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.