from a connection, often that they just barely secured.

Each area has its own unique characteristic added to by the antics of soldiers and marines themselves. My first night in the one here, I watched marines shoot pool. Their pistols were strapped to their hips, and they had to hitch them out of the way to aim the cue. At the ping-pong tables, the soldiers had taken their weapons off so that they had full mobility – but a buddy always kept watchful guard. One night, a soldier in battle-trousers and tan t-shirt did a rendition of the robot-dance after trouncing his buddy in ping-pong.

Not much happens in the room where others wait for their turn on a phone or a computer. They signed onto a waiting list when they entered the building, and they wait patiently for the 1 – 1 ½ hour wait for their turn. They read books and converse and patiently wait for the very few minutes available to connect with home. In another area, soldiers and marines sit clustered together in front of large screens – these are the gaming gurus, and they hunt, and fish, race cars, fly airplanes, and practice combat skills, all in the virtual world.

The most interesting place is the lounge area. Along the walls, long extension cords provide additional outlets for the myriad collection of our fighters to communicate with the outside world via wifi. To get to this point, they must have brought their own computers, registered it with the command, received access via a password – and then arrived at an opportune time when the band-width is not already so consumed as to prevent their entry onto the net. However, watching those already connected is a study of human emotion. They stare into their screens with microphones and earphones often strapped on. Then, connection made, their expressions break, and they coochy-coo to babies on the other side of the world. They flirt with girlfriends and boyfriends from hometowns and places stopped along the way to this edge of the planet. They smile, they laugh, they frown, they catch with emotion, each staring into his/her private, left-behind life, through the window of Skype and Google and Yahoo, and each lost to the surrounding cloud of similar emotion, and rank is immaterial. They sing songs to children or other buddies; they read bedtime stories; they discuss family problems; and plan vacations. They attempt to carry on normalcy in a land that defies the definition.

They are not alone. Fighting men and women from Britain and Scandinavia come here, as do interpreters from Pakistan and India, and US civilians supporting the war effort far from their families. They come hoping to “connect” in a way that adds new dimension to the meaning of the word.

Camp Leatherneck is known for being Spartan. A few nights ago, I started to sit down on a couch to open my own computer. A young marine offered to slide to the other end so that I could be closer to the outlet – he was not plugged in. I accepted and sat down, and we entered into conversation. He was smiling broadly, because he was on his way home in a few days, and he was more than ready to talk. He had spent most of his year here in and around the town of Marjeh, a few miles south of here. Marjeh was the town where the battle raged two years ago as Marines mounted the surge that drove the Taliban out. Less than three weeks ago, peaceful elections were held in that town, a council formed, and now citizens take action to keep the Taliban away. This marine had participated in stabilizing this area, and he was proud of his service. Interestingly, he was enthusiastic about being at Leatherneck. “People complain about this place,” he said, “but that’s because they haven’t been where I’ve been. They don’t know how bad it can get.”

These are our kids. They live for home, family, and friends, and they are here because we asked them to come. They experience unimaginable highs and lows, and victories and sorrows – often expressed right here at the MWR.


At The MWR by Lee Jackson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Afghanistan Through a Muddy Window

March 13, 2011 – Camp Leatherneck - I flew out of here yesterday to visit a team at a subordinate unit, courtesy of our cousins from across the pond, and returned this morning by ground convoy, also courtesy of the Brits. Actually, it was a Scottish regiment that provided the ride today, and along the way, we stopped and visited with an Aussie field artillery battery.

The flight yesterday was aboard a British Merlin helicopter, and I was impressed. It is quiet, with little of the pounding vibration of the Cobra or Chinook, and it has large windows on its sides so that we could actually see the ground. My guess is that when shooting starts, the hard skin is preferred to a scenic view, but since we were not fired upon, I took advantage to see as much as I could from the air. Unfortunately, the contrast of light inside the Merlin did not allow for good pictures.

There was a professional war-photographer aboard. He sat directly across from me, and had impressive looking cameras with massive lenses, and he probably found amusement at my little electronic Sony. He was tall and bearded, and probably about my age, and we both sat in seats immediately by the ramp at the back of the helicopter. He paid me no mind, but when we landed, he immediately descended the ramp, and I thought I’d seen the last of him. I had to wait for my backpack, and when I walked down the ramp and took that last long step to the ground, I saw that he had prostrated himself with his cameras aimed directly at the back of the helicopter, and as I passed, he aimed it at me, I heard the lens snap, and then he climbed to his feet. If he did, as a matter of fact, take my picture, he probably wanted proof to support his story that a man from the ice-age still wanders the earth in unexpected places – even aboard British helicopters.

The post we visited is manned by a British brigade, and one of our teams is imbedded there. I took two members from my own team along to meet and greet the team there as well as the command and staff they support. Being in a thoroughly British war-time locale is a notable experience. The main staff area is housed in a place reminiscent of WW II movies, with desks pushed together in a massive room with wires running all about, people moving busily between sections, and Queen Elizabeth’s photo pinned on up-right two-by-fours behind desks. It seems that they really do have affection for the lady.

I learn a lot from visits like this. For instance, as we had flown in, I had noticed a patch-work of green square fields on the ground, surrounded by the ubiquitous brown of the desert. Then, the brown ended abruptly, and we flew above verdant fields extending to the horizon in every visible direction. Only later did I learn that this province is perhaps the most productive poppy-growing area in Afghanistan, and perhaps in the world, so probably what we had seen were mainly poppy-fields. Sadly, the region has the capability to provide sufficient food for the entire country, but currently does not produce enough even to support itself. As a result, most foodstuffs are imported, and convincing farmers that they should divert from the highly profitable yield that comes from poppies to something with more societal acceptance but less revenue is no easy task, particularly when encouraged to continue their current enterprise by criminal elements offering greater profits, and doing so at the point of a gun.

The British and the imbedded team were terrific hosts. We went through their version of a mess hall, and I was ready to transfer down just for the food! I ate sirloin steak with mushrooms, but have done the same at many of our own mess halls in Iraq as well as right here at Leatherneck. However, the deserts were beyond anything I have known either here or in Iraq. Generally, I stay away from deserts so as to keep my youthful figure, but last night I indulged. There was bread-pudding, thick, rich chocolate ice-cream, crumpets, and every other sort of British pastry imaginable.

Walking from the air-field on arrival, I had noticed another peculiarity not noticed in such profusion anywhere else that I have been – a full, well-kept British garden, complete with paths and a covered seating area. I passed it again this morning on the way back from the shower, and have to admit to an immediate increase in spirit from seeing the myriad colors. To be fair, at Leatherneck, there is a small lawn with a rose garden (not yet in bloom).

Business finished, this morning we loaded into vehicles for the ride back to home station. I rode in a vehicle called a “Mastiff.” It is shorter in height than an MRAP, but seems to seat the same number of people. The low silhouette decreases the sense of impending roll-over when driving parallel to a grade or when going around curves, but it can also jolt the senses (but so can the MRAP) – this Mastiff hit one bump particularly hard, and I can promise that within thirty seconds, I had secured my helmet on my head so that I did not have a repeat of the clanging in my skull from having bounced off the reinforced armored ceiling.

I rode with a squad of Scottish soldiers, and was thus fortunate to observe them being themselves as the trip proceeded. It was about a 3-hour journey, and so after initial courteous exchanges, they settled into their normal routine and ways of being – they joshed and joked and cajoled each other, and finally relaxed into snoozing interrupted by the incessant vibration and jolting of the Mastiff. Meanwhile, the gunner manned his turret. Aside from the British-flag patch on their shoulders, any of these fine young men could have been our own sons – they face dangers willingly, competently, and with good humor.

If keeping track of uniforms is to be a guide, this is a strange war in which to keep track of “friendlies.” The US Army has two uniforms in common use now, which is different from the Marines, which is also different from the Air Force. I have seen the Navy wear at least two different uniforms; then, throw in the Brits (which differ by regiment which seem to differ by which of the British Isles a unit hales from). I have already also met Danes, Estonians, Aussies, and of course, members of the Afghan National Army. I think this place could be described as a boiling-pot, with perhaps a more direct application of physical heat of various types.

In any event, the only windows in the back of the Mastiff in which I rode is in each of two panels in the back door, and they were still coated with caked-on mud formed from the dust layered there that was then fixed in place by the recent rains. I strained to see through them, and surprisingly, came away with images and impressions that began to provide a sense of this region of Afghanistan. One of the first images was of a man on a motorbike. He had a long, white, flowing beard, and white flowing robes with a black turban, and he maneuvered through traffic and between vehicles of our convoy with impressive agility. Then, I noticed small panel trucks festooned with colorful articles that I could not make out, but given the numbers of these trucks, I have to believe that the driver of each was peddling wares from them, or perhaps hiring out to carry passengers.

Yesterday, from the air, I had seen compounds scattered about the countryside – they each seemed to have been built with high walls on the outside, a courtyard in the middle, and rooms around the periphery. Villages seemed to be made up of collections of such compounds setting adjacent to each other. This morning, I saw them close-up, albeit with an obscured view, but when they were situated near the roads we travelled, I saw people sparsely lining the way. As in Iraq, they took note of our passing, but I did not see eager greetings from children – for that matter, I did not see many children at all.

In built up places, I made out shops, and shoppers busily moving about their business, but I could not make out sufficient detail to form any common impressions. Then, as we continued toward our destination, the sun rose higher in the sky, as did dust in response to the departure of rains. Figures I had been able to make out in contrast to a blue sky during the earlier part of our trip faded against a white sky bathed in sunlight reflecting off the light cloud of very fine dust through which we drove – pedestrians became mere apparitions. At that point, I made like a soldier, relaxed into my armored-vest which held me in an upright position, tucked my chin into my breast-plate, allowed my limbs to go limp, and dozed against the Mastiff’s constant jolts.


Afghanistan Through A Muddy Window by Lee Jackson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Organized Chaos

I should probably not write this blog right now, but because part of the point is writing things as I go and spelling out how I feel  as I feel, I’ll go ahead – I’m just not sure when the next time will come about that I don’t feel tired.

I arrived at Leatherneck in Helmand Province to near freezing weather, and lots of mud – everywhere mud. The tent I stayed in for the next 4 nights was very hot when I arrived near midnight, so I dressed and covered lightly on the hard Army cot. Somewhere during the night, cold set in, and so did the need to clamber into anything suitable and hurry down to the nearest set of latrines. Of course, wending through the puddles in the dark added to the challenge, as did trying to get there before I added to the puddles. Getting there was not just a matter of avoiding embarrassment (that would have been extreme on a Marine post), but my clean uniforms were rolled up tightly at the bottom of another of my duffle-bags, and I could not remember which one.

Two members of my new team had picked me up at the airfield the night before, and they arrived to take me to breakfast. Anyone that has ever watched the opening scenes of “The Great Escape” complete with surreal music will know the feeling I experienced as I surveyed my new abode for the next year. In the movie, the scene began with a close-up of the close-in buildings of Stalag 17. Then the camera drew back and panned up and across a seemingly endless expanse of rooves on cracker-box barracks. With the movie’s music running in my head, the feeling of desolate bleakness impinged on my consciousness.

Fortunately, breakfast was good – an omelet with most of the stuff – hot and well cooked, served inside one of three massive tents that served as the mess hall. My new teammates are superb. I met the remainder of them in our offices a little later. The only downside is that they are already starting into their re-deployment cycles, so that by June all but one of them will have left. One, however, is extending, and we should serve together here until his departure in November. Nevertheless, I already feel the impending loss of solid and good teammates.

I learned an interesting lesson about life my first night here. I received a call from stateside directing me to another team. I have to admit that I showed some of my true nature over the phone in front of God and my new teammates, and the upshot at the end of the conversation was that I stay put. However, what intrigued me after the fact was the vehemence with which I fought to stay in such a God-forsaken place – so close to the edge of the planet that the roar of water spilling over into the great unknown can be heard from just over the horizon .  When I had a chance to analyze my own feelings after the fact, I thought about the high value that good people bring to quality of life. I knew I had landed in a good team, and would rather share depravities here with them than take a chance of arriving on a hellacious team based in paradise.

The colonel that I replaced departed early Monday morning, and I admit to misgivings on seeing him go. Responsibility for what the team does or fails to do now rests with me, and given where we are, the sense of that gives pause. Almost daily, and sometimes several times in a single day, we see messages come across about the arrival of a “Distinguished Transfer” – meaning that one or more of our wonderful soldiers or marines has contributed the ultimate, and is being escorted home.

The rain stopped a couple of days ago, and the sun has been out for two days now. I have already taken off cold weather gear, and don’t expect to use it again until next winter. The sky has been very blue for two days now, and as long as I look up and beyond, and associate with my great team members, a sense of optimism is usually within easy grasp. Of course always, I miss home, my wonderful wife, great kids, and cherished grandchildren, Sofia and Mikel. BTW, I have another on the way in August. And always, I think of my two sons and their friends and classmates in harms way.

A few days ago, I walked along the length of a long road still under construction. The sky was relatively clear, and suddenly, in front of me (albeit too far to reach out and touch) were mountains! Again, an incredible uplift. This morning, on the way to breakfast, there was no mist at all, and there again, were mountains, and in the far, far distance another range fully clothed in white, white snow. Good to know that there is still another world out there beyond the desolation of this desert.

I will soon be out and among the people here. I have tried to divorce myself from making comparisons between those here and in Iraq, but having already been in many discussions here, I can’t help sensing a common factor that might have previously been overlooked, and probably should be taken into account: as much as acting out of cultural mores, survival mode is driving populations. Seems like a given on its face, but I’ve seen no indication that it is taken into account.

Anyway commo is not easy. Hopefully I can keep this up. Regardless, thanks to all who took the time to look up my little journal and read it, and for the kind comments. I am working on getting pictures out.  Lee

Organized Chaos by Lee Jackson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

First Impressions: Afghanistan

The first named street I saw on leaving Baghram Airfield was “Texas,” and the next one was “Tennessee.” That being the case, God could not have completely deserted this land so craved by Alexander the Great and Ghenghis Khan that they left behind sufficient progeny to continue the fight – with or without foreign intrusion – and modern history speaks brutally to their success in that regard. Regardless, “God blessed Texas with his own hand,” and Tennessee is the “greenest state in the Land of the Free,” and seeing those signs was a welcome sight.

My main impression of Afghanistan so far is that of mud. Everywhere mud. When I caught my first glimpse of Afghanistan soil, I was looking through the tiny porthole/window of the hard-working/ever-faithful C-130 aircraft whose individual construction probably predated my birth (no exaggeration). What I saw, as opposed to Afghan soil was actually hard concrete and brown buildings, with wisps of snow blowing by to join the thin blanket already covering the ground and rooftops. On exiting the back ramp (from which those who fight quietly in far-off places with little-known names jump into the night at high altitudes), my view was impeded by a close-in, overcast sky. And then I saw the mud.

It is ubiquitous, yet inside every dry building is a thin layer of dust that tells and foretells the probable thickness of air on days when moisture is not present. While I waited for transportation to take me to my lodging, a young Afghan man (really still a boy), came into the room. He wore cargo-pants, and a loose black shirt. His complexion was dark brown, and his hair was black. He flashed a smile, but then ducked his head, and proceeded to dry-mop the floor. Billows of dust caused my hasty retreat. An Air Force tech sergeant oversaw his work, and so did another smiling Afghan man. I wondered about the sense of dignity and self-esteem of the young Afghan being supervised by two others while doing the most menial of tasks in a room in almost untenable disarray, yet bearing on its door the proud sign “Distinguished Visitors Lounge.” While he worked, he seemed to avoid eye-contact, but he smiled again on departure, as if to say, “Things could be worse.” And so was my first introduction to the Afghan people.

My journey to this tortured land was one worthy of Odysseus – the main difference, I think, was that on arrival, I was able to phone home, and then I slept for 11 hours, and then 3 hours, and then 2 more hours. When I finally clambered out of bed again, 36 hours had passed since my last meal. My room is comfortable enough, with bunk-beds (fortunately, no one else in the room), phone, computers, TV, and internet. No wifi though, which means that I cannot communicate from here on my own devices, which means no pictures to upload. And, these quarters are only temporary – my next flight leaves after eleven o’clock tonight – that’s 10 ½ hours earlier than US Central time. I make no prediction about being able to communicate home at all.

I was asked several years ago to record how it “feels to go to war.” I guess the answer depends on when someone actually “starts” going to war. Is it at the first point of hostility, as when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor or when Al Qaeda flew civilian aircraft into our most prominent skyscrapers? In those days, the entire nation felt threatened, at least for a time. Is it at the point, where realization hits that one’s own sons or daughters might be cast into harm’s way? Is it when an invitation is extended and accepted to join the fight personally? Is it before or after completing training required to be effective in the job “downrange?” Is it when time comes to say goodbye to those loved beyond measure? Is it when first undergoing the hush, darkness, and attendant foreboding of arrival at the transition stations (the places where co-travelers segregate to go to their various war-theater assignments)? Is it the familiarity of all of those feelings when deploying for yet another time?

Certainly, the feeling this time was different than when I first deployed to Iraq more than 2 years ago. Absent this time was the sense of foreboding. I ask myself if that is healthy or not? Is it gone because we are succeeding, or becoming complacent? At this point, I have no answer. Casualties continue.

Iraq was very different than my pre-conceived notions. This country, Afghanistan, has confounded foreign armies over millennia, and the outcome at this point is far from certain. If history has taught us anything about anywhere, it is that the future cannot be cast – it will follow its own course. Tyrants and “wanna’-be kings” come and go, and despite the cravings of their egos and the contemporary impositions of their wills, they are all reduced to short paragraphs in history books. Life, it seems, is a relay-race from generation to generation, and there is no finish line. The best we can hope for is to bequeath to our great-grandchildren and their immediate predecessors our best effort at passing along the freedoms and prosperity that we knew in the earlier days of our own lives. That sense mixes into the feeling of going to war – it gives the best response I can conceive of why we go to war – we cannot allow its depravities to consume our own beloved homeland and people.

Because Iraq challenged the impressions I had had of it prior to arrival there, I have done my best to divorce myself of drawing similarities between there and here in Afghanistan – at least for the moment. In reality, despite my physical presence at its heart, I cannot say that I yet have an impression of this country called Afghanistan. I am in awe of its history and the reputation of its people for being fierce and unrelenting in defense against any and all foreign armies. Yet I have also seen with my own eyes in other places, that people tire of war – that the few engaged in atrocity make victims of the populations they terrorize, and that those populations usually consist of fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, grandmothers, grandfathers – families who want only to live in peace and prosperity – to live and let live. In that desire lie seeds for optimism.

Immediate Update: I just took another walk outside. The sun is out, the sky above is blue, but around the horizon, there is still a white haze. Nevertheless, in the mid-distance, rising to lofty heights, are mountains covered in snow from their bases to their peaks. It is amazing what that sight does to lift spirits!

First Impressions: Afghanistan by Lee Jackson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.