Operation Clean

We are supposed to have a team of Afghani’s that clean the office. This was our Christmas present from TF Bastogne. Almos is the team leader for Operation Clean at the Red Cross. He makes a point of being in command avoiding all physical labor and actively interpreting our wishes to his band of brothers. It is obvious he has a political feature. He started work two days before Christmas.
December 23 – Almos and his posse invade the Red Cross with brooms and Hefty garbage bags. Almos informs me that if I need anything he is my go to guy. I feel a bond. A brotherhood. I ask him how to say, “I hate dirt” in Dari. He says something like “Ma gang hawk” The “hawk” is very guttural and prolonged like a cough. I have the team chanting “Ma gang hawk”. The team is using dirty water to mop the floor. I demand clean water and they adjust. Everything in the office is done in about 15 minutes. I see a coming together of nations.
December 24 – I wait until mid-day seeking my posse of sanitation. I’m informed they do not work on Fridays.
December 25 – Christmas and the office will be spotless. Almos and his team are still not around.
December 26 – Almos arrives back in the office. He brings only one of troops who sweeps with passion. Almos pours a healthy cup of coffee and asks where the sugar is. He takes his cup plopping himself into the massage chair. He is a Lord and his vassal sweeps next to him. I tell him we need bottles of water and we still have to mop. He says, “He will be right back.”
December 27 – Almos is not to be seen.
These are the people we are turning the security over to. They have an 85% illiteracy rate (not that this is bad thing). They just live on Venus and we live on Mars.

Santa ain't coming to town

The wind blew dust today until you couldn't see. Now the wind is carrying winter to us. The soldiers put on an extra layer of clothing as they stare out at the barren trees along the river bed. The enemy, the bad guys, the evil doers stare at the wire. They have been staring for thousands of years.

The soldier stares at a goat herd. This is a country buried in the 13th century. He wonders if there is a word for "Peace" in Dari or Pashtun. Christmas is two days away. Santa doesn't fly over the Hindu Kush. He flies over Carmel,Ca. or Greenwhich, Ct or Beverly Hils,Ca. but he isn't landing in Afghanistan.

The soldier lifts up his collar looking up at the stars that sprinkle the sky. It is a cold lonely planet and Afghanistan is a place that doesn't tolerate remorse.

where sorrow flows from the mountains

The sunsets and sunrises are beautiful. The Hindu Kush mountains are jagged, bold and look like a playground for the Gods. The dust from the valley creates a veil from which we view the high peaks. We see the sloping shoulders of the mountains as they lean into our valley. We see the creases where the river flows toward us. Each morning hints of early spring with frost and the promise of warm sun. Every evening feels like the end of an Indian summer with coolness flooding the valley as the sun flees behind the peaks. Beautiful.
The beauty is lost here. There is poverty, pain and anger. A war for each generation. The men carry guns on the game trails back to Pakistan. There the wait. You don't have dig deep here to find the bleached bones of the dead.
Sadness, sorrow and grief is what Afghanistan exports.

where is the band

Where is the band?

This year the war isn’t so sexy? When it started celebrities lined up to embrace the troops. Iraq was getting big names to tour through the country. Last year,the Fox sports crew did a show in Bagram, not this year. Maybe, it was a poor ratings week. Where are the Rockettes? And the USO shows?
Politicians make their perfunctory appearance and have as much crowd appeal as a popcorn fart. They descend from the clouds with a cadre of media and microphones giving a speech seeped in banalities. Thankfully they disappear to the relief of the many.
The soldiers carry it alone. They are on the edge of the empire whether they are inside the wire or outside. Tonight,a 19 year old kid with a 70lb. pack on his back and a rifle is at the gate. The winds from the Hindu Kush kick up dust, the stars are smothered in war and it goes on for another year.

what winter means

The weather in Bagram has been warm and nice. Like good fall days in Montana near the end of September where the mornings and evenings are cool with the sun giving off plenty of warmth during the day. Here no rain for over a month. There isn't any snow in the high peaks and the fighting continues. The hospital stays busy. This is the metric I use.

If the weather turns cold the bad guys can't hide their weapons in the ground. It is to frozen. They also aren't as mobile. Less water in the spring means poor crops and less funding for the Taliban. Eventually the mountain passes will close and the fighters will cross the Pakistan border and wait. This is their strength time.

We have elections and a population raised on instant gratification. They will cross the border and heal up to see what spring brings. Time is their trump card.

there is no lynch pin

Two days ago an Afghan Policeman trained by our forces took his weapon and killed six U.S. soldiers. Yesterday, was another Fallen Hero Ceremony on the base. Last week was another one and the week before. Sorrow and sadness traveling through the base. A heaviness that is tangible. And the war back home is a footnote. The American military doesn't deserve the American public.

Sancho Panza with an american accent

His Lieutenant was tall athletic and had the pedigree: his father was a General. The Sergeant was from somewhere like Kansas, Nebraska or Iowa. He shopped at Wal-Mart as did his whole family. The Lieutenant's family drove by Wal-Marts.
They were on a mission outside of FOB Fenty. Their medic was hit and killed. The Lieutentant was shot in the neck and their radio man went down. The Sergeant picked up the radio and called in the attack. He gave his units coordinates, the condition of the soldiers along with their terrain. He did this while returning fire. His forces were outmanned, temporarily out gunned and surrounded
The next day in Bagram at the First Sergeants meeting the Sergeant Major brought up the work of an unknown soldier praising both his effort and professionalism in battle.
He walked into our office two days later. He was a freckled face kid that would have been a second string lineman on his high school football team. He was the person you never really see unless he is under the hood of your car helping you. A bullet ricocheted off his weapon cutting up the side of his face. He would have some facial scars but nothing severe. In the hospital, they gave him one percodan and a bottle of Motrin. He and the Lieutenant were inseparable now.
The Lieutenant was quiet, reserved and didn’t talk about the attack. The Sergeant couldn’t stop talking about it. He talked about the sounds and how bullets snap as they pass you. How things slowed up and then went high speed. For three days they were part of the life at the Red Cross office. No one says, “Goodbye” people are just gone. We waited for them to come by when we heard the Sergeant and the Lieutenant left for Germany. The best way to see Afghanistan is the rear view mirror or 20,000 ft up.

Rip-its the energy preferred by Afghans

I met SSGXX last year in Bagram. He had come ahead of his unit and was energized ready for his mission. I saw him last night in the mess hall. He had lost weight and couldn’t keep his eyes focused. He was all over the place eager to leave. He has another week while staying out in the 500 man tents.
“How was it.” I said.
“You can take the whole country and all the Afghans and fuck em.
You can’t teach them anything. All they want are rip its.”
“You mean the drink,” I said.
“I spent months trying to instruct them. They would all nod their heads and after I was done they asked, ‘Where are the rip-its’” They are fucked.

NATO SUMMIT

15Nov10 Kabul, Afghanistan

Karzai calls Patraeus, "a mother fucker."

16Nov10 Kabul,Afghanistan

Patreaus calls Karzai, " a cocksucker."

Last weekend in Lisbon at the NATO Summit Patraeus and Karzai confirmed their friendship in moving Afghanistan forward.

the american dream

Johnson arrived home in May. He still has three more months before he is released. There will be no more military service for Johnson. He is home with his wife and daughter along with their two mortgages. His wife wants to visit her relatives in Russia. His daughter wants another Barbie doll. Johnson wants a life.
The fear is seeping out of him slowly. He gets triggered easily. Last night the refrigerator came on again in the middle of the night. He stayed up trying to decide if he should put it outside in the yard so could sleep. The house creaks and groans at night. It is too alive for him to sleep.
His first week home he threatened a driver that was tailgating him. His daughter stared terrified in her car seat. A few days later he swerved their car when he saw a box alongside the road. He thought it was IED.
He doesn’t drink much. He doesn’t have to he gets lit up quick. He wants sex all the time from his wife. But he has shelved some of his fear into her. She stares at him when he not looking. She feels hunted.
He sent me an e-mail last night saying, “I am twisting in the wind.”

memorial day

This is for the eight soldiers in the 3-61 Cav that lost their lives October 3, 2009. They were on the edge of the empire in small desolate Command Operating Base called Keating on the Afghan-Pakistan border. They along with 37 other US soldiers held off 250 to 300 Taliban in 12 hours of fighting.

Afghanistan in the review mirror

Rihaku was an ancient Chinese poet. I discovered his poems in Ezra Pound's "Translations" 30 years ago. The poems are filled with sharp concrete images, lyrical and haunt me. The following comes from an "Exiles Letter":

"And if you ask how I regret that parting:
It is like the flowers falling at Spring's end
Confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking, and there is now end of talking,
There is no end of things in the heart.
I call in the boy,
Have him sit on his kness here
to seal this,
And send it a thousand miles, thinking.

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Hard winds of May

Today, I am packing for a trip down a river where you are gone for five days and four nights. We will be floating for 60 miles through a remote canyon in Montana. We are taking Disabled Veterans from the Wars. The Wars are Vietnam, Gulf 1 and now 2. The winds are coming from the north an ill sign. You can feel the ice as the wind slice through you.

When I was in Afghanistan, I would dream of being in remote country feeling safe and empowered. This is Montana my country. The country here gives me purpose. Fly fishing allows me grace. This is the place God whispers to me. Our hope is for the soldiers to get the same feeling. There is a time for war but there is also a time for healing.

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he ain't heavy he is my brother

He was wired tight and edgy. He was in his early 30’s and if he could sleep he would look like he was in his 20’s again. He was looking for DVD’s in the Red Cross office until he redeployed. He was a large muscular man with eyes that kept darting around. He was Special Forces finishing up his fourth deployment: two in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. Special Forces and four deployments carried weight. There was an exceptional look of both kindness and sorrow in his face. Perhaps he bore the weight of knowledge.

The television was on and the talking heads were talking about the surge. They were all experts: committed, passionate and polished. The week before they were all experts on health care and next week they would be experts on oil spills. But today it was the surge of troops in Afghanistan.

“It is hopeless,” he said. “I’ve done four deployments working in the villages and it can’t be done. The problem here are the tribes. They were here before we came and they will be here after we leave. We do something and it gets undone a week after we leave. I can’t see it anymore.”

“Are you coming back,” I asked.

“I’ll be back in six months,” he said.

“Why ?” I asked.

“It is what I do.”

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need a little help from my friends

He walked into the Red Cross office with a smile and why not. He was tall good looking, athletic and right out of West Point. He was a Captain with a terrific looking wife at his side. She was tall tanned with dark hair and dark eyes that were alert. She was also a Captain and out of West Point. The gene pool was going to get improved down the road. They were getting ready to go on leave and were looking through the DVD’s that we lend out at the Red Cross in Bagram. They like everyone else on base were killing time by watching movies.

“Where are your from ?” I asked.

“We are from Ft. Carson, Colorado.” he said.

“Do you fly fish?” I asked. I can’t help myself as a guide and outfitter I am always selling trips. If I meet St. Peter at the Pearly Gates I will be asking him in five minutes if he fishes.

“Yes, we do.” He said. He smiled easily with confidence.

“ I live in Montana and take people fishing.” I said. I smiled easily but with less confidence. I wear the smile of an idiot savant.

He warmed to the idea of fishing. “We both fish but haven’t had a chance in the last couple of years.”

“We are on way to the Bahamas.” She said and smiled.

The television was in the background. It was on 24/7 operating like a collective conscious. They were talking about the surge.

“What you think about the surge?” I asked.

His wife pointed to her husband. “He is in doing missions in the middle of nowhere that are designed for 16 soldiers.” She said.

“We are doing them with 10 or 12 soldiers.” He said.

“ The Mission suffers. They require more soldiers if we don’t have the soldiers the others have to pick up the slack. More stress for the soldiers.” She said.

“I could use some more soldiers.” He said.

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from "Winner Take Nothing" by Hemingway

"Unlike all other forms of lutte or
combat the conditions are that the
winner shall take nothing; neither
his ease, nor his pleasure, nor any
notions of glory; nor, if he win far
enough, shall there be any reward within
himself."

LAMENT OF THE FRONTIER GUARD

By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
I climb the towers and towers
to watch out the barbarous land:
Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
There is no wall left to this village.
Bones white with thousand frosts,
High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
Who brought the flaming imperial anger?
Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
Barbarous kings.
A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
A turmoil of wars-men, spread over the middle kingdom,
Three hundred and sixty thousand,
And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning.
Desolate, desolate fields,
And no children of warfare upon them,
No longer the men for offence and defence.
Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
With Rihaku's name forgotten,
And we guardsmen to fed to the tigers.

By Rihaky 730 AC ?

when the night comes

On Bagram an amber alert means incoming fire. This is also the signal to head for the bunkers. The Big Voice came over the loud speaker. Tonight, it was feminine (a softer gentler voice for the war) coming through the midnight air alerting us of incoming rocket fire. On the way to the bunkers we heard the first explosion that was distant. You couldn’t feel the earth shake but a slight charge of adrenalin quickened my step towards the bunker.

The bunkers were about 5 ft. compounds with sandbags girdled around the concrete. Johnson was in the middle of the bunker with his helmet and body armor on. He didn’t say a word curled up in ball. I don’t believe he was frightened. He was alert, concentrating - perhaps saying a prayer. This was all serious.

There are stories and rumors that circulate about someone getting wounded or dying before they redeploy. The week before a rocket blew up a B-Hut killing a fireman in his sleep. More than a rumor more than bad luck just a fact of life in Afghanistan.

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How To Win The War on Terrorism

Drive Smart Cars and build nuclear power plants in Greenwich, Ct., Carmel, Ca., Austin, TX. and Highland Park, Il. Starve the enemy out. Petro dollars fuel terrorism. Saudi's fund maddrass's in Pakistan. Iran sells arms to anyone. Hit them where it hurts in their pocket book. Let the golf courses in Dubai dry up. Make it mandatory for anyone that has been on the cover of People magazine to own one house and confine them to 5000 square feet. Sacrifice.

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Set em up Joe

I’m in the air terminal in Bagram waiting to go home. It is what Sinatra called “the wee hours of the morning” or more accurately closing time for a bar. You don’t hear the clink of the glasses or the ice cubes swirling for the last the drink of the night. You don’t have a bar or anyone saying, “set up them Joe. I got a little story I would like you to know.“ You hear people snoring or the cumbersome movement of soldiers with body armor as they are called for a flight assignments. But they all have stories and I wonder how many have happy ending.

We are headed to Ali Al Salem in Kuwait. The group ahead of us was called for a flight to Kandahar. There the weather is already 10 degrees warmer with winds bringing dust storms. A marine in the hospital said he was going back down to Kandahar for some more “hooking and jabbing.” His unit was hit with IED (improvised explosive device) he was lucky walking away with a little glass in the eye.

It is good bye to Afghanistan. I have no idea of what that means yet. I haven’t disconnected. Home is still like a dream and not real. Afghanistan is very real.

In the review mirror

Taking Leave of a Friend

Blue mountains lie beyond the north walls;
Round the city’s eastern side flows the white water.
Here we part, friend, once forever,
You go ten thousand miles, drifting away
Like an unrooted watergrass.
Oh, the floating clouds and the thoughts of a wanderer!
Oh, the sunset and the longing of an old friend!
We ride away from each other, waving our hands,
While our horses neigh softly, softly…..

Li Po


We are heading home today. There will be a great deal of waiting, standing in line and waiting. Patience and more patience and waiting to sleep. Our goodbyes have started some are obligatory and others are laced with sorrow. There are never enough words when it comes from the heart.

Needs a hand

“It takes him 20 minutes to jerk off and he is doing it four or five times a week.” Johnson said.

“Wow!“ I said.

“ I don’t mind him jerking off but it should take him ten minutes. I can handle ten minutes.” Johnson said.

“Can you play Jackie Gleason’s music for young lovers maybe it will help speed it up.” I said.
Johnson wasn’t listening. We live in B-Huts that are eight men to a building. We are separated by ¼ inch plywood living in an 8x10 space. Privacy is an illusion and right now Johnson is having a problem.

“How about “Pillow Talk” by Sylvia” I said. “I will download it for you.” I was too old school.

“Why can’t he just hurry up and finish it off. I am not unreasonable but it is bugging me.” Johnson said.

“You don’t think music is the answer? Janet Jackson?”

“For me all I need is Jamie Lee Curtis. She is my dream girl.” Johnson said.

Who was going over the edge first Johnson or his over zealous masturbating neighbor. I wanted the thought out of my head before I went to sleep. Everyone has a weapon here and I didn't want to wake up to the sound of gunfire. Blessed are the peacekeepers.

"Hey Johnson would Carrie Underwood do the trick for him?"

Al and Jean taking coffee.

I was very young when I read Albert Camus’s “The Myth of Sisyphus” and I will be very old if I ever reread it. Camus and Jean Paul Sartre sipping coffee on the Left Bank of Paris talking about life, existentialism and politics. How they suffered. In his essay Camus asks why not suicide? A nice tight intellectual dialectic with a hint of ennui. Later after coffee they might have discussed male pattern baldness.

William Styron thoughts on suicide have nothing to do with ennui. In his essay on depression and suicide “Invisible Darkness” Styron deals with his personal experience with depression. He believes people take their lives to escape the very real and tangible pain of depression which he terms the “Invisible Darkness.” A pain so great that suicide becomes the only option.

The message on the computer was highlighted in red for a possible suicide attempt. Last year I did three possible suicide attempts while working in Kuwait. This year in Afghanistan I’ve lost count. The soldier was a woman somewhere in or near Kandahar. She had e-mailed her mother that something had happened in her unit and to say good-bye to her family. She wanted her mother to take care of her of nine year old daughter.

What happened in her unit that she wanted out? Was it the physiological creeping darkness of depression that entered her body. Or did something or someone violate her in way so profound and damaging that she couldn’t make it anymore? Or maybe she entered a world without love? There was a rupture.

The air conditioner is on at our office in Bagram. Ten days ago the snowflakes were large and the base was filled with sloppy mud. Now, it is hot and summery. After delivering the message of a possible suicide I stared at the computer screen letting the coolness of the blue ether settle in. Now, I'm waiting to hear from command if she is safe. Kandahar would be hotter and dustier more oppressive with summer coming on. The Spring called for an offensive on the Taliban. Drones were already flying into Pakistan dropping bombs. Bagram was attacked twice in the last week killing one. The trees bud, the snows melt and to everything under the sun there is a season .. It appears to be the season for war. I am waiting for a call from command...

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serenity now

Grant McClinock is a photographer, a fisherman and my friend. He is as fine a fisherman as I know. He casts with grace and precision, orchestrating the fly and fly line to the right rhythms of the current. As a photographer, he is angling for the moment when light breaks through a pin pricked sky or casting for the simple tranquility of a fisherman, his dog and a trout stream. When he intercepts this moment through the aperture of a camera, he captures time and space. He fuses together the physical world of air, earth and water.
The following photos all have great beauty. They all share some intrinsic truth found in accurately capturing the moment. When I look at Grant's photos, I long for both the time and the place the images reveal. His work inspires a feeling that is clean and pure, running right to the soul. This is the same feeling many of us have when we find a trout on the other end of the line.

The landscapes depicted in his photos are the places we fish at Lewis and Clark Expeditions. Fishing is and always has been more than fishing. While pursuing trout, we are also seeking the moments when the world and everything in it softens. It is a world with a trout exploding from the surface, but it is also the first explosion of pollen from a river bank. It is a river adorned with caddis flies at twilight. Grant's work bears witness to a beauty that is both profound and mysterious.

At Lewis and Clark Expeditions, we can get you to some of the places that can hold you in awe. Plus, we can throw a few fish into the mix.

We encourage you to discover Grant McClintock's work at www.grantmcclintock.com. We also encourage you to come with us and catch the feeling and emotion that is trout fishing with Lewis and Clark Expeditions.

An unabashed ad for Grant and Lewis and Clark Expeditions.

www.lewisandclarkexpeditions.net

friends with the past

Li Po was born just north of Afghanistan in Kyrgyzstan which I believe was mountainous country. I first discoverd him in Ezra Pound's Translations almost 40 years ago. Li Po was a wandering spirit that found both favor and disfavor with his emperor. Li Po's world was war, exile and beauty. At times he wrote from the far edges of the empire with his mind floating like a wide cloud which still touches me.

He understands some of the inherent sorrow of being in a distant land. He understand the strong bonding friendships of being on the edge of the empire overlooking "the thousands miles of dead grass." He gives me calm and his poetry has always been a sanctuary for both my mind and spirit.
And he was a fishermen.

Hard is the Journey


Gold vessels of fine wines,
Thousands a gallon,
Jade dishes of rare meats.
Costing more thousands,

I lay down my chopsticks down,
No more can banquet,
I draw my sword and stare
Wildly about me:

Ice bars my way to cross
The Yellow River,
Snows from dark skies to climb
The T’ai-hang mountains!

At peace I drop a hook
Into a brooklet,
At once I’m in a boat
But sailing sunward….

Hard is the journey,
Hard is the journey,
So many turnings,
And now where I am?

So when a breeze breaks waves,
Bringing fair weather,
I set a cloud for sails,
Cross the blue oceans!


Li Po

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Master Sargeant

     Johnson is on his meds and sleeping. The Master Sagreant would like to see Johnson somewhere other than Bagram. He would like to see him on a remote FOB, or Jalabad or at an IHOP in Alaska.

     The Master Sargeant is 44 from Puerto Rico and is all Army. His army. He looks and moves like a middle weight. He talks like a Master Sargeant not profane like in the movies but a directness filled with certitude. There is zero indecision in MSGT. He prays before every meal making the sign of the cross and attends mass every Sunday. The Catholic Church has a chain of command like the Army. The Pope is the Commander in Chief and is infallible. Orders are orders. The Cardinals are the officers. Bishops are the NCO’s handling the priests and the rest of the parish. This structure aligns with the MSGT’s sensibilities.
     We eat together everyday at six. He is from a family of 16 and the cardoard tray we use as a plate is full. He eats each serving one at a time: carrots, then potatoes, then fish, then salad, then dessert - compartmentalizing.
     He says - Robert Clemente was the greatest ball player from the islands and Puerto Rico then Roberto Alomar. Clemente could pick off a base runner from right field. He brought his mitt and a baseball over here but hasn’t thrown a pitch.
     There isn’t a question about the army, the base or his unit that he can’t answer. This is his army, his base and his unit. God, military and family clearly defined all the moving parts are his responsibility. His job is 24/7.
     He reads Neruda and sends his wife love poems. Just when I thought I had him pegged comes the curve. The MSGT is capable of the unexpected
     He wasn’t with the 3-61 Cav at COB Keating on October 3 but he knew them. They were TF Warrior and passed through his world. When I asked him about it he says, “the fighting went for twelve hours.”
“What happened ?” I ask.
“The Afghans walked off,” end of conversation.

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Trout streams

Trout generally live in the most beautiful places on the planet.  They live in clear, clean water that does something to the soul.  Some people can just sit, stare and take it all in.  I like to move with the interior rhythm of life.  So, I pick up a fly rod and cast to a different beat and time.

There are too many mountains, creeks, streams and rivers in Afghanistan not to hold a few fishermen.
A few them will also seek solace in the movenment of water.

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But their feet are cold

Johnson looked at his weapon and said, “ I thank God, I never had to take a life.”


He has already left the country in his head. He has 90 days to go and is working on his resume. But, he was working on his resume when I got here four months ago. Like the rest of us he is a work in progress.

Today, he hates the Army and Afghanistan. He tells us, “the country is a piece of shit and worthless.” The other soldiers are silent and uncomfortable it’s a conversation they’ve already had and it is pointless. They are here to execute policy not debate it. Early in the day Johnson was trying to explain the Hegelian Dialectic to his Sergeant. The Sergeant wrote off Johnson months ago. Today he told  him to get some medication so he could sleep.

Johnson is homeless in his unit and is drifting. He used to get some of the Afghans he worked with boots. Command fears that if you give them boots they will start to piece together uniforms and infiltrate the base. Or they wear the boots and are marked as collaborators when they are on the other side of the wire. A no win unless you need the boots.

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Johnson's War

Johnson was with Task Force Warrior and stationed out of Colorado Springs, Co. His Russian wife enjoyed looking at the peaks of the Colorado Rockies. Johnson loved America and it expanse. He didn’t ski but wanted to learn. He didn’t fish but enjoyed being near a mountain lake or a river. He loved Applebee’s going to Costco and Toy’s and Us.


Nuristan was deep in the mountains. Applebee’s, Costco and Toy and Us were not coming anytime soon to Afghanistan. On October 3, 2009 eight from Task Force Warrior died in a firefight that started at dawn and ended at dusk. Twelve hours of adrenalin. There were 45 American soldiers and 25 Afghan soldiers. When the Afghan soldiers felt the coordinated Taliban attack they walked off. They were retreating before the shots fired. The battle started from the local mosque with grenade launchers, automatic weapons and mortars. There were as many as 300 Taliban at the gate.

It was called COB Keating a remote outpost not far from Pakistan. The local field commanders warned that it should be closed because it was vulnerable and had no tactical or strategic value. The base was situated in deep bowel that geographically gave up the high ground. Even if was geographically vulnerable you could count on effective artillery and air support. Except it wasn’t coming on October 3.

Johnson would wake up singing off key. He liked Al Green’s - Let’s Stay Together. Johnson’s voices would screetch out, “Happy and Sad. Let’s stay together.” You tolerated Johnson’s voice not for the sound because there was little or no music to it but there was joy. The joy could be infectious unless your were trying to sleep.

Here Is That Rainy Day Again

It’s rainy and I’m listening to Freddie Hubbard play - Here Is That Rainy Day Again. He is extenuating the notes on his trumpet then comes the release followed by emotion. We are slogging through the mud today at Bagram which means flights will be cancelled and soldiers will play a waiting game.



Most of the soldiers will be in 100 man tents. Bunk beds right next to one another. A bunk bed then another then another then another…. They listen to I-pods, play an electronic game, watch DVD’s or unplugged read a book or just stare at the ceiling. Regardless of how connected you tried to be - cell phone calls, skype computer viewing or e-mails home is going to be different. Home is a place they haven’t been because you block it out to make room for the next day over here. Home is the dream while your killing time waiting ….

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Waiting

The rains here at Bagram have postponed the flights coming and going. People are getting edgy waiting to leave country. You put in your time and right before you exit - you wait. The deployments last about a year unless you are Air Force which is six months or the Red Cross which is four and half months. They seem longer.


Guy goes to the Doctor. The Doctor says, "You have six months to live."
He asks, "Can I spend it at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan?"
The Doctor says, "Sure but why there?"
"Because it will seem like an eternity."

Black history month

WE STAY COOL

THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.



We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Gwendolyn Brooks

Suicide Bombers

A suicide bomber looks like a 14 year old kid that can barely shave. He comes out of a madrass in Pakistan that is funded with Saudi money. He shares one spoon with the other 30 or 40 students in his class at meal times. The chances are he comes from poverty and the only hope he knows is in the afterlife. For entertainment he sings to Allah with his class until his voice is hoarse. This is what Al Queda or the Taliban gives it’s children a quick release from life.

Today, he has two soldiers guarding him while he is in a hospital room with tubes coming out of every orifice. The soldiers look like giants. The fluorescent lights are harsh an unrelenting. This isn’t what paradise is supposed to be.

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Sunday Inventory

The soldier in the space next to me is on a 12 hour Family Guy marathon. Soldiers watching cartoons. What ever happened to Sands of Iwo Jima and John Wayne?


What is right with life:

Sting of Pearls by Glen Miller.

Being on any trout stream at dawn or dusk.

Floating feeling the first release of pine in the air. The first expelled breath of spring.

Having Matisse’s watercolors in my head.

The entire medical staff at Craig Joint Command Hospital at Bagram Air Base.

Being with my girl Laura anytime anywhere.

Italian food and Michael Chierello recipes.

Montana anytime any season.

William Faulkner for showing me how to read in between the lines.

Shelby Foote for writing our Iliad.

John Steinbeck for understanding the underdog.

Freddie Hubbard for playing notes that have stuck with me for 40 years.

Antonio Carlos Jobim where there is love there is hope.

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Nefarious War

Nefarious War

Last year we fought by the head-stream of the Sang-kan
This year we are fighting on the Tsung-ho road.
We have washed our armor in the waves of the Chiao-chi lake,
We have pastured our armor horses on the Tien-shan’s snowy slopes.
The long, long war goes on then thousand miles from home,
Our three armies are worn and grown old.

The barbarian does man-slaughter for plowing;
On this yellow sand-plains nothing has been seen but
blanched skulls and bones.
Where the Chin emperor built the walls against the Tartars,
There the defenders of Han are burning beacon fires.
The beacon fires burn and never go out,
There is no end to war!

In the battlefield men grapple each other and die;
The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven,
While ravens and kites peck at human entrails.
Carry them up in their flight, and hang on the branches of dead trees.
So, men are scattered and smeared over the dead grass,
And the generals have accomplished nothing.

Oh, nefarious war! I see why arms
Were so seldom used by the benign sovereigns.


Li Po

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Snapshots

A soldier waited an extra four days to get out of country concerning a child abuse case because a social worker in Utah couldn’t get verification before going on a three day weekend.
At Ft. Benning in Georgia we couldn’t get the proper clearance to deploy. Part of the hold up was the Department of the Army was closed for Veterans Day.
Red Cross messages need to be verified. If it is a medical emergency you better hope it happens during office hours.
Odd way to fight a war. Weekends and holidays take a priority over soldiers.

The Devil never takes a day off neither should we.

end of millineum signs

Celin Dione is returning to Las Vegas.

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can't sleep when you are in nuristan

October 3, 2009 eight soldiers from Task Force Warrior were killed in action in Afghanistan. In the New York Times they referred to this part of Afghanistan the Hinterlands. My friend, Johnson thought of the whole country as the Hinterlands.




Johnson talked non-stop there was too much information and too little time to get it all out. There was his Russian wife in Colorado Springs, his three master degrees and his anger management class on Bagram Air Base that could trip his switch. On Monday, he was going to law school. Tuesday, he was coming back to Afghanistan as a contractor. Wednesday, he was going to re-enlist. Thursday he was going to build a cabin in the mountains of Colorado. Friday, he was getting written up by his Commander. Saturday, he ripped his television off the wall throwing into the street in pieces. Sunday, he was back in Anger Management. If October 3 came up he would talk around it but never to it. Johnson had something to say and something to hide. Maybe this is why he couldn’t sleep. If he talked in his sleep it might come out.



Johnson like to laugh which is why I liked him. He laughed easily and often which made me feel good. He was from the Bahamas where he was an alternate to the Olympics in judo. I didn’t know if the Olympics gave medals in judo and didn’t care. Johnson looked the part. He moved with the relaxed self assurance of an athlete and you never felt threatened. He would thank God he never killed anyone here. He was with Task Force Warrior and they were trigger pullers.


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foreign policy

“A people prefer to beaten by their own stick.” In conversation with an Israeli General.

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Fallen Hero

Three thirty in the morning in the valley of the Hindu Kush. With no moon the mountain peaks are shrouded in darkness but the landing field at Bagram Air Field has plenty of light tonight. There are shadows that break in straight lines looking like the set of a film noir movie in the 50’s. Soldiers are lined up on both sides of a runway and a C-17 airplane cargo bay is open. We are here for a Fallen Hero ceremony where a soldier just a few weeks in theater is going home in a casket. No one knows for sure how he died. Someone mentioned a sniper another and IED. Dead is dead.




The General is here standing at the end of the formation. A humvee drives up slowly - stops. The soldiers move with absolute precision each footstep measured as they unload the body. The casket is draped with the Stars and Stripes. There is a small army band playing in the background. The trumpet sounds plaintive the notes fall and the soldiers march the casket towards the plane.



We give a sharp salute as the soldier pass by us. The silence of the moment drowns out the steady drone of diesel engines. Everyone is at attention. Soldiers and their weapons are still. There will be frost in the morning and the cadence of soldiers footsteps doesn’t vary as they move inside the cargo plane setting the casket like a jewel.



The First Sergeant gives the order to break formation and we scatter into the night burying sorrow under the stars.

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The Big Voice

The Big Voice comes on anytime day or night unannounced issuing warnings. The first time you hear you feel like telling someone to turn down the radio. The Big Voice does not get tuned down. The most common announcement is letting us know the airfield is hot. This is followed by distant booms as bombs get detonated.



The Big Voice the other night announced an amber alert. I thought how wonderful a light show - wrong. Amber alert is stay put and wait. The new prison was under attack. Attack can mean rocks are being thrown, rockets are being launched or there is a Calvary charge. The Big Voice is not nuanced like God at Sinai there are just a few imperatives the Big Voice utters.



I work the night shift and the Big Voice keeps me company at three in the morning letting me know I am not alone.



This week at Bagram: rumor there was a suicide bomber at the gate. They closed the bazaar where the local vendors come on Friday to peddle their wares. A helicopter was shot down. The Red Cross get two new computers, a couch and some more movies. Troops are arriving. The New Orleans Saints win the NFC Championship and I come close to breaking even in 18 straight weeks of betting on football games. Not much snow or rain in the Hindu Kush - drought?



I am on hold waiting for the Big Voice

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on god

God to earth - "Oops !"

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thoughts on life

When in doubt castle.

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Mom Meatloaf !

Movies are the main source of entertainment. Soldiers are watching movies on their computers, at the Red Cross or in their offices. They sell hijacked DVD copies for $3.00 a piece at the local Hajji market which does a brisk traffic in ripping off Hollywood. A movie is a place a soldier can go and get a laugh, see a pretty girl or bump into a truth.

Any movie with Jessica Alba in a bathing suit is an immediate crowd pleaser. Soldiers have been talking about “The Hurt Locker” which I thought was excellent. Tyler Perry movies have a big audience but I think Will Ferrell rules over here. We all wonder how the Oscar could have passed him up for his understated performance as Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights or his short but brilliant performance in Wedding Crashers. Laughter is good medicine on bad days.

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more Li Po

Bathed and Washed
 
"Bathed in fragrance,
do not brush your hat;
Washed in perfume,
do not shake your coat:
 
"Knowing the world
fears what is too pure.
the wisest man
prizes and stores light."
 
By Bluewater
an old angler sat:
You and I together,
Let us go home.
 
Li Po
 
I make a living as a fishermen.  I know how to wait and be patient.  I wait for the fly line to peal back and straighten before returning home to the water.  I stare endlessly at the water waiting for a fish to dimple the surface.  I am waiting for spring with my mind floating like a cloud over the mountains.

Some are going others are coming.

It is almost January and the weather has remained good. The mornings are ushered in with cool temperatures and warm pinks on the peaks. Today, the wind comes from the north clearing out the dust and pollution in the valley. The mountains sparkle like jewels.

Some of the soldiers are going home. They are going home after years in Iraq and years in Afghansitan. They quietly go home. We fight wars with no parades. Heroics and heros are never affirmed.

Other soldiers are coming some with multiple deployments and some are new. The enemy is never going away and odd kind of job security. No one is waiting for a parade.

return to sender

Two nights ago there was a rocket attack.  People rushed to the bunkers.  I was in what I call "The Reading Room" to be exact the last stall in the latrine.  Like everyone else I heard the boom.  My first thought was this where Elvis ended it in a bathroom.  So, like "The King" I decided to make my stand there.  Then I wondered if Elvis was singing "Return to Sender" when he headed into the afterlife. 

on the edge of the empire

The following is a poem by the Chinese poet Li Po.  I discovered him over 30 years ago in a book of poems translated by Ezra Pound.  Tonight the moon is full over the Hindu Kush Mountains here at Bagram Air Base with Li Po's voice whispering from the peaks.



Taking Leave of a Friend



Blue mountains lie beyond the north wall;
Round the city's eastern side flows the white water.
Here we part, friend, once forever.
You go ten thousand miles, drifting away
Like an unrooted water-grass.
Oh, the floating clouds and the thoughts of a wanderer!
Oh, the sunset and the longing of an old friend!
We ride away from each other, waving our hands,
While our horses neigh softly, softly .

Li Po 701-762

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planting for spring

The winter in the Hindu Kush has been very mild and warm.  There is snow on the high peaks at sunset they are hot pink.  They remind me of the Mission Mountains near Flathead Lake. In spring the fiery pink is called Alpine Glow.  An Afghan is oiling his Enfield rifle like his great-grandfather did when the British were here.  After he oils his weapon he carefully wraps it like his father did when the Russians were here.  Right now he is going outside to bury it while the Americans are here.  In the spring, he will show his son where to dig it up.