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.