John D McHugh

Photographer

Friday, November 30, 2007

A change of plan

13th Nov
 

Finally the news came through about yesterday’s attack. The IED had been huge, flipping the heavily armoured Humvee into the air. The Anvil Troop Commander, Captain David Boris, and his gunner Sergeant Adrian Hike, had been killed. An interpreter travelling with them had also died, while the driver had been badly burned, but was still alive. There were other details, but I see no need to tell them here. Suffice to say every man who did hear them had to digest them slowly. We had driven to this town amidst the threat of IEDs, and when the mission was over Charlie Company would have to drive back along the same roads that had just seen the death of their comrades. It wasn’t a nice thought.
 

When the news came through there were also a change of plan. Charlie Company would be pulled off the Chabaran mission, and would drive back to Bermel. We would leave later in the day, after a visit from the 82nd’s Commander. This was a show and tell trip, and there was a lot of anger that it was going ahead. The guys just wanted to get out of Chabaran immediately, and get back to Bermel. The feeling was that they had been pulled away from “home2 to this “dog and pony show” mission, which had been seen as a farce from the very start. Now the implications were much more serious. Many guys felt that by leaving their Area of Operations (AO), they had handed the initiative to the insurgents, who it appeared had seized the opportunity afforded by the reduction in troop numbers. Now Charlie Company wanted to get back to Bermel and do some “housekeeping.”
 

Of course the plan to leave straight after the commander’s mission didn’t happen, and when we finally left, it was in the wrong direction. I’m not kidding, we set off in completely the wrong direction. It had been decided that we should head to a town called Spina, to meet up with some other elements of the battalion mission. This involved following an unknown road, and then moving into a town to distribute HA.
 

There was such a delay in leaving Chabaran that there was no doubt we would be struggling to make our destination before the sun set. The convoy was big, not as big as on the way down, but big all the same, with ANA and ETTs as well as US troops. We had travelled for maybe 30 minutes when the lead vehicles called back on the radio to say that the road stopped. Just ended. So much for using roads that haven’t been checked out in advance. Now every vehicle had to turn around, and we moved back to the town we had just left. One hour down, and no distance covered! Great.
 

The other option was to head over a mountain pass, close to 10,000ft. This would be challenging, to say the least, as we had ANA Ranger pick-ups and a Jingle truck in the convoy, not to mention a huge armoured recovery vehicle. Again the convoy headed out of Charbaran, and this time my altimeter started to climb quickly. That isn’t to say the convoy moved quickly. Oh no, it bloody well crawled along, stopping regularly. We were far back in the procession, so we couldn’t see why we were stopping, but as we moved further up the road it became clear. There were several steep points, and in order for the ANA’s Rangers to make it up these, they needed to get a run at them. Hence the stopping, to ensure the vehicle in front had cleared the incline. Back at out point in the convoy this meant many frustrating stops, often after moving no more than 25 ft.
 

There was a lot of radio traffic to try and find out what was going on, and eventually 1SG sent a terp up ahead to get an explanation for the delays. I should have mentioned that the MOD  CO, Capt Mac, had flown out to take temporary command of Anvil Troop in the light of their Commander’s death. That meant that while there is an Executive Officer (XO) who should stand in, 1SG was really in charge. This may seem strange, but the reality is that a 1SG has years of experience where as an XO is probably a First Lieutenant, and still considred wet behind the ears. So now I was travelling in the defacto Commander’s vehicle. I couldn’t help but think that that meant I was travelling in the number one target vehicle in the convoy. When the terp came back and stood at the door to explain to the 1SG what the hold-up was, I was fucking furious. In that simple act the terp had singled out our truck as a leaders vehicle. Now any spotters in the mountains would have good reason to try and hit our Humvee should there be an ambush.
 

And believe me, this was perfect ambush territory. We had rock face on either side, very steep and rising hundreds of feet above us. Christ, they could have rolled boulders down on us and been sure to kill some one, never mind small arms, rockets, IEDS, or any other modern weapon. This was a real Thermopylae type pass, and only a few insurgents would have been required to hold up the entire convoy. I was absolutely convince we were going to be attacked here, and looking out the Humvee window I couldn’t see a single outcrop or rock behind which I could take cover should I need to get out of the vehicle.
 

The other concern was time. We were making almost no headway, but the clock was ticking, and the sun getting lower. It gets dark early in the mountains, and the last thing anyone wanted was to even consider patrol basing in this terrain.
 

Eventually we made it to the top, and I, and probably everyone else, breathed a huge sigh of relief. It turned out to be a little pre-emptive however, as what goes up, must come down. And what a down slope we now faced. The road, if it could be called that, was a series of hairpin turns, on narrow tracks that fell away hundreds of feet. The slightest wrong move from any of the drivers and there would be a catastrophe.  I was on the right hand side of the vehicle, so my window looked out straight into the rock face climbing upwards, whereas the people sitting on the left hand side looked out over the precipice and into very thin air indeed. We made it to the bottom without any disaster, but in all probability the drivers lost a a few years of their lives from the extreme stress.
 

Once down off the mountain it was a short drive into Spina. The sun was setting as we pulled up in a clearing close to the town. The inhabitants had all come out to see the strange and unexpected procession through their quiet town. All along the route little kids, both boys and girls waved to us. Older boys and men stared, but not in an aggressive way, but simply curious. There were even some young women on the streets or peeking out behind doors. The girls and women wore beautifully vivid dresses, bright reds and yellows, and covered in rhinestones and glittering in the golden sunset light. The men wore huge turbans, the largest I have seen in Afghanistan. I desperately wanted to get out and walk amongst the people and shoot some pictures, but of course this was not an option. This is one of the hardest things about working in this environment; bearing in mind that even a beautiful scene like this has hidden possible dangers.
 

1SG decided that we couldn’t stay here for the night, as it was too close to the houses. An insurgent with a rocket could get far too close to us using the houses as cover, with the possible added bonus of a PR disaster for the Americans if they returned fire and killed innocent civilians. So, the elders were told that we would camp outside town, and return in the morning to distribute HA and talk with them. Then we all climbed back in to the vehicles, and started looking for a safe place to spend the night. By now the light was gone, and all the soldiers had mounted their night-vision devices on their helmets. These allow them to drive fairly well, although as it is a monocular device their depth perception is compromised. However, we didn’t crash.
 

By the time we stopped there was the faintest deep red glow just on the horizon, just enough to let me shoot some silhouettes of the soldiers standing around with their night vision on their helmets. Then it was gone, and I turned my attention to sleep. The ground here was extremely rocky, and try as I might I could find a clear spot. Plus, we were on the top of a hill, so a piece of flat ground was also unavailable. I realised that this was not going to be a good night’s sleep. And then, to cap it all, the mortar guys set up their weapon right on the top of the hill. This meant I would be sleeping within 25ft of the tube. I hoped that if they had to shoot during the night that I was awake before they did. Otherwise I might have a heart attack. Everyone else was also trying to sort out sleeping arrangements. It was cold, and because we were on a hill we could expect the wind chill to contribute to our discomfort. The solution was for everyone to sleep in close proximity. I don’t mean hugging each other, but not far off it. 1Sg reminded everyone that this was not a very secure place, and so all non-sleep related kit was to be packed and put in the vehicles, just in case we came under attack during the night and had to make a hasty exit. I seriously thought about sleeping with my boots and trousers on, but in the end I decided that I could get them on pretty fast these days, and so I opted for comfort. What little there was anyway.

posted by John D at 12:35  

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Pink-belly, and a Christmas jumper.

12th Nov
 

Another cold night, down to -4.4 Celsius. This sucks. At least the ANA had their fire going. It’s amazing, because as soon as the sun comes up it is lovely. This time last year, I was snowed in up at Firebase Wilderness in the KG pass. Once the kettles were boiling I was back to Charlie Company though, for my morning coffee. Sitting there, enjoying the warmth of my drink I was a million miles away, when a massive disturbance broke out. I grabbed my cameras, not knowing what the hell was going on, and ran to the other side of the big recovery vehicle, where the shouting was coming from. Maybe a fight has broken out, or they caught someone trying to steal, or something like that, I thought.
 

The scene that I came upon was bizarre. It was one soldier’s birthday, and the others, maybe 20, were determined to give him a birthday “treat.” He had locked himself in, but someone had snuck up on the gunner’s turret, and once in a wrestling match ensued. All the intruder had to do was unlatch the lock, and then there were many more hands waiting to aid him. As I arrived the birthday boy was being lifted out of the cab of the vehicle, still kicking and struggling, but already he had lost. He was stretched out between the others, pulled taut by arms and legs, and then his shirt was pulled up to his chest. The gift was “Pink Belly,” achieved by delivering repeated slaps to the stomach, stinging slaps, with resounding sharp cracks. The poor guy kept struggling, but to no avail. It was over as quickly as it started, and everyone walked away laughing. The soldier turned to my video camera and said, “That’s what I get, the big two zero.” And that is what I have to remind myself sometimes. These guys are really just kids. It isn’t any surprise that these playground pranks should be so prevalent.
 

My coffee was now gone, and it looked like we would be sitting around on this hilltop for another day, so I headed over to the ETT camp again. As I walked by the school, I noticed a class being held, and looked in the empty window frame. The teacher motioned to me to come in, and as there was no window baring my way, I stepped into the room. The kids thought this was hilarious, and once again I was responsible for a break with the Curriculum. They settled down much faster than the ones the day before though, and I got quite a lot of photographs and video. Then another young man entered the room, conversed briefly with the teacher. The teacher then announce that class was dismissed. Not that I understood what he said, but some things are the same the world over, and the kids were running out of the classroom before the teacher was finished speaking, as sure as if a bell had rung.
 

I was confused, because it was only just after 8am, so they couldn’t be on a lunch break already. I followed them outside. There the ANA were herding the children and adolescents into two separate groups, and making them form a queue. One of the Jingle Trucks that had accompanied our convoy was parked up, and I realised that there was a Humanitarian Assistance (HA) drop planned. HA can take many different forms, sometimes being food, sometimes clothes, sometimes school supplies, etc. Today it was clothes. Big woolly jumpers to be precise. The sizes were all a bit off, and in some cases way off, but the theory is that if each kid gets at least something, then they can trade afterwards, or pass it along to a family member. The clothes are all second hand, from well meaning Americans by the loks of them. One pullover particularly caught my eye. It was bright red, with white snowflakes, reindeer, and Christmas Trees. I guess some Western child didn’t like Grandma’s gift. And now here it was, on a child in a land where it was extremely doubtful that anyone would understand the symbols adorning the wool sweater. And if they did it would mean nothing to them. The kid seemed pleased with it though.
 

Once everyone had clothes, then the hand-out moved on to school supplies. Pens, notebooks, satchels, chalk, everything you can think of. The orderly queues were starting to break down, but never fear, here comes the ANA to save the day. Swinging belts, rifles, and shouting and screaming in a particularly aggressive manner at the children, I wondered what the point of giving with one hand and then terrifying with the other was. The kids seemed a lot less perturbed than I was though, and so once again I had to remind myself that there is a different culture here, and I shouldn’t judge.
 

During all this, one of the ETTs had noticed something. He walked over to the teachers, and through a terp he asked who the men were. Some were teachers, and some were what seemed to translate as teachers assistants, or something like that. The soft-spoken Major from Alabama then thanked the men for having the courage to teach the children. He said he understood that the Taliban made terrible threats against the education system, and in fact have often carried out these threats, burning down schools and maiming or even killing teachers. The Major said that it was important that the children got an education, and he respected the men for teaching, and for doing so in spite of the risk. However, he went on to say, he had just seen one of the men surreptitiously take, steal in fact, a bag of school supplies given to him by a US soldier, and if he witnessed it again, regardless of the respect he had for the teachers, he would kick the guys ass. Now, to Western sensibilities this may seem inappropriate, excessive, and even downright rude. But I believe that this ETT has got to grips with the Afghan culture a lot better than most, and he said exactly what was needed to ensure that the kids got to keep their new found gifts. How’s that for cultural awareness?
 

With all the goods now distributed, it was time for some education. Each of the kids had been given a toothbrush and toothpaste, but it’s important to ensure that the locals know how to use items that they may not have encountered before. So, up stepped one of the terps, called “The Professor.” He proceeded to give a fun filled demonstration through Pastu and gestures, making all the kids laugh. He was a natural entertainer, and the children loved it, and so at least this interaction ended on a happy note.
 

Once all the kids were back in class I continued on to the ETT’s camp, my original destination. They had a fire going, and once again I spent several hours sitting around chatting. They have come to trust me now, I believe, and the conversations veered wildly from one subject to another, as it only can when you have hours to kill, and such a diverse group of people. I wandered off at one stage, to relieve myself behind a wall. Standing there, with my back to the nearby ridgeline, I suddenly got the fear. I was convinced that a sniper was looking down his scope, with me in his cross-hairs. It was extremely unnerving, and I started moving, still taking a piss, in the vain hope that it might make it harder to hit me. Now, some would say that this is a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress  Disorder, and that I should be seeing a shrink. I’m pretty sure it is just a figment of an over-active imagination. It was the same feeling that I used to get as a child, when I would be walking in the dark I would imagine that there was some terrible monster behind me, and before I knew it I would be running for my life, terrified. Stil, it gave me the creeps.
 

I left the ETTs before dark, around 4pm. As usual I wanted to get my bed made up while it was still light. I was in high spirits, despite my sniper-scare, when I returned to the March or Die patrol base. As I pulled my rucksack out of the boot (trunk, for my American readers) of the Humvee, I casually asked 1SG if we were still on track to do the planned mission tomorrow. I was keen to get off this hill and actually do something. In my high spirits, I had totally failed to pick up on the mood around the vehicles. 1SG told me that everything was now in flux, due to an unfolding incident just outside their home base of Bermel.
 

Bermel had been described to me many times over the previous days. It is a FOB, though they claim almost forgotten by the rest of the Army. It is a few miles from the Pakistan border, and has been rocketed, mortared, and even recently hit by a suicide bomber at the front gate, killing several ANA, and resulting in a Mexican standoff between the ANA, ANP, and US troops. The ANA believed that because the suicide bomber had passed through an Afghan National Police checkpoint that there must have been collusion, and so wanted to kill the ANP. The ANP refuted this, and wanted to kill those that wanted to kill them. The US soldiers that got between them to try and calm things down suddenly found themselves looking down some ANA barrels, such was the high emotion of the day. In the end, noby killed anybody, except of course the suicide bomber’s victims
 

The point is, FOB Bermel is a dangerous place. The FOB is shared by two different units, due to the large soldier requirements in the active Area of Operations (AO). Charlie Company, 1/503rd of course, and also Anvil Troop, 1 Squadron 91st Cavalry. And while Charlie Company were away, the work-load on the Cavalry guys increased. News had just come in that during a convoy a few hours earlier, one of the vehicles had been hit by a catastrophic IED. A catastrophic strike means that the vehicle is destroyed, and all the occupants are Wounded in Action (WIA) or Killed in Action (KIA). The initial report gave the vehicle call-sign, so everyone knew who was in the vehicle. Now they were waiting for word, WIA or KIA.
 

They waited all night, but despite the speculation, the news never came. A day that had started so light-hearted, with the birthday celebrations for a young soldier, had now turned very dark indeed, and like the others I went to bed early, anxious to escape into sleep.

posted by John D at 13:21  

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Crayons, smiles, and scowls

11th Nov


 It was even colder last night, dropping down to -3.8 Celsius. It just isn’t possible to sleep soundly when you are that cold, and I tossed and turned all night. The soldiers have varying degrees of comfort, due mainly to theft. The theft, that is, of their equipment before they arrived in country. As part of their deployment preparations, Charlie Company sent 130 duffle bags of personal gear, including the modular sleep system that the Army issues to them, in a shipping container to Afghanistan, through Karachi port in Pakistan. When it arrived, there were 10 bags remaining. The rest had disappeared in transit. Of course the possibility of Army logistics replacing these necessary items is, in the soldier’s experience, pretty slim. An old Army motto, delivered in some war movie by Clint Eastwood, tells a soldier to “Improvise, adapt, and overcome” when faced with a problem. Well, these guys did. Some scrounged kit, some “liberated” stuff, and a lot of them just got online and purchased sleeping bags out of their own pocket. There will be no reimbursement from the Army, which some guys did complain about, but others said they were happy to buy their own because it is better than the Army’s anyway. 1SG had the ultimate bag, an Elite 5 by Snugpak. He never stopped telling us how hot it got in there, and how he was sweating during the night, etc. For those who really suffered, there was always the option of sleeping in the Humvee. This is something I have always rejected, as it is just too uncomfortable, but some of the younger guys manage it.
 

I ran the now familiar gauntlet of getting out of my sleeping bag and getting my trousers and boots on as quickly as possible. I know I am supposed to be ready to jump up at a moments notice if we are attacked, nut sleeping with boots on is just a step too far (excuse the pun) and I have so much mission essential equipment (read, junk) stuffed in my trousers pockets that it’s easier to take them off than empty the cavernous compartments. And anyway, I am wearing Merino wool thermals, so if I do have to get up fast, I will at least be decently covered, if looking a little ridiculous.  Then, with a breakfast consisting of coffee and an MRE, I was ready to face the day. As I gulped down the hot coffee in an effort to get some heat into my system, I had noticed the Afghan kids making their way to the school-house, so as soon as I was finished I followed their lead. I found a “terp” near the school, and asked him to accompany me in to class. Technically the terps are not required to assist me, as they work for the Army, but these guys are all friendly and keen to help. I’m always hitting them up for quick Pashto lessons, so most of them know me. We walked in the front door of what I very loosely call a school. Bare concrete floors and walls gave the place a nuclear bunker type feel. Most of the windows were broken, or just empty frames, and there were doors on maybe half the classrooms. Chanting emanating from one room caught my attention, and I followed the rhythmic sound. With no door to knock on, I asked my “Tadjiman” (interpreter) to ask to teacher if I could photograph and film the class. He seemed mystified as to why I would want to, but he gave his agreement, in a gruff sort of way. Of course I was now the star attraction in the room, and so I ended up pretending to take pictures and film for ages before the teacher eventually got their attention back and I could actually get something usable. The class ranged in ages from around 8 to 15 or 16 years of age, with 3 or 4 boys sharing a single textbook (all boys of course, I didn’t see a woman the whole time I was in Chabaran town).
 

When class dismissed, the kids rushed out to the side of the building, where the ETTs and ANA were camped. Immediately they started demanding balls and Frisbees, and the ETTs happily complied. I moved amongst the kids, trying to capture the scene, but they were still fascinated with the “Akas” (photographer). Then I made the mistake of speaking a few words in Pashto. I was immediately surrounded by shouting kids, and however much I repeated my stock “I don’t understand” phrase, they just kept at me. Some of them had reasonable English, and we started an impromptu language class. They would point, or more accurately, pull at, an item of clothing or something I was carrying, like my cameras, and tell me its name in Pashto. In return I would name the item in English. This went on for a long time, from head to toe in fact, with great enthusiasm on their part, if a little less on mine. I wanted to write it all down, but the biggest mistake of all you can make around these kids is to produce a pen. It is what they always ask the soldiers for, and even driving through a village they will make the international hand gesture for writing in an attempt to gain one from the troops. So, I had to commit as much as possible to memory. 
 

One of the ETTs then produced a couple of packets of crayons, and started to distribute them to the kids. He tossed me a packet, and I was immediately swarmed. These little kids, some only 5 or 6, were shouting “John, give me pen” and “One more, John” and the scene was pretty wild, but all good natured. Overlooking the scene was a group of older students, and the teachers. Or at least a group of men I took to be teachers. Suddenly one of the ETTs noticed that they were writing, and he called on one of the terps to find out what they were putting down on paper. And like that, the situation soured.
 

The ETT said he had noticed the kids calling out my name, and the men were writing at the same time. He felt it was possible that they were noting down information about the soldiers identities of camp that might be useful to the insurgents. Or listing the different types of guns on the vehicles. Or drawing their layout. Or any number of other possibilities. Typically, I had been completely unaware of this. Looking at it now, there were too many men, all of whom fell into what the military categorise as “fighting age,” to be the teachers. They said they were friends of the teachers, and had come up from the village to join them on their break. In the end, there were no names in the writings, but the mood was broken. The men were told to leave, and the teachers glowered as they called the children back to class. And so, whatever hearts and minds the beach-ball, Frisbees, and crayons had won, suspicion had lost again. And so it goes on, this war.
 

I spent the rest of the day doing interviews with my video camera. The ETTs all, eventually, agreed to speak on camera, and I got some great stories. Like the one about a kid that had been wounded twice in a month, gaining two Purple Hearts and a ticket home. The second time he was hurt, he was peppered with shrapnel, and already on the stretcher when a medic got to him. The medic started to cut of his trousers, and then said in a sorrowful voice, ”Oh Dude, they got your nuts.” Naturally, the kid cried out “Oh no man, not my nuts” at which point the medic grabbed the young mans privates and said “Oops, no, my mistake, there they are.” I reckon after that the kid could have handled anything. This story made me laugh, inappropriate as it was. It also reminded me of the dark, some would even think callous, humour that most medics embrace.
 

Later in the day I also interviewed 1SG.He had been really great so far, taking the time to explain to me on camera what was going on, even when he was obviously busy. However, I wanted to sit down with him and get some deeper insights into the man, and his experiences. This guy has been around, and it shows. I grabbed him as the sun was setting, and we sat on a stone wall, and he talked extremely frankly to the camera. Just before we started news had come in that one of the outlaying Combat Outposts (COPs) by their home, FOB Bermel, was being rocketed. There was a lot of frustration that Charlie Company was out here on this mission, while their colleagues were being hit back at “home.” 1SG talked about it, and it was strange, to be getting a report of a still ongoing fight.
 

It was all great stuff though, and I was just worried that the light would go before he finished. As he was ending, I heard a bang. So did 1SG, and he went to find out what it was. Then there were two more, and suddenly it was battle stations. Someone was shooting, and the question was whether it was at us. Mortars and rockets, known as indirect fire, can be launched from miles away, and so the distant bangs we were hearing could be the first indications of attack. If confirmation arrived, it could likely be in the form of violent explosions, flesh tearing metal, and burning shrapnel, all in out midst. Everyone tensed up, and there was a lot of fast radio calls in an attempt to ascertain what was happening. 1SG shouted orders while working the radio. “Everybody get their gear on, helmets and IBA (Individual Body Armour). Anyone who doesn’t need to be out, get in a vehicle, now!” This was to lessen our vulnerability to injury if blasts suddenly started ripping us up. Within maybe 10 minutes, it was all over. The shooting had been friendly. ANA troops were firing their big artillery pieces, and somehow the message hadn’t come down the line. As quickly as everyone went to full battle preparedness, they now slipped back into relaxation mode. And that is the tell right there. These guys have seen plenty of combat, and are not fazed by it. They have a self-assured confidence that only comes from experience, and lots of it. Before I came out a friend I have been embedded with before emailed me, and told me to judge carefully the merits and skill of the unit I was with this time. He said I should know their limitations, if any, as it could literally save my life. Well MSG B, I think I’m safe with March or Die.

posted by John D at 07:27  

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Dumb Dumb Club

10 Nov 

Minus 2.6 degrees Celsius. That is what my watch told me when I woke shivering before dawn, and I have to say the knowledge did nothing to make the cold more bearable. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, I got up and dressed as fast as possible. Nearby the ANA had a small fire going, and pulling my armour on I made straight for it. 1SG had decreed that no Americans were to build a fire, and so they probably wouldn’t go to an ANA one, but I’m not a bloody soldier and I was freezing. The ANA soldiers made room for me in their circle, and we went through my Pashtu repertoire. It is amazing how useful it is to be able to say good morning, how are you, I’m fine, I’m freezing, thank you for your fire, I am a photographer, I am not American, and most of all, when things get confusing, to say I don’t understand what you are saying. Throwing in a few swear words and questioning the sexual practices of the Taliban had the ANA laughing and cheering, and soon I was offered a cup of sweet Chai and some Naan bread. 

 

Returning to the March or Die (MOD) camp, I was told that there were some helicopters inbound. An engineer had twisted his testicle (don’t ask, everybody was so busy making fun of him that no-one could tell me how it happened) and was going to be Medevaced out. Then there would be a series of Chinooks delivering various items of heavy equipment, including a battery of 105mm howitzers. So, I made my way down to the helicopter landing zone (HLZ). I talked with the Captain in charge, and got the low down on where they would land. Of course I should have remembered that helicopters tend to land wherever they want, not where directed, let alone come in from the planned direction. 

 

Thinking about the rising sun in the East, the still hanging mist, and the dust that would be thrown up by the helicopters downdraft, I chose my spot carefully. I hoped to get a nice silhouette as the bird flew in low, and then catch the beautiful golden light through the dust of the landing. Soon enough I heard the whoop, whoop, whoop of a helicopter’s rotors. It came in over the village exactly as I expected, but then banked off the south, turned, and approached the HLZ. Now I was right under it’s path, which wasn’t ideal, as I would be covered in dust before I got the pictures I wanted. I followed it in the whole way with my video camera. As it neared me it got loud, and then as it was coming over my head, boom, boom, boom. The flares that are used as counter-rocket measures had detonated, and frightened the life out of me. As it happened I ducked my head, so I didn’t see exactly what happened. Another soldier watching did see though, and came running over to me. “Hey Dude, are you ok?” he asked, his concern written all over his face. I shrugged my shoulders, and said yeah. But he explained what he saw, when my head was down, and watching the video tape later confirmed it. One of the flares had impacted just inches from me. If it had hit me I would have been very seriously burned, but instead I had had a lucky escape. Imagine the ignominy, being wounded by a Medevac! 

 

More helos came and went, and after I had moved to a safer location, I got some great photos and footage. The dust storms blown up by the downwash of the birds, especially the twin rotors of the Chinooks, looked spectacular. Pretty tough though for the guys who had to run forward and unload the helicopter’s deliveries. 

 

Once I had enough of the HLZ I wandered back up towards the school, to March or Die’s patrol base. But on the way I noticed a commotion going on with a bunch of Afghan kids. The kids had turned up for school, despite the fact that several of the rooms had been occupied by the ANA, and now, outside, the US ETTs (Embedded Tactical Trainers) were playing games with them. There was a beach ball being kicked around, and also a Frisbee. The kids were going crazy, but it was good fun to watch. 

 

I ended up spending hours with the ETTs. After the kids went back into school I sat and chatted with them, and eventually it got dark. They had a large fire going, and it was warm against the night’s chill. Stories seem to flow more readily around a fire, and they talked about their experiences both here in Afghanistan and also Iraq. A lot of the stories revolved around the huge cultural differences they encounter. For example, in Iraq one of the guys had witnessed a serious fist-fight break out in a queue of waiting men. Knives were drawn before the fight was broken up. When asked what had started the fight, it transpired that one man had insulted another by suggesting his wife could not cook. So enraged was the second man that he was prepared to kill the first. 

 

I was impressed by the commitment that came out in the ETTs stories. They have been in country for a while, and have been involved in a lot of action. I had heard some pretty bad stories about ETTs from some of the regular Army recently, which saddened me, because I always will remember the work that Master Sergeant B did with the ANA up in Nuristan earlier in the year. I think the work the ETTs do is hugely important, and they have the ability to be especially effective because they are not constrained by the same tight regulations that the Army suffers from. Most of the ETTs are older, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s, and so they have a lot of life experience that is useful in the field. These particular ETTs were from the Alabama National Guard. Part time soldiers, the regular Army would say. Doubly qualified, the National Guard would say. With their fires, and their relaxed attitude to uniform, and their extra comforts, I can see why there can be some resentment towards them, especially from the younger soldiers who don’t understand the ETT role. But the truth is these guys were working hard. And if they spend less time worrying about bloused trousers, and more time on getting their ANA up to a standard to take control of their own country, then great. Yes, they had brought cots to sleep on, and yes, they eat local food, but I see all of these things as a positive. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Any fool can be uncomfortable, but it takes a little more thought and planning to achieve better living conditions. And if you are living better, and sleeping better, it can only improve the way you work. 

 

So there we were, all sitting or standing around the blazing fire, telling stories and making jokes. I had some coffee, good company, and the war seemed very far away. But it never is. And soon enough, it barged in again, and spoiled our party. One of the ETTs had been in the building for a daily report by radio, and when he returned to the fire he said he had some news. Earlier in the day, up in Nuristan, there had been an ambush on US and ANA forces. 5 US soldiers and one ETT had been killed, as well as 3 ANA. Another 8 US were seriously wounded. This was a huge loss. My heart went out to the families of the dead men. Over the next few hours many more lives would be destroyed, with the news that they had lost sons, fathers, brothers. And on a personal note, I worried about my own girlfriend and family. Nuristan was where I was shot back in May, and I knew that as soon as Helen heard the name on the news, she would worry about me. Now I realised what a mistake I had made, not bringing my sat-phone on this mission to keep my packing light. I had no way of knowing how long we would be out here, and I had no way of contacting Helen to let her know I was alright. 

 

For a while people were lost in their own dark thoughts, as I was in mine. But after a while two of the ETTs announced we were going to play a campfire game. They said it was called the Dumb Dumb Club. It was a silly game, but perfect for the situation. You had to observe what they did, and listen to what they said, and then repeat it. It seemed simple, but wasn’t. Quickly we were all absorbed, and as one after another of the participants figured out the secret code, the rest of us became more obsessed. I never did figure it out, much to my frustration, but it certainly lightened the mood that night, and I was grateful. But later, as I went to sleep, still trying to solve the Dumb Dumb riddle, I also thought again of the families of the men killed earlier in the day. There would be no games, no laughter, no distractions for them from their pain. Looking up at the stars, I thought about how I had so recently written that I love this place. Well, sometimes I fucking hate it too. 

posted by John D at 08:27  

Sunday, November 25, 2007

A family renunion

9 Nov. 

Waking up buried down in a sleeping bag is disconcerting to say the least. And sticking your head out in to negative figures Celsius is no fun either. I have found that the best thing to do in this situation is to get up immediately, as lying around just focuses my attention on how cold and uncomfortable I really am. To save space I carry a cut down sleeping mat, just long enough to support my spine, or hips if I lie on my side. This means that my legs have no insulation from the cold ground, and so over the course of the night it is my legs feet and toes that suffer the most. 

One of the things I enjoy about these situations is the satisfaction of falling back into little rituals, and rediscovering the reason that they work. Tipping out my boots, I discovered a lodger that wasn’t invited. Then, unwrapping my fleece which had been pressed into service as a pillow, and digging out my wolly hat and gloves which I had placed inside my sleeping bag to keep warm, I pulled on all my protection against the cold. I also pulled my armour over my head, and buckled it up. 

From our vantage point I could see down into the valley that Chabaran sits in. The valley was filled with mist, and the sun was rising behind it, creating a beautiful silhouetted scene. Already the engineer’s earth movers were at work. 

Reverting to other lessons learned, I started to pack my gear. The rule out here is that you must always be ready to move, and so all sleeping kit should be packed away before breakfast is even considered. I was fairly sure we would be staying in the same location for several days, but it is important to look professional in front of the soldiers. If they have to tell me obvious things then they will quickly start to see me as a liability, and my access will be affected. So, everything was crammed into my rucksack, except my coffee mug. This is another “must have” item. Some guys just cut an empty water bottle in half instead, but this results in burned fingers and very quickly, cold coffee. A good insulated camping mug, with a lid, is well worth carrying. 

Others were rising, and in no time at all three stoves were producing blue flames, and kettles of various sizes sat on them. Cutting open an MRE I fished out the single serving coffee sachet, and then grabbed a hot chocolate packet from the Humvee. A mocha for breakfast seemed perfect in the cold conditions. 

Word came in that “Havoc” Company had suffered a break-down, and would require a “wrecker,” one of the massive armoured recovery vehicles, to tow it back to base. Charlie Company was tasked with escorting the wrecker. Again, this was going to be an unpleasant drive, as all the intel said that there were PPIEDs (Pressure Plate Improvised Explosive Devices - detonated by driving over them, like a land-mine) waiting on the secondary routes around Chabaran. However, a mission is a mission, and once Charlie Company was given theirs there was no hesitation about moving out. I climbed into my seat in the Humvee behind 1SG C, checked my cameras were set up for shooting in daylight (I had set them up for shooting in almost darkness the previous night in anticipation of an attack) and settled in for another day of driving. 

Leaving the village we immediately started to climb again, and soon we were at 8,500 ft above sea level. Movement was slow, with great care being taken over the road, all the time watching for wires, disturbed earth, etc, anything at all that might suggest a threat. After a couple of hours we reached Havoc, on a wide plain. The scene was like something out of a Western, and in my imagination the soldiers became cowboys, the Humvess were horses, and the elusive but dangerous Taliban became the feared red Indians. 

Amidst all the rivalry of the meeting of two sister Companies, there was also a family reunion. A soldier from Charlie Company grabbed a younger looking man (or boy, really) in a hug. It turns out it is his younger brother. They are operating in the same province, but don’t get to see each other very often. It was heart-warming to watch, but I also thought it must be difficult for them to be in the same war. Every time news comes in of an attack, or casualties, they must think of their sibling, and worry. 

Then a shout came, “McHugh, get over here.” I find it strange to be called by my surname, but that’s the way it is, with everyone wearing a nametag bearing their family name. I joined the group that had called me, and the guys said, in excited and amused voices, that I had to meet a “terp” (interpreter) that works with Havoc. I was introduced to “Scooter” and I almost fell over when he started talking. The guy has a crisp British accent, slightly upper-crust, and it is perfect. He told me that he had worked with some British officers last year, and the accent he had picked up had stayed. It wa so funny, because most of the terps have full blown US accents, and greet you with “What’s up” or “Hey man” but this chap was terribly, terribly British. 

The busted Humvee was hooked up to the wrecker, and we made our way back over the pass and into the crowded locale of Chabaran. Along the way I shot some self-portraits. To amuse myself. My beard is coming along nicely, and my ballistic-proof glasses are huge, and so make me look ridiculous. 

Arriving back on our little hilltop position, the guys settled in for the rest of the day. Soon a game of cards began, with an MRE box passing for a table. The game was a mystery to me, but it passed the time for the soldiers, and made good pictures. 

As darkness started to fall people began to remove their armour. The feeling was that the area was saturated with friendly forces, and so was safe. I chose to keep mine on until it became fully dark however. The soldiers made fun of me a bit, but some of them said if they were shot there is no way in hell they would come back out here at all, and so if I want to wear my armour in my sleeping bag they would understand. 

After dark the Charlie Company mortar team walked the short distance to the ANA encampment, to do some training. Well, really, it was to watch the ANA fire their mortars, and then correct any errors in procedure. There weren’t any. The ANA are well able to use their weapons, and understood some of the complex firing techniques suggested by the US soldiers, ie shooting illuminated rounds to see and then shooting high explosive, using the eerie light of the illume round to correct their coordinates. A marked difference in their enthusiasm for fighting was apparent though. Every time the Afghans fired their mortars they all cheered, including the other ANA soldiers who had gathered to watch, and it reminded me of the ooohs and aaahs of a fireworks display back in the UK on Bonfire Night. 

Back at our patrol base the temperature was already plummeting. I had earlier mentioned to someone how cold my feet had been, and they had given me a chemical hand-warmer. A small sachet, maybe 2×3 inches. When shaken vigorously it would begin to emanate heat, and would continue to do so for 8-10 hours. The instructions said not to use inside sleeping bags, but I was assured that I could throw it into the bottom of my bag and forget about it. It wouldn’t burn me, just keep the chill at bay. I also had dug into my rucksack, and extracted my second sleeping bag, hopefully giving me more chance of a reasonably bearable night. Getting ready to sleep, I took off my watch, set it to thermometer mode, and left it sitting on my boots outside my sleeping bag. If I was going to suffer the cold, I at least wanted to know how cold it was, so I could measure my suffering scientifically. 

posted by John D at 07:00  

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

March or Die

7th Nov
 

I am due to go out tomorrow on a mission with Charlie Company, 1st Battalion (Airborne) 503rd Infantry, 173rd Brigade. They are based in Italy, and are attached to the 82nd Airborne Division. Charlie Company is also known as “March or Die” or MOD, a nickname they picked up in World War 2. When I was introduced to the Company Commander and First Sergeant I expressed my concern over their name, and said I would be far more comfortable with “Ride in a Humvee or Die” as I did quite enough marching earlier in the year. They assured me that I would not be marching too far. They seem like really good guys. Pure infantry, no bullshit, straight talkers, and tough. We are to leave tomorrow morning and will be out for a few days. I still know almost nothing about the mission, but I don’t need to, so that is not a problem. I will find out when I get there.
 

8th Nov
 

“Today is an important anniversary in Charlie Company’s history” 1SG C told me. “In Vietnam in 1965, during Operation Hump, Charlie Company was almost wiped out during an ambush.” Not an entirely auspicious start to the mission, and so I put it to the back of my mind.
 

We were to leave at 6:30 am local. I had risen early to pack my sleeping bag and kit, and be ready to go. As soon as I arrived at the March or Die Humvees I realised that everyone had food, and discovered that the chow hall had opened early to allow us to get some breakfast before we departed.  I dropped my kit, and rushed off to eat.
 

Getting a convoy ready to leave is always tricky, especially if it is big. This was a battalion mission, meaning a lot of assets. The convoy was huge, and there were other convoys heading from other bases in the province too, all heading for the district of Charbaron. The Taliban had recently burned down the district centre and ANP (Afghan National Police) post, and so the coalition was going to rebuild it. It was in fact an Afghan mission, with US support, as everything is these days. The idea is that the more experience the Afghans get in planning these missions, the sooner the Americans can go home. Nice idea, but a long way off I reckon.
 

1SG C told me I was riding with him, which was cool as I had already met his driver Doc helping out in the Aid Station at Orgun-E. Doc is actually a Medic, but like all Medics in the US Army, is simply called Doc. He is the Company Medic, and so has Platoon Medics underneath him.
 

We rolled out of Orgun-E on time and soon the convoy joined up with ANA troops. The convoy was huge, and lumbering, and slow. And the dust trail that was being created would surely announce our movement to anyone watching from the mountains.
 

Travelling in a Humvee is extremely boring, and even more so when the other occupants have radio headsets to communicate on and I don’t. The guys were listening to both Company and Battalion ratio nets, one in each ear, and could talk to each other as well. 1st C made a great effort to update me on what was happening, but inevitably I started to fall asleep. This is quite an achievement as I was wearing my body armour and helmet. On this trip I am also trying out a new system for carrying equipment. In the past I have worn a belt with various pouches attached, carrying spare camera batteries, lenses, a first aid kit, notebooks, etc. This has cause lots of problems as getting in and out of Humvees is difficult at the best of times, but more so when wearing pouches. And if the pouches move around to the back it is virtually impossible to sit comfortably. I have thought about this over the last few months, and particularly about how the soldiers dress. They wear chest-rigs, which allow them to carry a lot of gear but still move well. Whether you sit or stand the pouches are easly accessible, and so I wanted something similar. A good friend lent me a photo-vest, based on this idea, and which has been around for some time. I have always resisted them because they look like suicide vests, but it turns out that while not suitable for London streets, the photo-vest is ideal for wearing over body armour. Thanks Edmond!
 

Arriving at a village part of the convoy veered off and formed a security perimeter near a mosque. I jumped out once we were in position, and followed 1SG C into the middle of the gathered crowd. It transpired that there were several “Jingle trucks” in the convoy, carrying Civil Affairs (CA) and Humanitarian Assistance (HA) supplies. Frequent readers will have heard me talk about this before, but for those who are new I will explain. CA and HA missions, which translate as handing out clothes, blankets, shoes, school supplies, food, etc, are carried out by the military with the intention of building good relations with the local Afghan people. In this case they were providing a Mosque kit, which included carpet, speakers for the call to prayer, paint, etc. The CA officer sat down with the village elders and spoke with them, explaining that the Americans want to help Afghanistan, and in fact are there at the behest of the Afghan Government. The CA officer is a sincere man, and I believe that he believes he is truly making a difference. Unfortunately the meeting turned slightly sour when the elders said that the had had patrols through their village before, and that they had heard all these promises many times, but that they had never been followed up on. Things seemed to improve when they heard about the Mosque kit that they were to receive, and the crowd moved to the “Jingle truck.” However, things became complicated again when more elders arrived. Gradually, amidst much shouting, bickering, finger wagging, and translating, the problem revealed itself. What appeared to the untrained eye as one village was apparently 3 villages built in close proximity. This is something I have come across before, in Nuristan, and it is very confusing. The village elders were arguing about which Mosque should receive the kit, and then started asking for 3 kits. The CA officer did his best to placate the maddened crowd, and a deal was struck, although I am still not sure of the details. One soldier whispered that as soon as we were gone the Afghans would kill each other over the lousy worthless piece of carpet.
 

Once the supplies had been unloaded, and wind-up radios were distributed, we were off again. After a couple of hours we started to climb into the mountains, and soon my watch’s altimeter was reading 8,500ft.
 

As I said, 1SG C was making a big effort to keep me informed of what was going on, and at one point he turned to me and said we had just passed the site of a “catastrophic IED” strike. Charlie Company’s sister Havoc Company had struck an IED there on 23rd July, and 4 of the Humvee’s occupants were killed. A fifth was severely burned, and died two months later from his injuries. I wished he hadn’t told me whle we were still driving. A few minutes later he informed me that information had just been relayed to him by radio that ACMs (Anti Coalition Militia – the catch all acronym for the various groups fighting the coalition and the government’s soldiers) were fleeing the Chabaran district. So, we would not find any fight there. But wait, they were leaving behind several IEDs for the American vehicles. Considering what I had just learned about the last IED, I was disconcerted to say the least, but what could I do.
 

And there’s the rub. Getting intelligence that an IED may have been planted on a road does not halt a mission, and so some poor soldiers have to drive down it anyway. And I wonder what toll it takes on them? How do you cope with that danger and strees after seeing friends killed by the same weapon? How does someone overcome the fear of imminent death and carry on with a mission, when they have info that tells them they are going to be attacked? I have asked this question to many, many soldiers, and the answer doesn’t vary much. They shrug their shoulders, or sigh, and tell me that it’s their job. Just like that! I have to admit, it terrifies me. I hate IEDs, and hate driving when I think they may be around. I hate the fact that I could be killed so indiscriminately. And every time the base of the Humvee hit a rock, and every time we dipped into a wadi with a soft earth floor, I winced. And I only do this sporadically. How do the soldiers continue to bear this tension day after day?
 

Shortly after that news we halted. I’m not sure why, but it was a problem further up the column. While halted, 1SG decided that the convoy needed overwatch, and so he picked a few guys, including himself and the CO (Commanding Officer) Capt Mac. I said I’d go too. Really, I do never learn my lesson. So, we started up the rocks, and a few hundred feet later I was gasping for air, my lungs on fire, and sweat pouring out of my shocked body. That rarefied air gets me every time. The soldiers stood around talking for a while, all the time scanning the further ridgelines for danger. Then 1SG thought he saw something. It might be a stone, it might be nothing at all, but he thought he saw a fortified fighting position. It was a long way away, and I volunteered to stay with the guys assigned to remain at our position. They would provide overwatch and protection while the others climbed down and then up to the new location. The two guys who stayed then went into serious mode, and in no time at all they were lying down in the prone position, rifles trained on the possible fighting position. Suddenly I got a shiver down my spine, and I felt extremely exposed standing there. If there was a sniper up there, it would not be a difficult shot to hit one of us. Remembering the pain of my last encounter with a sniper, I quickly moved down behind a rock, making sure I could still observe the others climb, but reducing my vulnerability. Or so I hoped. Soon enough they reached the point of interest, and it turned out to be nothing. As they made their way back to us I felt very silly. But I stayed down low just the same.
 

The convoy got back on the road, but not long after we stopped again. Another vulnerable site had been spotted on the road, and so some soldiers would once again need to climb up to the high ground to ensure the safety of the rest of the convoy. I opted to stay by the vehicles this time. So did 1SG C, so I could get updates from him as to their progress. While they were gone, news came in over the radio that there was a gunfight going on close to Orgun-E, the base I had left the day before. Apparently a convoy of Jingle trucks that were carrying goods for the Americans had been attacked, and the drivers had pulled out guns and fought back. The report said that one vehicle was disabled, and the fight was still ongoing.
 

With another patrol returning empty handed, the convoy moved off. Eventually we arrive at Charbaran District centre, pulling in at the same time as the engineers. I was massively impressed with the speed with which they went to work. While the infantry I was with were concerned with forming a security perimeter, the engineers drove earth-moving machines off trailers and immediately started bulldozing. The burned out district centre looked very forlorn in the centre of all that activity.
 

Darkness falls quickly in the mountains, and the night was on everyone’s mind. Charlie Company pushed out Platoon sized elements to form part of the security perimeter, while Headquarters, including the Captain and 1SG, moved to a piece of high ground near the school. The ANA had already set up camp by the building, and taken some of the rooms inside. The US soldiers set up beside but separate from the ANA. As soon as we were settled I fished my bag out of the Humvee’s trunk and started making my bed on the ground. The hill was sandy, with lots of rocks mixed in, so preparing a smooth horizontal area took some time. One of the soldiers commented on my haste to sleep, and I relied that I just wanted to get my bed down while I could still see. “Well, this ain’t your first camping trip” said another. He was right. I have made the mistake before of setting up my bed in the dark, and it invariably leads to disaster. Sleeping on rocks, thorns, etc, or worse, on a slant, resulting in all the blood going to your head and waking up with a pounding headache, are all slip-ups I’ve made before, but not again.
 

Next on the agenda was an MRE. I’ve talked about this before, and once again I had to marvel at the ingenuity of the meals in a bag. Worryingly, I knew what was in a lot of the meals, a sure sign that I have eaten too many. People have different favourites, and as the bags are numbered it becomes a mission to get the one you want, often involving some fast trading.
 

With a full belly and a long day behind me, I was more than ready for my sleeping bag. Lying there in the dark, with sleeping and snoring soldiers all around me, I looked at the night sky. It is so beautiful here, with no light pollution to spoil it. Once again I struggled to believe my luck, that I get to have these amazing experiences. Even though there was every chance of an attack, either direct small arms fire or indirect mortars or rockets, I was happy. It is hard to explain, but the simplicity of life in this environment, where you are happy if you make it to the end of the day alive, fed, and warm, is something I revel in. There are no speed limits here, no credit checks, no postcodes. It is like being in the Wild West, a bold frontier were life gets pared down to what is really important, and everything that isn’t just fades into the background.

posted by John D at 16:09  

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The bloody results of IEDs

6th Nov 

 

Last night (5th Nov) I watched as US surgeons and medical staff from the FST (Forward Surgical Team) operated on a local kid to save his life. He was brought in with a hernia, which had somehow gotten caught up in his testicle, and if it wasn’t treated it was going to kill him. The head surgeon, a Lt Colonel, explained that while they are not required to carry out this type of surgery on locals, they will always endeavour to help when time and resources allow. This was classic “Hearts and Minds” stuff, and the Colonel was well aware of that, but it appeared to me to be a genuine attempt to help as opposed to a contrived effort to win over the local population. 

 

When the surgery was over the soldiers invited me over to their fire pit for after-dinner coffee. They have a huge brick fireplace and chimney built outside their rooms, and it was very pleasant to sit and bask in the warmth and glow of the fire. It was also a very conducive atmosphere for story telling. Many of the stories were of horrific wounds treated, or sad tales of death, but some were brighter and lifted the hearts both of those telling them and those listening. One such story was of a baby that they delivered just a few weeks before. The pregnant mother had been shot through the womb in an ambush, and the baby had to be delivered there and then. It had a small graze on its back, but was otherwise unhurt. Both mother and child recovered. Or the story of a young 10th Mountain soldier that arrived on a Medevac with an RPG sticking out of his body. Despite the fact that the patient had live ordnance in him which could have killed all those working on him, a doctor and several assistants volunteered to operate, and eventually removed the rocket and saved his life. 

 

Of course, the soldiers said, you will never hear these stories on CNN or read them in the New York Times, as they are too positive. The old anger against the “liberal media” was high here, and they made no attempt to hide it from me. While polite and professional, as I have come to expect all US soldiers to be, they spoke of their anger that every story about the wars seem to be negative, and in no way reflect their experience downrange. They told me that it is almost impossible to find a story that shows any of the good work they do in Afghanistan, or the fact that the local people constantly voice their appreciation for their efforts to improve the lives of ordinary Afghans. 

 

Today I saw those efforts again, firsthand. After a morning of excitement, due to the arrival of a container of mail, including letters, gifts, and Amazon parcels, there was an alert that two Afghan patients were on their way by Medevac. They had been travelling in a vehicle that struck an IED. Three others had died at the scene, and now the fight was on to save the remaining two. 

 

I asked if I could stay and photograph and fim, and was told as long as I stayed out of the way they didn’t care. They had more important things on their minds than one inquisitive journalist. 

 

The helicopter landed in the dark, the roaring noise and swirling dust adding to the intensity of the moment. Four soldiers rushed out of the darkness, their head-torches reminiscent of the flashing lights on an emergency vehicle, carrying the first stretcher. The patient was wrapped from head to toe in a green foil, to preserve his body heat and avoid the onset of hyperthermia. I followed them into the Aid Station, and straight into a scene of organised chaos. People were shouting orders, calling for x-rays, charts, blood tests, while the Chief from the Medevac crew gave a quick brief to the surgeons. The second patient was rushed through the doors, and laid out beside the first. As the foil was peeled back a man and a woman were revealed. Their wounds were horrible, and if anyone is squeamish, I recommend skipping ahead to my next entry. 

 

The IED had exploded under their vehicle, and so the most extensive injuries were to their legs. Their were severe cuts and bleeding further up their bodies, but it was the damage to their legs that would threaten or change their lives. I was totally unprepared for what I was witnessing, and anyone who tells you that a journalist behind the lens of a camera is removed from the event, or is somehow distanced from the suffering that he is recording, is an idiot. I nearly passed out when I saw the woman’s leg being lifted, and then bending at the mid calf. In fact one of the medics got me a seat and told me if I thought I was going to faint I should sit down, as they had no time to deal with a head wound. Another medic told me there was no shame in passing out, that they had all done it at one time or another. He then went on to photograph me, telling me he had never seen someone go so white! 

 

It was decided that the woman’s life was in more danger, and so she would be operated on first. Both legs were broken, and her left foot had a huge gash in it, as though someone had tried to chop it in half with an axe. It was gross. She was moved to the operating room, and prepped for surgery. I donned the requisite hat and mask, and steeled myself to document the doctors efforts to save the woman’s life, however sick it made me feel. However, when she was moved onto the operating table, and the true extent of the damage to her left foot and leg were revealed, I wondered if I would make it through the surgery. 

 

The explosion had gone up through her foot, and it was destroyed. I can’t describe it any better than that. It was a bloody and broken pulp of bone and flesh. I just couldn’t believe it could be repaired, and unfortunately the surgeons voiced my thoughts. The woman would certainly lose her leg. But now came the worst news. Because this is an Aid Station and not a hospital, there is no follow up care facility. If a soldier is hurt in this area he will receive life saving treatment here, and then be flown to the ICU in Bagram to recover, before flying on to Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre in Germany. Because the woman would need massive aftercare following an amputation, the doctors couldn’t perform the required surgery. All they could do was open up the wounds, clean them out to try and avoid any infection, and then wrap them up again until a civilian hospital could be found to take her. The surgeons were angry and impotent. There was simply no way they could do what they knew had to be done, and so they did as much as they could. 

 

The second patient also had broken legs, and one was so badly shattered that they had to drill screws into his leg and then attach metal bars on the outside to fix the bones in place. His other leg would heal itself, but would result in the bones fusing together around the ankle, and leave the man with massively impared movement. 

 

The doctors were pretty despondent after their work was done. They said it was extremely frustrating to be put in a position where they couldn’t give the care that they wanted to. Even though they had done a huge amount to save the lives of the patients and certainly given them far superior care than the Afghans could have expected at any local clinic, the doctors said that was the most unsatisfactory night they had experienced in a long time. 

posted by John D at 08:38  

Friday, November 16, 2007

Some people never learn

31st Oct 2007
 

The buzzer in my apartment made me jump, and I rushed to it in excitement. Grabbing the intercom, I heard a small voice shout with glee “Trick or Treat!”
Oh bugger, it’s Halloween. I had completely forgotten. In the three months since I’d been released from hospital for the last time, I had been working non-stop, physically and mentally, to prepare for my trip back to Afghanistan. Now I was waiting for a taxi, not some trick or treating kids.
My trip this time was to different from the previous few. The US embedding people had informed me that instead of flying into Kabul International Airport and running the gauntlet of the professional airport thieves, who seem to find endless new ways of relieving westerners of dollars and dignity, I could fly to Kuwait. There I would be granted access to a US military base, and then fly on a military plane directly into Bagram. This was great, as I would also avoid the need to spend any time, and money, in Kabul. Drivers, translators, and hotels, are an expense that a freelancer can often ill-afford.
 

Arriving at the Air Base in Kuwait, I immediately stepped back into the military world. It is strange how familiar it has all become to me. I had to present my travel orders (even civilians have to carry their “orders”), call out my last four (social security for all Americans, last four passport numbers for me, present my military ID (which I don’t have, and my passport always causes confusion) and submit to General Order Number 1, which states that military personal (and embedded journalists) will not have sexual relations with the opposite sex ( and I assume the same sex) and will not carry or use alcohol or pornography. A far cry indeed from the purple haze and debauchery of the Vietnam conflict that people so often liken the current US conflicts to.
 

I was told I would hopefully fly the next day, and so I settled in to wait in an environment that is soaked in the frustration of hundreds of other waiting soldiers, civilian contractors, and the odd journalist.
 

1 Nov
 

“The 06:30am accountability roll call is mandatory if you are manifested for a flight” the plasma screen announced, followed by the somewhat ominous “Failure to report for an accountability roll call will result in notification of your superior officer.” As one soldier said, laughing, it was an empty threat. “I mean, what the hell can they do to me, I’m already on my way back to Iraq.”
 

Before roll call, we were informed that when our name was called we were required to “sound off loudly” although in my head this was immediately altered to “sound off like you got a pair,” which I duly did. And did again soon after. And again. By the end off the day I was sounding off like I had a big pair.
 

Beside the threatening plasma screen a huge TV played non-stop Blockbuster movies, although someone must have been shopping at the Hajji shop, because the movies were of dubious origin. At one stage, during a slightly out of focus “Transformers” someone stood up in the theatre and walked in from of the projector, casting their silhouette over the screen, causing me, and quite a few others, to look around to see what was happening. Of course, we weren’t in a cinema, and the silhouette now part of the move experience. X-Men 3 started sometime during the day, and might even have been a genuine issue of the movie, but it had a glitch about an hour and 15 minutes in, which caused it to freeze. After maybe 20 minutes of staring at the same frame, some restarted it, and we all groaned as the movie started from the beginning. When it froze at the same point in the move an hour and 15 minutes later, it added to the Groundhog Day feeling of the whole experience. I can’t wait to see the end of that film when I get home.
 

We eventually climbed onboard a C17 transport aeroplane in the late afternoon, and took off well after dark. I had my trusty ear-plug headphones for my iPod, and spent the flight creating a new “Afghan war soundtrack.” Hey, it passed the time.
 

2 Nov
 

I corkscrewed out of Bagram just over five months ago, in the dark, and I corkscrewed back in again this time, in the dark. I can tell you, that type of air experience never gets old.
 

It was 1:30am local, and after I cleared the ID examination, and presented my travel orders, and called out my last four, and sounded off a few times, I was in. I called the media office, got the night shift, was told they expected me, and to grab my bags and wait on the tarmac. Standing on the flightline, I was hit by the cold Afghan night, and I dug out my fleece and woolly hat. Then I looked out on the standing aircraft, fixed and rotary, and felt like I’d come home. They excitement was overwhelming, and only rose as the night passed. I was picked up shortly afterwards, but I had just missed midnight chow at the DFAC (Dining Facility), and so we diverted to the PX area for Pizza Hut and Green Bean coffee. Now I really felt like I was back, in fact like I’d never left. All my embedding forms and ID were still valid from my last trip, so there wasn’t even any of the paperwork to deal with, so I was given one of the three rooms in “Hotel California” (you can check out, but you can never leave), the media accommodation, and I grabbed a few hours sleep.
 

3 Nov
 

Despite retiring late to bed, I rose early. The military get a lot done before 9am, and there was always a chance I would miss my chance to travel if I lounged around in my cot. Wandering up to the DFAC for breakfast, the feeling of having never left returned. Bagram is way too familiar to me. Once in the DFAC, I face another familiar situation. There is a great selection of food, but almost all of it will either give you a heart attack or pile on the pounds, or both. There is some cereal and fruit, but the majority of the offerings revolve around the grill, fried food, and sugar. I avoided the short order grill, mostly because I still can’t order in the American’s language, over easy eggs and all that. I wonder how quickly I will slip into this foreign language this time. The speech patterns and slang are insidious, and I always catch it from them. Guess ya’ll can write me when it starts.
 

Walking back to the MOC (Media Operations Centre) I was struck by another familiar sight. The main street through Bagram, called Disney Drive in memory of a fallen soldier, is a busy thoroughfare. And as the soldiers make their way up and down it, their arms seem to spasm involuntary along the way. For this is a saluting base, and woe betide anyone who doesn’t obey this custom. Of course the grunts outside the wire think this is hilarious, and never stop making fun of the type of soldier who feel that saluting is a priority in a combat zone.
 

At the MOC it was great to see the embedding guys again. Last time I saw them I was all messed up in a bed in the ICU, where they visited me regularly. Now they told me how good it was to see me on my feet again, which of course I wholeheartedly agreed with. Then it was down to business, and following the rule that no plan survives first contact, they told me that my carefully laid out embed had just been turned upside down. Without giving away too much detail, what I was to do first was now second, and the plan to go to an outlying OP or Firebase in a few weeks was now first up. No big deal though, you have to be flexible in this kind of environment. Then one of the media team escorted me over to the flightline where I manifested for a flight in the early hours next morning to FOB (Forward Operating Base) Salerno. I would have to report at midnight, to sound off.
 

With business attended to, I now had a long day ahead of me on a base where I’m not allowed to photograph anything. So, in time honoured fashion, I headed for the PX to, as the saying goes, “buy shit I really don’t need.” Really, this should be their motto. The PX (originally the Postal Exchange) is the shop where soldiers can supposedly get all they need on deployment, and a lot of stuff they really don’t need. I spent a long time in the “Gucci Gear” section, where all types of non-issue military equipment like holsters, backpacks, knives, etc, are sold, agonising over some new gloves. Driving in a Humvee one is required to wear flame retardant gloves, so if you are unfortunate enough to be struck by an IED, but fortunate enough to survive, you won’t have the skin burned off you by the flash flame. The obvious choice was the Wiley-X “Special Forces” gloves, with enough length and width to pull up over sleeves, and with Velcro fasteners to then secure them. The also have a non slip substance on the fingers, and the piece de resistance, tough moulded plastic knuckles, ostensibly to protect from injury from a fall, but in actuality providing a nice ready made set of knuckle-dusters.  They were expensive at $85, but seemed top quality. Afraid that I would look like an ass wearing anything with a Special Forces tag however, I opted for the understated $12 Protex fire retardant woolly gloves. Of course the first time I wore them I was told that they are shit, and I should have gone for the top drawer Wiley X SF ones instead. Dammit!
 

Back at Hotel California, I met another journalist. A Greek cameraman/filmmaker, he was on his way home. He had just come back from a few weeks up in Nuristan, which of course is where I got shot, so I wanted all the news. I’m afraid it wasn’t good though, and it seems that the situation up there has deteriorated even further since I was there in April/May. This tallied with the other reports I had heard about the north-east area, and adds to my belief that there will be major combat operations up there next spring.
 

George the Greek was a crazy guy, very emotional and full energy, despite his 50 years. Having decided to shoot more video myself (remember the video camera I bought before my trip last November?) I had lots of questions, and he was hugely helpful and open with his knowledge and experience. This is his first time in Afghanistan, but he has worked extensively in Iraq over the years. He then told me about the death of a friend of his, a Russian photographer Dmitry Chebotayev, earlier in the year in Iraq. I remembered reading about it. George had been in the area just days before, and when he heard Dmitry was going there too, George begged him not to. He said it was too dangerous, too risky, beyond what was acceptable. Of course it didn’t work, and soon after Dmitry was killed by an IED. George was crying as he told me about it, and then he asked me is there something wrong with us, that we take these chances with our lives. However, once he had poured out some of his grief he answered his own question, and affirmed my own belief, that it is important work, and someone has to do it. I don’t believe there is anything dysfunctional with him, or me, or any of the people I have met who do this. And as I have said many times, I reject the idea that we are thrill seekers. I am no adrenaline junkie, and after my wounding I am certainly not looking forward to being in a gunfight again. These are just unfortunate situations we have to deal with in order to do the work we do, which is recording the lives of people caught in terrible situations. And there is simply no way to do that without being there ourselves. But that doesn’t mean we get off on it. At the same time I’m not going to deny that it is exhilarating to come away from a dangerous situation still alive, but that is a by-product rather than the motivation, for me at least.
 

4 Nov
 

A long wait and a short flight later, my C-130 touched down at FOB Salerno at around 4 am. The transient tents are beside the Passenger Terminal, a small hut really, and as soon as the requisite paperwork was done, which wasn’t quick, I collapsed on my cot and slept for a few hours. I only had a few hours, because I knew if I wanted to get some breakfast I would need to be in the Chow Hall before 9am.
 

I spent some time at Salerno last November/December, but it was a very different experience. This year the weather is fine, with day temperatures up around the mid 20s Centigrade, whereas last year it was raining everyday I was here. Now the place is a dust bowl, with trucks driving around spraying the main roads to keep the brown-out factor manageable, but last year I was walking through two or three inches of sludge on the very same roads. I’m not complaining though. I hope it stays fine.
 

My meeting with the Major in charge of Media Operations in this AO (Area of Operations) was quick and smooth, and then I was off to manifest for a helicopter ride out to Organ-E in Paktika Province. Roll call is at 6:30 am the next day, and so once again I have a day to kill. This is very frustrating, as all this waiting around is using up time I should be working. I still haven’t shot a single frame, and I won’t today either.
 

5 Nov
 

Rise at Stupid O’Clock, pack, grab a take-out tray of breakfast from the DFAC, and sound off at roll call. Then hang around for a long time that could have been spent sleeping. Finally walk out to the Chinook, and then wait again while they load it full of deliveries for the various FOBs that this ring flight will stop at.
 

I get talking to one of the soldiers while we’re waiting. He tells me about his dislike of the media, particularly Al-Jezzera. He tells me about how they film attacks on Americans in Iraq, and therefore have prior knowledge of these attacks. I explain to him that insurgents regularly record their attacks and then send the footage to media outlets, as well as posting it on the internet. He remains dubious. He then goes on to tell me about how his squad killed an Al-Jezzera cameraman in Fallujah. They saw a guy with what looked like a rocket launcher on his shoulder, and they fired. He died instantly. I am shaken, not by the matter of fact way he tells me the story, but because this is the second death of a journalist I have heard about in 48 hours. However, both these deaths were in Iraq, and during intense battles where the “Fog Of War” makes everything more dangerous. I am heading out to a reasonably quiet part of Afghanistan, and so I plaster over the cracks once again.
 

A Captain is waiting for me when I disembark at Orgun-E. He welcomes me to the 1st Battalion (Airborne) of the 503rd Infantry, 173 Airborne Brigade Combat Team. Hoo-ah, I’m back with the Infantry. He walks me around the base, which doesn’t take long. The highlights are where to eat if I’m hungry, and where to take cover if we are rocketed. These two functions of life are delightfully brought together in the name of the DFAC, “Hard Rocket Café.”
 

Once I’ve been assigned a bed, and dumped my gear, I make my way to the Aid Station on the FOB. There is a FST (Forward Surgical Team) stationed here, and so, many casualties will be flown here for life saving treatment before being moved to the ICU at Bagram. I plan to spend a few days with the team, but for the first time on one of these trips I hope that I don’t get to take any pictures, because as the saying goes in the media, for me to have a good day, someone else will have to have a really bad one. It turns out to be a vain hope.

posted by John D at 03:06  

Thursday, November 15, 2007

After the Medevac

I woke again as the helicopter landed, and even as the blades still whined overhead soldiers ran towards us. I was lifted out first, and the two soldiers bent low as they carried me, racing across the gravel to a waiting gurney. I knew I was at a Combat Support Hospital, the modern version of M*A*S*H that was made famous by the TV comedy series. I had in fact intended to spend some time here later in the year, but as an observer, not a patient. 

 

Unlike the TV show, there was no laughing in here. As I was wheeled into the Emergency Room a soundtrack of pain greeted me; moans and groans, whimpering, the odd scream, and plenty of swearing and shouting. I was still face down on the stretcher, and the ER floor was covered in blood-soaked camouflage uniforms, cut from patients with surgical scissors, lying where they were dropped. 

 

As soon as my stretcher stopped moving I was surrounded by a horde of professionals. Nurses began to strip me, one cutting off my trousers while another removed my watch, ring, etc. At the same time someone was furiously forcing needles into my arms. And all the while I was reciting the same coded litany as those other wounded soldiers around me who could talk for themselves. “A pos (my blood group), NKDA (no known drug allergies), 3/71 CAV (the unit I was last embedded with).” On and on it went. They pumped a lot of morphine into me, but it turns out I have a high tolerance. I kept hearing people say, “He’s still not out, give him some more” and stuff like that. Eventually I was told I was going into surgery, not to worry, they would keep me alive. And then everything went …………………. 

 

Waking up, I wondered where I was. My head was fuzzy, and all I could hear was an incessant rhythmic beeping. As my blurred vision receded and the room came into focus, I realised I was in a hospital. Now, I thought, what am I doing here. Then came the panic. I couldn’t remember anything, and worse, I couldn’t move. I tried to lift my head, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried again, harder, and relief flowed through me as it rose slightly. I could see my arms now, with tubes running from both. I twitched my fingers and I saw them move too, even if it was weakly. OK, I’m not completely paralysed. Then I concentrated on my legs, and feet. I thought I could feel my toes wiggle, but I couldn’t see them, and I was aware that amputees often suffer from phantom limbs, believing they can still feel arms or legs that are no longer there. Fear washed over me again, and as my heart raced so the beeping became faster on the machine beside my bed. A nurse appeared, alerted by the sound. I asked her where I was. In the Intensive Care Unit at Bagram Air Field, the main US base in Afghanistan. And then it flooded back. Damn, I’d been shot. The nurse explained that the bullet had entered the left side of my chest, just missing my heart, and had torn open my colon, cut my diaphragm, damaged my spleen, and then exited my back. The hole in my lower chest was the size of a penny, but she told me the hole in my back was the size of the palm of my hand. Because of the damage to my intestine I had been given a colostomy, and I was on a ventilator in case the damage to my diaphragm caused my lung to collapse. 

 

I spent four pain-filled days in the ICU in Bagram. I was visited by a General, who handed out Purple Hearts to other soldiers like I’d seen candy handed out to Afghan kids. But there was no medal for me, just a firm handshake, and the thanks of the American people for risking my life so that they could know what their soldiers faced. I wish I could have talked more with the General, but I was hit by a new spasm of pain, and he squeezed my hand again, and said he’d leave me to rest, as I was obviously having pain-management issues. What an understatement. 

 

After midnight on the fourth day, when I was stable enough to fly, I was loaded onto a cargo plane with other wounded soldiers. We were strapped down to our stretchers, and then locked onto shelving units either side of the fuselage. Like all military planes I have travelled on, this one was utilitarian inside, which meant it really did feel like I was cargo rather than a wounded passenger. The only light was a dim red glow, which added an eerie feel to the whole experience. Before take-off a crew member moved among us, handing out air-sick bags. He told me that the takeoff would be tough, because they had to do a combat lift. Now I’ve been through this before, flying in Iraq, and I knoew exactly what he meant. The plane takes off and then banks hard, turning in tight circles like a corkscrew, gaining altitude while minimising exposure to rocket attack. It is very tough on the stomach at the best of times, but I had just undergone major internal surgery, and I was dreading the pain if I had to puke. I lay on my elbows, facing down on my stretcher, and I swore to God I wasn’t going to be sick. Many were, but not me. Not allowed, nor even able, to get off my stretcher, the 8 hour flight to Germany was uncomfortable, and I slept as much as I could. 

 

Landing at the US Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre (LRMC), I was loaded onto a converted bus, again with apparatus fitted to hold stretchers. It was as though I was in a bad IKEA dream. A short drive, over far too many speed bumps for a hospital road, and then a crowd of soldiers swarmed as the doors opened. I was hoisted out, and in no time at all I was off the stretcher, and in a gleaming room. I had my first hit of morphine for hours, and immediately the pain retreated. And then, like an angel, my girlfriend appeared. The military had informed her I would be arriving in Germany, and arranged for her to get visitor’s access. With my brother, she had made the trip the night before, and had been waiting since the dawn for my arrival. 

 

I spent 9 days in Germany, in the care of amazingly dedicated doctors and nurses. Other patients came and went, with wounds that varied from small shrapnel punctures to multiple amputations. Some of the cases were horrific, and heart-breaking, and all the time I felt my amazement grow that I had survived with wounds that should heal completely. And then, as I began to believe everything was going to be ok, there was another blow. A large blood clot was found in the cavity the bullet had left in my abdomen, and suddenly I was being rushed for emergency surgery. Not though, before the Catholic priest had given me the Last Rites, which I am sure was meant to be comforting, but in fact had the opposite effect. I survived the latest drama, but now I had an open wound in my back, as the Doctors were afraid another clot could occur. 

 

Finally I flew home to London, where I was immediately admitted into yet another hospital. Here I ran into some good fortune. I had been referred to a British Army surgeon, a specialist in gunshot wounds, who had in fact been deployed to Afghanistan in 2006. He is a fantastic Doctor, and especially supportive because he understands the circumstances I have been through. Unlike other surgeons who predicted 12 to 18 months of recovery, he told me that he would remove and reverse the colostomy as soon as possible. This lifted my spirits immeasurably, as the sooner I was finished with surgery the sooner I could start regaining my strength properly. He also spent some time talking to me about the ambush, drawing out the smallest detail. He asked me how I was sleeping, if I had any bad dreams or intrusive memories. Not so far, I said, but I have read plenty about the warning signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and I will be vigilant. 

 

He sent me home after 5 days in hospital, and at home I slept a lot. My small reserves of energy evaporated swiftly, and my body demanded rest. My plans to read and write through my convalescence were thwarted. Instead I struggled to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. I was told that this is normal, and as my body recovered from the trauma the need for sleep would subside. 

 

I returned to hospital mid July, exactly 8 weeks after the ambush, to undergo more surgery. This was to reverse my colostomy, and it was successful, though immensely painful, again. My Doctor told me that with the right exercise regime, and commitment to it, I would be back on my feet in 3 or 4 months. He said it would be tough, and I wouldn’t enjoy it, but getting back to work, and Afghanistan, was my motivation. 

 

posted by John D at 19:02  

Powered by WordPress