When the Smoke Clears

It’s a day for a pause.

I’m going to do my best to not really go to work today, though that could change at a moment’s notice. After several weeks of getting my feet on the ground working 14, 16, and a few 18 hour days since being pushed out to a remote location, it’s time for some laundry. And I’ll still be reading things for work.

Temperatures are dropping. Afghanistan in the winter will be a challenge. We are at some elevation. Gaps between my door and the frame are excellent egresses for any captured heat. A little wind and I should have my own, private snow drifts. We are preparing.

And of all the people in my life, who should I be out here with at this mini-base but none other than my own blog-son, the Viking Medic? We have to be careful of what we write. There are far more stories to tell, details that have to fall short. And it pains me. It’s like having to rush from one side of a school to another just as classes are changing. No running. Almost every step cut short as someone gets in your way. My literary hip hurts.

Whereas Bagram was crowded with thousands, our home is crowded with few. The space borders on suffocating, landscape taken up with as much efficiency as possible. We think of our brethren on submarines. At least we get to breathe fresh air. Dust-riddled, but not recycled. We receive packages, care packages, things to lift our spirits, but often the irony makes us laugh. When there’s not enough room to store, things are kept in the open, lying about in whatever space can be found. It doesn’t rain. Dust will cover everything regardless of whether it is left outside or in.

Most of the buildings are no more than 5 feet apart, whatever “open” spaces taken up by vehicles with a little more room to maneuver those vehicles. There are no building codes, and it’s obvious. We fashion what we can out of plywood and whatever was left behind by the previous occupants. For some, that means living in a building with 7 other men. For some, a shared large tent on a slab of concrete. And for a few others, we carve out a space inside of a Conex… a steel container used for shipping goods. In one corner stands a flagpole and memorial stone to a fallen soldier. His unit will probably never return.

Outside one of the huts sits a large box, someone’s idea of boosting our morale. The box is open, scavenged through. Softballs, bats, bases, frisbees, etc. Items for sports, all of which require large, open fields. Not even close. Everyone here would be making home runs every pitch. For us to go somewhere that we could use this equipment would require major planning and lots of firepower: Map recon, a forward party, 360° security, snipers at lookout points. Perhaps another unit would be better served, and I have seen other posts where they could pull off some recreation like this. Some of the guys do grab a glove and ball when they are about to go on a mission for a few days. Sometimes they can secure enough space and time to toss a ball back and forth. For the rest of it, we will find a way to get these items to a school before the snows fall. Maybe not the baseball bats.

We look for places to walk where the gravel has worn down, but the tires on our trucks make too many piles to make walking very easy.

Blue is the color of purity and truth. It is the color of so many doors, of the common gem lapis lazuli, of the chaddari still worn by many women here. The Taliban forced the women into those chaddari and it has become a part of the culture. There is also fear in some that if the Taliban return, if we leave, those who discarded the chaddari will be punished worse than they were before we came. It will be even worse for widows, the zanane bee sarparast… the unprotected women. Blue is the color of our gates, though rust streaks drip down in some spots, the little bit of rain affecting what it can. It’s not April. It won’t rain for a while.

Grass grows on the tops of some of our barriers. It’s extra concealment. Nothing grows on our grounds, but the animals do survive. Our existence is their entire ecosystem. Wasps flit about, massing in the latrine at times, but never bothering us in there. It’s a neutral zone. They occasionally attack the unwary outside. Mice are our bigger problem. They scurry about, infiltrating care packages. With the gaps in my door, they have easy access to my sleeping space, so no food in there. I have been awakened in the middle of the night by their loud scratching, apparently several deciding that my parts of my newly built shelf would make excellent resources for their hideouts. I fought back. Now I get the sound of the occasional snap from the trap.

And while the sun is still high, I will wander over to our gym, our real site of activity and recreation. It’s not big, but it is nice and we keep it that way. I need to visit it more often if only I could get the time. Soon I will be back outside the confines of our post, doing what I can, helping where I can, and watching for the ones who intend to stop me.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS