Unspoken Abandonment (6 page)

March 5,
2003
:

Today was a good day. The midnight shift in the OP flew by and before I knew it, it was dawn. Right after shift, I put my name in to use the compound’s computer to email home.
When it was my turn, I trembled with excitement as I waited for my inbox to load. It was almost like Christmas morning.
Who would ever think that something as simple as an email could make you feel so incredible.

I got an email
from my wife, but I feel almost
confused
, for lack of a better term
. Every email I receive from her just seems to be a reply to
something
I had
previously
sent, or she is writing for a specific reason
:
a forgotten password, a combination, or she needs to know how to do something
around the house
. She never sends sweet emails or special
notes
. I know the other guys have girls back home who send sexy emails with “interesting” pictures, sweet e-cards, and things like that. I check my email whenever I can
,
hoping to get something like that, and I never do. One of the guys got a care package from home filled with candy and magazines, and his girlfriend threw in one of her shirts so he could smell her. The second care package she sent had a pair of lace sexy underwear. It makes me wonder why I
a
m not getting anything like that. With nothing but time
on my hands
, it makes m
e
wonder about everything
. This really sucks. I can
no
t help but
worry that
I did something wrong.

After
using
the computer, I hit the gym for a little bit. The gym is my favorite way to unwind and blow off the steam and excess adrenaline from the day. I made a promise to
myself that I will go every day
and get everything out.

Once I was back in the room, I managed my way through the little space there was to get to my bed. Our room is now filled with bunks and gear, and it smells like a brutal combination of feet and ass.
Our plumbing shit the bed almost a week ago, so none of us have showered in days.
The smell in this room is absolutely horrendous, and I actually signed up for this.

March 6,
2003
:

During shift last night, I was in the OP when there were three small explosions around four o’clock in the morning. About ten minutes later a fourth, much larger expl
osion rang out. The first three
were far enough from the compound that they did
no
t cause much alarm. The fourth one was much closer
,
and
it was
strong enough to rattle my OP. I
a
m
still
not sure what was bombed;
we usually don’t find out until later the next day
and sometimes the day after
.

After shift ended, we went on another mission. Today we went to a remote village about
ninety-five
miles west of Kabul. We received our briefing
, and from the get-go
it was very unsettling. The village was about
four
hours from Kabul
,
so it was going to be a long ride. The route through the rural area is not often used
,
and the area is notorious for landmines. Lastly, our destination is very pro-Taliban and anti-American. What could possibly go wrong?

The powers that be determined we would travel in civilian S
UVs rather than military HUMVEEs
. Five of us loaded up in a
single
Land Cruiser and moved out. Most of the trip was uneventful, and the road was old, narrow and at times almost non-existent. The landscape looked a lot like the area outside of Las Vegas, nothing but desert and mountains.
Four hours into the drive, we passed through a small village. The road winding through the village was very tight, forcing us to pass through very slow.

Each person we passed leered into the truck and looked at us like we were from Mars. They knew we were Americans, and it was very obvious we were
n
o
t welcomed. A lot of the men wore a green strip of cloth tied around their upper arm, indicating they were Taliban. I was very, very far outside of my comfort level. After a few minutes we had cleared the village without any incidents, but in Afghanistan the situation can always change in a split second.

About ten minutes outside of the village, we entered a blind curve along a cliff. As we exited the curve, there was an old Soviet T-55 tank blocking the road. We were stopped about thirty yards from the tank, and an Afghan was manning the
tank’s
20mm machinegun which was pointed right at us.
Even though
that tank was an old Russian piece of shit, that machinegun would rip our
vehicle
to shreds. We were very quickly approa
ched by three Afghans with AK47 rifle
s. The Afghans spoke no English, and
the situation
became
extremely tense.
One of the Afghans was shouting something at us, and he was obviously very pissed off at us. The Sergeant in the front seat ordered everyone to stay still and not do a thing. We were in no position to make a move because of that machinegun.

None of us spoke, and we were all scared shitless. I did
n
o
t know, and I guess I still do
n
o
t, if this was just a random checkpoint set up to rob people or if the village had notified them we were coming and we were about to be taken. An American head is worth a lot of money in Afghanistan.
After a very long and tense twenty or so minute
wait
, an Afghan arrived who spoke
broken
English.

The English-speaking Afghan demanded to know who was in charge, and the Sergeant identified himself. The Afghan started yelling something about us having hostile intentions and
accused us of
trespassing on their land. After a minute of arguing, the Sergeant told the Afghan that we called in on our radio and reported the tank and our location. He told the Afghan that if we do
n
o
t call in again in the next five minutes, Bagram is going to send out the A-10 war planes to kill them
, level their village,
and destroy their tank. The Sergeant argued with the Afghan again, and after a few minutes the
Afghan walked towards the tank while
waving his hand in a circular motion in the air. I heard the tank’s diesel engine fire up, and the tank pulled off from the roadway.

The sergeant told the driver to go slow, but start driving. As the SUV slowly moved forward, I was cringing and half expecting the machine gun to start firing.
It never did, and we made it out fine. Like I said, I do
n
o
t know if they were just a checkpoint to rob people or if we were almost taken, but I can
no
t get
a
thought out of my mind: what would have happened if they
had
t
aken
us? We did
n
o
t have nearly enough ammo to fight our way out of
there, and
no one even knew where we were
. I just imagi
ne myself wearing some jumpsuit
and having my head cut off
,
for
the world to see on Al-Jazeera.

We finished out the mission and then drove back to Kabul. When we passed
through the same
area
where we had previously encountered
the tank, it was gone and the village was practically deserted. They probably figured an airstrike was coming and hauled ass. We got back to
Camp Eagle
safely, and now I
a
m here writing about the day
while I get ready
to take a nap before reporting for OP duty.

March 7,
2003
:

After
shift today, we went to the local bazaar. It
i
s an open area where the Afghans lay out blankets and display all sorts of items for sale. It
i
s the Afghan equivalent of a flea market. It w
as a fun way to spend the day as m
erchants were selling antique guns, knives, videos, jewelry, handmade rugs, and more. As you pass each merchant, they greet you with, “Hello, my friend. Items very nice.” I think they all learned their limited English from the same person.

The fun part of the bazaar is the bargaining. Central Asia is believed by many to be the birthplace of trade and commerce, and the Afghans love to haggle.
I found a marble and hand carved wood chess set that would easily sell for three to four hundred dollars in America. I asked how much, and the merchant punched “40” into his calculator. I responded with “15,” and he shook his head while typing in “25.” I typed in “20,” and the merchant shook his head and retyped “25.”
I turned to walk away and within five steps I hea
r
d
him shout
, “My friend!” I returned
,
and the merchant humbly accepted the twenty dollar offer.

The day was filled with similar encounters.
T
here
may have been
a few deals at the bazaar,
but
most of the stuff was
just
trash
. It was just fun to be outside and interacting with people in a positive manner. Yeah, it was a good day.

March 8,
2003
:

During the midnight shift, a German ISAF team was traveling down a main road near
Camp Eagle
when they were ambushed.
A bomb was placed along the road, and as the ISAF vehicle was passing by, the bomb
was detonated
. Two German soldiers were killed and three seriously injured.

After OP shift, my squad was assigned to provide security for a Colonel who was going to a meeting in a notoriously dangerous area of Kabul. We went to a new school for children ages five through twelve. The school is scheduled to open soon
,
and
an
American military civil affairs unit is making final preparations with desks, paper, pencils, and other supplies.

The ride to the school was a little unsettling as we drove by the scene of last night’s bombing. You never know when you
a
re next.

As we approached the school, I was in an area that words alone could never describe. It was
a neighborhood jam packed
with apartment buildings
so close that a car co
uld not be driven between them. This
place
can
only be described as pure slum. Each building was between five and ten stories and shaped like a shoebox. Very few of the windows still had glass in them, and a makeshift clothesline hung from every window.
Each and e
very building was so dilapidated that it seemed impossible they were still used as housing; however, the clothes hanging from each window told otherwise.

People were everywhere, fighting to swarm our vehicles, and many tried to open the doors as we crept by them. I was shocked to see how many people were very obviously high on something. Massoud, who came
as our translator, told us
this neighborhood is infested with opium and heroin. Robbery, murder, and squalor
are
all a part of daily life for everyone living in this area. Massoud said the children are particularly vulnerable in this area because of this crime. As with every other part of Kabul, there were lots of children. The difference here being that these kids were
n
o
t playing and making the best of anything; their lives are beyond horrible. Looking at this was gut wrenching.

When we parked, there w
as
a row of
several
shops on our left side. These are
n
o
t the typical shops you would think of in an American
plaza;
instead,
they are just a row of barely covered shacks offering some service or another. One guy
was
fixing bicycle tires
while
another
wa
s doing metal work. One of the shops is blown to shit, and the burned out car that carried the bomb is still in front of the shop.
Violence is everywhere in this place.

I think that
is all that
I
really
want to write about today. I could go on for hours about that shithole, but I
am getting very tired. Since I a
m still writing, it goes without saying that the day ended safely. All ten finge
rs and toes are still wiggling.