Still stuck in Kuwait, waiting for my flight back to the "Stan." They try their best to make Kuwait as bearable as possible with around the clock amenities, but it's still painful to anxiously sit and wait, hoping that they call your number so you can return to the groove sooner than later. I sat next to a Major for part of my flight from the states, and I couldn't believe my ears when he said he envied the people that "deployed" to Kuwait for their rotations.
The wait has given me some time to trudge through an awesome book - Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged." As I was reading it on my flight into Key West, the flight attendant warned me not to finish the book, saying that I'd never be satisfied. In a way, that's what I think it's about...not being satisfied...never giving up, feeding the drive, trying to improve, produce and grow - a part of the human spirit that I absolutely appreciate and believe in. Although I don't believe every tenet of Ayn Rand's philosophy ("objectivism"), she definitely captures the essence of the human spirit in her writing, and it's an amazing, highly recommended book to read. At the same time it's definitely a tough, deep book to read; one where you need to take a break and really digest each sentence or paragraph from time to time. Needless to say, it's tough to feed my restless spirit in a place like Kuwait, so I'm anxious to get on the flight back to Shank.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Homeward Bound (sort of)
Sitting in the Atlanta Airport waiting for my flight to Kuwait (and eventually Bagram). If I'm lucky, I'll be back at FOB S
hank by the 27th or 28th.
Man...what an incredible break! The highlights speak for themselves:
-A beautiful reunion/trip to Key West with Katie! 48 hours after departing Kuwait, I was swimming next to her, snorkeling around an old Civil War fort (Dry Tortugas), trying to avoid jellyfish and keep my snorkel tube free of water. During our 6 day visit, we golfed, "crawled" through some pubs on Duval Street, checked out some cool museums/attractions, listened to beach music, ate good food, and chilled out. Key West was such a perfect, laid back, low "key" place for us to spend some time together and catch up on the past 9 months of our lives.
-A delicious, welcome home dinner with my Mom and Caroline! The house smelled and looked, well, like home. My sister's cat, Bailey, kept us pretty entertained with her dog-like tendencies.
-We tried to avoid traffic as Katie, my Mom and I rode bikes, "helmetless", down a major road to this remote portion of Gettysburg Park. An absolutely gorgeous, Indian summer kind of day.
-Visiting Basil! The wild, restless beast has "calmed down", as they told me at the farm. It was nice to meet the owners, volunteers, and say thank you to all of the people who have been offering such an awesome service to deployed soldiers' dogs.
-Family Dinner - My Aunt Karyn and Grandma showed off their cooking skills as we all sat down, shared stories, and ate a satisfying dinner with loved ones and friends.
-Golf - Katie and I tried our hands at some golf down in Key West. We hacked up the course pretty good...I think the random Iguanas and birds were the only things that consistently stayed on the greens and fairways. After flying back to Harrisburg, I golfed with my grandfather at the now Public/Private Colonial Country Club. We beat the rain and enjoyed a beautiful day on a beautiful course. The next day we gathered our favorite foursome (myself, grandfather, cousin Greg and cousin Joe) to play at Felicita - the same resort my sister and I hosted my mom's 50th birthday last year. We lost a lot of balls but still had a blast.
-David Garrett - I have to admit that I really enjoyed it! Although I questioned the appeal of seeing a Banana Republic model/violinist woo the crowd on stage, it was a phenomenal show. My mom treated Caroline, Trent, Katie and I to such a memorable night in Harrisburg.
-The Beach House - We always refer to the Lewis's cabin as "The Cabin," so I think "The Beach House" is an appropriate description for their beautiful home on the shores of Avalon, NJ. Jamie was nice enough to host me, Katie, Caroline, Trent, many of my cousins (Joe, Jake, Sarah, Christian, Greg) along with Jeff, Ben, Allison, Joey, Mike, Katie (Jeff's sister), Laura, Andrea and Collette. We lived like kings and had a blast, which included oysters, champagne, dancing, jet skis (I saw Ben and Joe make a 5 foot jump over a wake and wipe out pretty hard. Greg and I couldn't stop laughing), giant tenderloins, and overall good times. It was great seeing everybody again...it felt like we hadn't skipped a beat.
-Greg's house - I spent a night with Greg at his house in Wayne, Pa on the way back from the beach. We treated ourselves to a pretty lavish feast of Sushi/Chinese food.
-Family Dinner - Katie's parents, Lori and Bill, joined my Mom, Katie, Caroline and my dad's parents (Bubba and Pappap) for a fun dinner at the Hershey Links, followed by champagne/puzzle finishing at my mom's. Another special night.
-Lunch for Caroline - Katie and I created a massive, summer sandwich for my sister and brought it to her for lunch at one of her Metro stores. Caroline was recently hired by a regional bank, Metro, and is about 2 months into a year-long training program before she focuses on a specific field. It's an incredible job, but they're just as lucky to have such an incredible person in their ranks!
-Hot Wings at the Eagle - Katie's parents took us out for a few beers and some hot wings at our favorite wing spot, the Eagle. I opted for the "Suicide" sauce, and, as I sit in the airport and think about the long journey I still have to Kuwait, I'm beginning to regret that decision!
-Late night TV back at the house; the last night - Katie, Caroline, Mom and I watched our favorite show, "The Office," and a few others as we kicked back and relaxed on my last night at home.
We said our goodbyes earlier this morning. Katie brought me to the airport, and we delayed until the last possible second before hugging, kissing and continually looking over our shoulders at each other as she walked towards her parked car and I proceeded through the security check point.
It's much easier saying good-bye this time, knowing that I only have a few more months until I'm home for good, with this crazy year behind me. My break was as refreshing and rejuvenating as I could have ever hoped for. I'm ready to get back to Shank, reunite with the friends that I've missed over the past few weeks, and start focusing on my return back to the states and home.
The Cabin (Summer, 2009)
Right now the troops are all converging on our haven at blooming grove. They are jamming to some tunes, forgetting their numbing week of work, and anticipating the long, dark highway’s end, the 1871 entrance, gravel roads, a few turns, and the warm home, pumping smoke from its chimney, mystical and romantic and grounded all the same, a familiar, friendly escape for a few days. Smell the sweet, forest air, the cool clear night…the stone path curves towards the entrance. After finding the key and opening the front door, you’re left with the dilemma of turning left and grabbing an old Heineken from the storage room fridge, or turning right, dropping your stuff in the hallway, and making a u-turn towards the same destination. Tough choices at the cabin, but time is precious, so best to do things quickly and thoroughly. James…put on some catchy indie tunes, Jeff…grab the shot glasses and get things rolling….Ben…provide the incredibly deep and witty observations…Greg…keep us laughing with stories from the past weekend and shenanigans later in the night. Congregate in the study, pour a beer in a wine glass, burn a cigar, kick your feet up and throw an extra log on the fire. It’s going to be a long night. With friends, the tunes and booze and satisfaction bubble into a concoction nothing short of ecstasy. Drink coffees, redbulls, and monsters; beers, wines, and liquors – it’s balance and it’s love and you don’t want it to end…a beautiful night.
Sleep in comfort and wake up groggy, albeit cured by a hearty, late morning breakfast, an inspiring kitchen view into winter’s wilderness, and copious amounts of caffeine. Although unnecessary, try to balance some wholesome endeavors with the destructiveness of the previous evening. Clean the kitchen and the study, empty the garbage cans, plan a dinner and crowd into the car, down more gravel roads for a refreshing walk. The stream…tempting…should we jump?....better yet, how to make the moment last? A constant theme at the cabin...moments full of clarity…time too fast…constantly squeezing the day. The pines sway in the winds and the moss warms the cold stone as the water pours over the edge into the pool. The cliff and rocks across the water weeping icicles and frosty mist. Walk back up the path away from the stream, remembering old fires and nights, old celebrations and dances…you can’t get lost in those woods.
Return and prepare for the evening festivities. Fires are built, drinks are poured, steaks are seared, ping pong balls bounce, quarters ting, with music blaring and people laughing, smoke rising to the stars in the sky. Conversations explore the intricacies of life…a library full of knowledge, a mind without inhibition, youth and adult in one…quite the combination. Eyes grow weary and hearts sadly realize the moon falling in the sky...
Beds are made, sheets are cleaned, delay the inevitable but it’s time to leave. Look at the book, but don’t sign it, because words really can’t capture the essence of the escape, the depth of the nourishment, the appreciation of the moment and the anticipation for the next. Turn right away from the woods, the stream, the home and the night, and back towards reality.
Rebels in the Sky (September 16th, 2009)
Dusk in Afghanistan is a spectacular sight. The clear, blue skies transform to a purple – light enough to contrast the dark ridgelines, but dark enough to evoke that mystical clash between frontier and darkness that would seem fit for a sunset in the Colorado Rockies. Purple soon gives way to black – a black unmatched by any backwoods experience I’ve had in my short life. A black so blinding that it tricks your eyes into a false feeling of heaviness, and you walk bent forward at the waste, with your hands in front of your face, protecting your eyes and nose from any foreign object that might stand between you and the latrine, dining facility, or aircraft. Against this darkness is a radiant array of stars in the sky - a milky way like you’ve never seen before, stars shooting from one end of the sky to another…a seamless portrait of endlessness and wonder.
The portrait reminds me of a night on the beach, with friends, fires, and nothing to worry about except the rising sun. As I quietly sit in a chair outside of my tent, the Afghan night is surprisingly familiar. I remember that old night on the beach, as the black sky turned blue and began to reflect in the crashing waves. We ran and dove into the water, rebelling against the morning as our tireless spirits danced in the sand. Friends holding onto a night, embracing the cherished escape, keeping things light in the wake of growing stakes and responsibilities. I knew I always loved that rebellion, that dichotomy, that depth under the surface, and while at times I thought the years would squelch my adolescent ways of coping, I instead have found that a young spirit is common in the wake of adversity and discomfort, and just how much my “comrades” here in Afghanistan embrace that rebellion in combat – a rebellion that is filled with enough hope and optimism to brighten the darkest days.
It’s a rebelliousness that I’ve come to enjoy and love over the past few months at FOB Shank. I think of it as a swagger – a confidence in the face of uncertainty and fear that can be so ridiculous, but so appealing at the same time. I’d be lying to say that I haven’t been scared, haven’t had my heart in my throat, and haven’t experienced the uncontrollable sense of fixation that grips you in the heat of the moment. But just like any hint of concern spreads like wildfire to friends and family, it’s equally destructive to soldiers in a unit or crewmembers in an aircraft, and with our hearts in our throats we all kid ourselves with an air of confidence and equanimity that, like the jokes and stories that comprise the majority of our days, can seem ridiculous in hindsight. I always found confidence as an end instead of a means. You ace the test and then pat yourself on the back; win the game and then celebrate; count your chickens after they hatch. But in the heat of the moment, in these fits of stress and fear, confidence can be the means to the safe, feet on the ground, breath a sigh of relief – end. I really embraced this balance over the past few months, trying my best to “keep things light” as we trudged through the heavy darkness.
One night I sat waiting for the “trigger” – our signal that the high value target was bedded down for the evening in the suspected objective house. I sat in a Special Forces command post, surrounded by faces better suited for a civil war vignette than a night in Afghanistan. Their worn uniforms, weathered skin, and thick beards contrasted the youthful drive in their eyes. And, in typical, almost laughable Army fashion, jokes and lightheartedness preceded a mission where the stakes couldn’t be higher. Our Special Forces comrades would “advise” Afghan military forces, leading an 80-man assault on a Taliban commander and his group of thugs. Our formation of two Blackhawks and one Chinook would fly into an unsuspecting village and literally land in somebody’s backyard, inserting forces who would quickly proceed to the objective, capture all military-aged males, and call our aircraft for extraction. With the mission planned and time to waste as we waited for confirmation on the target’s location, our hosts serenaded us with stories about ex-wives, cop chases, and other late night shenanigans that you’d expect to hear over a few beers with friends – not minutes before embarking on an aggressive assault on an objective. I appreciated the dichotomy.
For me, the war is very real at FOB Shank. The pace of our missions increased as we approached the Afghan elections, and the direct support platform that we provide our customer – the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10 Mountain Division – makes our contributions that much more tangible. The big picture mission itself is straightforward enough – improve security in our AO (area of operations), build legitimacy for the Afghan police and military, and, for us specifically, ensure a safe, transparent presidential election for Afghanistan. Along the way, our higher command endorsed a more pragmatic approach for the counterinsurgency fight in a “tactical directive” – an emphasis on protecting Afghan citizens, minimizing collateral damage, adhering to proportionality and a more pinpointed, focused offensive. “Don’t let tactical victories turn into strategic defeats” was the catch phrase. I sat in the office with Special Forces operators as they prepped to lead Afghan commandos in a precise assault on a confirmed objective – a mission that surely embraced the tenets of the tactical directive. But as we received our final confirmation and finalized our plan for insertion, my mind strayed from the big, macro picture to the micro, thinking about our route, our landing, the threat – the small stuff.
As a Blackhawk pilot, I have the luxury of pushing the macro to the back burner. Our mission, for the most part, keeps us out of the enemy’s reach and away from the intricacies on the ground – the difficult distinctions that a faceless enemy places on our troops. When we fly on a “high threat” mission, Apaches always accompany us, providing an intimidating, quick-response presence against any possible threat. These gunships make the tough decisions, communicating with ground force commanders, distinguishing between friend and foe, and ensuring that “tactical victories don’t’ turn into strategic defeats.” Often we review gun tapes from Apache missions, where you can see, hear and really appreciate the deliberate caution that goes into engaging a target. I often think of Isaac and how well he’s suited to function in this “grey” area, making tough calls with tough consequences if things go awry.
And now, as we donned our goggles, started the engines, loaded the troops and took off, I had more immediate concerns. I loosened the grip on the controls and blinked the sweat from my eyes as I squinted through my goggles into the distance. Seconds felt like minutes as we approached our release point – the point where the flight descends and prepares for landing. As we descended the village appeared in the distance, hardly matching the imagery that we studied only an hour earlier. We continued towards our grid, using the GPS to ensure that we landed as close to our pre-planned location as possible. My scan became almost robotic – outside, check my altitude, our distance, our speed, back outside, search for any movement, inside.
We talked – “ok…1 k (kilometer)”, “I got you at 50 knots, looking good,” “towers at 7 o’clock”, “chalk 2, 5 and 5,” “ok….point 3 k’s out”, “what do you think…that terraced field at 12?”, “yeah…looks good,” “alright guys, clear me of the wires as we descend,” “roger, I’ll call the dust,” “Commit, commit, commit!”, “looking good, 30 knots, coming down to 50 feet, keep coming forward,” “moderate dust at the tail, at the cabin, your dust,” “Roger, I still have the ground in sight, are we clear down?”, “Roger..you’re clear”, “Alright, coming straight down.” “Down and safe, keep your scan on the buildings, let us know when we’re set for take off.”
And in this repetition, you feel it. It’s a weight that’s hard to describe, almost comparable to the jello in your legs after a long run. It’s harder to talk and harder to scan, as you’re lured into a state of fixation, with thoughts jumbled in your mind and lines blurred. The stress catches up to you; your mouth is dry and your heart races, but you battle through with the routine, continuing the scan and the banter, even as difficult as it seems. Once again, it’s that swagger, that - albeit forced - equanimity, that keeps you sane, keeps those around you sane, and keeps you from destroying the cyclic with your tight, sweaty grip as you come into land. Your grip loosens, your voice stops cracking, the dust settles and you’re safe on the ground.
So after months of landings and takeoffs – some more exciting than others – I found myself at Bagram. The crowded, transient tent that somehow stayed too hot during the day and too cold at night was surprisingly bearable when I knew that I was only days away from my reunion with loved ones. I think back to the trip over to Afghanistan and the intimidating, uncertain distance between those slow winter days and the light that, at the time, was nearly 12 months away. While shaving in the bathroom at Manas (our transient quarters prior to arriving in Afghanistan), I remember talking to a soldier returning from leave and my hidden envy not only for his vacation, but also for the experiences and challenges that he’d placed behind him as he looked towards the final months of his deployment. Now I’m that soldier, with 9 months of my own journey under my belt.
As my friends flew me from FOB Shank to Bagram yesterday morning, I felt incredibly relieved, peaceful, and pensive. The helicopter lifted off the ground, and the weight and worries of the past few months fell from my shoulders, leaving me with a surreal, bird’s eye perspective while we flew through that beautiful Afghanistan sky. With my company left to contend with the grind, I smiled knowing that their hopefulness, swagger, and lightheartedness – that rebellion - would continue.
The Mountains (May 13th, 2009)
I’m sitting here in Bagram behind our tent, looking out towards the snow capped Hindu Kush mountains, enjoying the cool breeze blowing off their peaks, watching the unfamiliar shades of green dance in the wind…a beautiful contrast to the dust and brown of Kandahar. The tall grass is comforting, with the lazy stems dangling forward, drifting back and forth, soft and unassuming. Of course the pictures of war interrupt the scene…the grass grows into the barriers and barbed wire that separate me from the surrounding villages, helicopters and jets fly overhead, and the rumble of artillery echoes from afar. It’s an all too familiar contrast. Wrapping your hands around the ugliness and the beauty, trying to find purpose in the pointlessness. The “why’s” line up against the “becauses,” and you can only hope that you’re strong enough to squeeze the meaning out of the sponge before it runs dry. But you battle and you persevere, and you find redemption in the smaller victories: the successful missions, the smiles, laughs and friends, a good workout, and even the tall weeds and cool breeze from the mountains.
You are more numb than you were in the past months and more engulfed in the here and now. What may have caused inhibition and frustration in the earlier stages is now acceptable and expected. You dive into the cold of the present knowing that it’s the only way forward to the warmth and calm of home. Compartmentalized isn’t quite the right word to describe this mental separation…it’s more passive and almost instinctive, as if your body and mind have rewired your base, making the thought of home feel just as abnormal as Afghanistan seemed before you deployed. You think about your return, wondering how you’ll adjust, how things will feel, what people will say and how you’ll react. You know it will be wonderful, but you leave it at that, like resisting the temptation of looking at “Santa’s” presents under your mom’s bed before Christmas. You keep your eye on the ball, trying hard not to “peek” ahead of yourself, instead letting each day carry you forward to those better, happier times.
For the past few months, change has been the theme. We moved from Kandahar two weeks ago, closing the chapter on an arduous, month-long process of packing, planning and physically moving to FOB Shank. What was once a distant rumor is now a reality…that our replacements would arrive in Kandahar early enough to facilitate our move northward, that a desolate river valley south of Kabul would transform into a sustainable operating base in a matter of months, that our gear would make the 300 mile journey to our new destination unscathed, that this whole thing would come together and we’d actually move! Well, we are, in fact, getting “shanked” (as some of the guys like to refer to it), and in a few days, we will leave our transient quarters in Bagram and embark on new adventures at FOB Shank.
It feels good to be closing this first chapter of the deployment. Small milestones are sometimes the difference between keeping the glass half full or half empty, and as we wipe our hands clean of the mission in Kandahar, we are definitely making a tangible step towards our homes and families in the States. To get a sense of progress, I often play the number game in my head. “Ok…I’m halfway through the first month.” Or “I’ve been here 80 days…that’s almost a quarter of the way through. That’s like running one lap on the track for a mile run…only three to go. That’s not bad.” Once we arrive at Fob Shank, I feel like I can reset my optimistic spin on the numbers, and by the time we reestablish ourselves and obtain an effective battle rhythm – a process that took most of a month upon our arrival to Afghanistan – the light at the end of the tunnel will be bright enough to touch, let alone see.
The differences between northern and southern Afghanistan, whether environmentally or tactically, are significant. Elevation is the key difference, with higher altitudes and temperatures requiring more keen management of the helicopter’s power. In hotter and higher conditions, the engines have a harder time compressing air, which (without getting too deep into the weeds) essentially limits the helicopter’s available power and, thus, performance. The margins that we enjoyed at the lower altitudes in Kandahar simply aren’t there, which adds a new consideration when planning and flying missions. Fob Shank sits at around 7000 feet above sea level, and some of the surrounding landing zones exceed 10000 feet in elevation.
Northern Afghanistan also presents new tactical challenges. The mountains and valleys obviously canalize movement, which, at times, can limit our ability to remain unpredictable and stealthy. At the same time, however, the high mountains can also provide mask and cover, and they limit some of the lines of communication that extended much further in the flat deserts near Kandahar. When you fly, you see caves and abandoned weapon systems, mine fields and old fighting positions…all while taking in the breathtaking beauty of fertile river valleys meandering between jagged mountains that touch the sky. The season of winds, known as the “120 days of wind,” provides a cool, north to south breeze, bringing a refreshing reprieve during some of the warmer days.
We had a chance to visit our new home at FOB Shank a few days ago, checking on its progress while dropping off a team to start building up some of our living and working areas. The comparison between a place like Kandahar or Bagram to a place like Fob Shank would be like comparing a night at a cheap hotel in a city to a night sleeping under the stars in the woods. Bagram and Kandahar have the basic amenities, have the coffee shops and chapels, the big gyms and large dining facilities. But they also have too many people, too little space, and too much “brass” (senior leadership)…it’s easy to feel a little claustrophobic. In contrast, just like sleeping in the woods, Shank might lack some of the basic comforts that we’ve enjoyed over the past few months, but it’s open, there’s space, the air is fresh and there’s a sense of autonomy that just wasn’t there in our old home. The change will certainly be appreciated.
Friends continue to grow closer and more abundant. I’ve laughed until I cried on many occasions over the past few months, and I honestly don’t think I could convey the hilarity…it’s just those times where “you had to be there.” My platoon sergeant, Gunny (or “the gun”, as we now call him) has an almost irresistibly amusing “steam.” When he gets on a rant about the Army, a Soldier, or some other grievance, we all just sit back and laugh at the old man’s cracking patience, red face, and expletive laden sermon. Of course his tirades are in private, and he’s really just saying all of the things that we wish we could, but there’s something about his punchline tactlessness that makes me laugh…uncontrollably…until I cry.
Our First Sergeant provides another consistent source of laughter. While we were at Kandahar, he constantly downloaded movies and songs on his computer with a sketchy downloading service, which, in turn, laced his computer with a stream of viruses. Of course he always denied that the viruses were a result of his downloading scheme, just as any stubborn First Sergeant would. One day he stopped me in the hall, looking frazzled to say the least. I asked him what was wrong and he said that he had a pretty devastating virus on his computer, so I stopped by his room to check it out. He sat down at his computer…”Look at this man…I just don’t understand it…everytime I try to open any program, this picture shows up on my computer…I can’t get into anything...it’s this same picture everytime.” The picture that wouldn’t go away was some foreign model in a bikini, and I almost fell down laughing when he showed me the “infection” on his computer. He still denies that the virus was from the downloading service, even after buying a new computer and ceasing his movie/song intake. I beg to differ.
The forming of the “Comanchero Cigar Club” has been another gift that’s fallen on our laps over the past few months. One of the more charismatic pilots in our company, Justin, took it upon himself to write to a troop friendly cigar club from the states. I’m not sure what he wrote, but he hit the right chord with some very generous aficionados. We have received close to a thousand cigars, quality lighters, cutters, trays, and magazines. And when I say cigars, I mean an excessive amount of some excessively nice stuff…the other day I smoked an aged Cuban Monte-Cristo from 1985. It’s pretty satisfying to sit around with a bunch of guys and puff away at a ten-dollar token of generosity, especially when most of us would be content with a 50-cent cigar from the grocery store. It reminds me of some of the opulence I partook in with my amigos back home, when our “campouts” turned into something fit for a rock star, with only the finest meats, drinks and comforts. To share the wealth, we’ve started bagging up cigars and accessories to hand out to our passengers when we fly. Lord knows those guys on the ground can use a boost every now and then.
And so the grind continues, now with the high mountains standing in the distance…a firm reminder of the peaks and valleys that we’ll surely endure in the coming months. But they also remind me of the redeeming constants of man, the beauty of life, the things that even the ugliness of war can’t hind. The birds still chirp in the morning and the clouds look just as brilliant as they churn and flow in the windy sky. A hearty laugh feels just as good, and the love for those near and far grows more than I thought it could. I love the resilience of it all…it’s a blessing I count everyday. Just like the other mountains I’ve scaled over the years, the view is almost always worth the climDeliberate (March 24th, 2009)
Things can be dull in Afghanistan. I feel like I’ve poured all of the romance from my experiences out in my previous accounts over the last few months, and all that remains is the dreary, sandy skies that seem to engulf us on a daily basis. Occasionally, rain breaks this constant monotony of dust and haze – our tin buildings exasperating the sound of the pattering drops falling from the sky. Our flights can also bring some color to our otherwise brown landscape, as the rolling hills, mountains and river valleys with sprouting poppy fields and wandering Bedouin add exciting, more colorful tones to our days. But for the most part, I find color in my friends, my soldiers, and our daily interactions.
To be able to confide in Isaac, Tyler and Ollie is truly a blessing. We laugh at our surroundings, complain about our lives, talk about politics and relationships, soldiers and friends, future plans and current holdups. It makes for a cherished depth of companionship – a means to vent and stay grounded. Yesterday we all crowded into Isaac’s room for a remarkably normal evening, where we ate pizza and watched an episode of our favorite show – “The Office.” The small “Pizza Hut” trailer in Kandahar tries its best to mimic the American family restaurant, and regardless of the differences in taste and price, an occasional slice is a treat. Katie knows my appreciation of “spice” and recently sent me a bottle of hot sauce, which I used liberally to flavor my personal pan. We sat in our sweaty gym clothes, ate our junk food and laughed at our favorite Scranton office – our own “scene” as warm and familiar as it would have been at home.
Finding comfort zones is always my way (and probably most people’s ways) of dealing with new, seemingly uncomfortable environments. I can remember in survival school, with the thoughts of capture, prison camp, and interrogation constantly on my mind, I found an escape in something as simple as the taste of a shrub or the warmth of a fire. After days without sleep or food, the chill of the January air, even in Alabama, was getting the best of my team. Exhausted, cold, and hungry, we set up camp late one night and after a recent, soaking rain, desperately trudged through the thick forest to salvage any dry, usable firewood. With a few former boy scouts on the team, we were able to build an incredibly warm (and obnoxiously large) fire. The conditions were so cold and miserable that we ignored the direction to only make small, discrete “cooking” fires, and instead opted for the large, lavish bon fire approach. We assumed (correctly) that no cadre would venture into the woods and try to compromise our position in such miserable conditions. Next to our pit we found a shrub with leaves that, when chewed, provide small doses of caffeine. Our five-man team sat around the fire stuffing green leaves into our mouths and sucking out every ounce of caffeine they had to offer. We shared stories, laughed at the size of our fire, and forgot about our imminent doom at the prison camp. For a few hours it felt more like Boy Scout camp than survival school, and sometimes a little escape is all that you need.
The soldiers I work with make my days enjoyable, meaningful, and always entertaining. The nicknames paint the perfect picture – there’s “Pinky”, “Cookie”, “Cruise,” “Gunny,” “the Fornicator,” and “Top,” just to name a few. Gunny is my 52-year-old platoon sergeant, with children older than me and the raspy, gritty intensity that you would probably associate more with a Vietnam veteran than a 21st century soldier. He calls me “Boss,” almost as if he relishes the ironic disparity between our ages, experiences, and rank. We talk often about his career, our families, and our soldiers, and his hard-love leadership style is one that I appreciate and respect.
The “Fornicator” (whose last name is Forney – the nickname irresistible) is our Maintenance Test Pilot (MTP), and probably one of the hardest working members of the company. If an aircraft has a maintenance issue, an MTP will often fly the aircraft and troubleshoot the problem – a hands-on engineer and aircraft systems expert. The Fornicator – always with a cigarette and coffee in his hands – loves his job and works himself to the ground to help keep our fleet of aircraft in the air. He has an incredibly deep, yet unassuming, air of intelligence, and you can almost envision him teaching in an MIT classroom as much as you can in a flight suit in Afghanistan. He is probably one of the only people I know to drink a cup of joe before going to bed, so anytime I need a late-night fix, I know there’s a room brewing some hot, strong coffee.
My boss (our company commander) is a West Point graduate whose baby face hides his years of combat experience as an aviator. Incredibly intelligent and refreshingly relaxed, he is an easy person to work for, and Tyler and I try our best to make his life as painless as possible. Our First Sergeant (the highest ranking enlisted soldier in the company), nicknamed “Top,” is truly a soldiers’ leader, taking pride in taking care of our troops and keeping things light with his dirty jokes and crazy stories from his younger, wilder years. He is an assistant Scoutmaster for his son’s Boy Scout troop, and it seems like he would fit in well with the fun-loving triumvirate of Scoutmasters that mentored me in my scouting days.
The people I work with can be pleasant, abrasive, obnoxious, hilarious, appealing and, well, unbearable. It makes for a lively compilation of interactions throughout the day – some of which are appreciated more than others. Regardless of our personalities, however, we all share a deep bond – an appreciation of life and fellow soldier - that is undeniable. The camaraderie I feel with the other soldiers in our company resembles a football locker-room more than a day in an office cubicle. I know this is something I will miss when I get home and later in life when the Army is behind me.
A few days ago I received a package of Valentines Cards from a Pittsburgh area elementary school. It was touching to sit and smile at the crayon drawings and pink, heart-shaped cards made of construction paper. Each of my grandparents sent packages – pictures from past celebrations, new sets of sheets, and heartwarming notes. Katie’s grandparents sent me some delicious, homemade Valentine cookies, and Jeff sent me magazines and cigars. My aunt, uncle and cousins put together a Steelers package that arrived the day of the Super Bowl – perfect timing to cheer for the black and gold. Church families have showed their constant support with cards and packages, and the notes from Katie, Caroline and my Mom line my desk. With the support from my friends, soldiers and family, the light at the end of this deployment tunnel shines more brightly each day, adding color to the drearier, darker times.
Color (February 12, 2009)
Things can be dull in Afghanistan. I feel like I’ve poured all of the romance from my experiences out in my previous accounts over the last few months, and all that remains is the dreary, sandy skies that seem to engulf us on a daily basis. Occasionally, rain breaks this constant monotony of dust and haze – our tin buildings exasperating the sound of the pattering drops falling from the sky. Our flights can also bring some color to our otherwise brown landscape, as the rolling hills, mountains and river valleys with sprouting poppy fields and wandering Bedouin add exciting, more colorful tones to our days. But for the most part, I find color in my friends, my soldiers, and our daily interactions.
To be able to confide in Isaac, Tyler and Ollie is truly a blessing. We laugh at our surroundings, complain about our lives, talk about politics and relationships, soldiers and friends, future plans and current holdups. It makes for a cherished depth of companionship – a means to vent and stay grounded. Yesterday we all crowded into Isaac’s room for a remarkably normal evening, where we ate pizza and watched an episode of our favorite show – “The Office.” The small “Pizza Hut” trailer in Kandahar tries its best to mimic the American family restaurant, and regardless of the differences in taste and price, an occasional slice is a treat. Katie knows my appreciation of “spice” and recently sent me a bottle of hot sauce, which I used liberally to flavor my personal pan. We sat in our sweaty gym clothes, ate our junk food and laughed at our favorite Scranton office – our own “scene” as warm and familiar as it would have been at home.
Finding comfort zones is always my way (and probably most people’s ways) of dealing with new, seemingly uncomfortable environments. I can remember in survival school, with the thoughts of capture, prison camp, and interrogation constantly on my mind, I found an escape in something as simple as the taste of a shrub or the warmth of a fire. After days without sleep or food, the chill of the January air, even in Alabama, was getting the best of my team. Exhausted, cold, and hungry, we set up camp late one night and after a recent, soaking rain, desperately trudged through the thick forest to salvage any dry, usable firewood. With a few former boy scouts on the team, we were able to build an incredibly warm (and obnoxiously large) fire. The conditions were so cold and miserable that we ignored the direction to only make small, discrete “cooking” fires, and instead opted for the large, lavish bon fire approach. We assumed (correctly) that no cadre would venture into the woods and try to compromise our position in such miserable conditions. Next to our pit we found a shrub with leaves that, when chewed, provide small doses of caffeine. Our five-man team sat around the fire stuffing green leaves into our mouths and sucking out every ounce of caffeine they had to offer. We shared stories, laughed at the size of our fire, and forgot about our imminent doom at the prison camp. For a few hours it felt more like Boy Scout camp than survival school, and sometimes a little escape is all that you need.
The soldiers I work with make my days enjoyable, meaningful, and always entertaining. The nicknames paint the perfect picture – there’s “Pinky”, “Cookie”, “Cruise,” “Gunny,” “the Fornicator,” and “Top,” just to name a few. Gunny is my 52-year-old platoon sergeant, with children older than me and the raspy, gritty intensity that you would probably associate more with a Vietnam veteran than a 21st century soldier. He calls me “Boss,” almost as if he relishes the ironic disparity between our ages, experiences, and rank. We talk often about his career, our families, and our soldiers, and his hard-love leadership style is one that I appreciate and respect.
The “Fornicator” (whose last name is Forney – the nickname irresistible) is our Maintenance Test Pilot (MTP), and probably one of the hardest working members of the company. If an aircraft has a maintenance issue, an MTP will often fly the aircraft and troubleshoot the problem – a hands-on engineer and aircraft systems expert. The Fornicator – always with a cigarette and coffee in his hands – loves his job and works himself to the ground to help keep our fleet of aircraft in the air. He has an incredibly deep, yet unassuming, air of intelligence, and you can almost envision him teaching in an MIT classroom as much as you can in a flight suit in Afghanistan. He is probably one of the only people I know to drink a cup of joe before going to bed, so anytime I need a late-night fix, I know there’s a room brewing some hot, strong coffee.
My boss (our company commander) is a West Point graduate whose baby face hides his years of combat experience as an aviator. Incredibly intelligent and refreshingly relaxed, he is an easy person to work for, and Tyler and I try our best to make his life as painless as possible. Our First Sergeant (the highest ranking enlisted soldier in the company), nicknamed “Top,” is truly a soldiers’ leader, taking pride in taking care of our troops and keeping things light with his dirty jokes and crazy stories from his younger, wilder years. He is an assistant Scoutmaster for his son’s Boy Scout troop, and it seems like he would fit in well with the fun-loving triumvirate of Scoutmasters that mentored me in my scouting days.
The people I work with can be pleasant, abrasive, obnoxious, hilarious, appealing and, well, unbearable. It makes for a lively compilation of interactions throughout the day – some of which are appreciated more than others. Regardless of our personalities, however, we all share a deep bond – an appreciation of life and fellow soldier - that is undeniable. The camaraderie I feel with the other soldiers in our company resembles a football locker-room more than a day in an office cubicle. I know this is something I will miss when I get home and later in life when the Army is behind me.
A few days ago I received a package of Valentines Cards from a Pittsburgh area elementary school. It was touching to sit and smile at the crayon drawings and pink, heart-shaped cards made of construction paper. Each of my grandparents sent packages – pictures from past celebrations, new sets of sheets, and heartwarming notes. Katie’s grandparents sent me some delicious, homemade Valentine cookies, and Jeff sent me magazines and cigars. My aunt, uncle and cousins put together a Steelers package that arrived the day of the Super Bowl – perfect timing to cheer for the black and gold. Church families have showed their constant support with cards and packages, and the notes from Katie, Caroline and my Mom line my desk. With the support from my friends, soldiers and family, the light at the end of this deployment tunnel shines more brightly each day, adding color to the drearier, darker times.
Keeping Pace (January 24th, 2009)
Life has been quite a rollercoaster over the past few weeks. Maybe it’s that the grass is always greener, or maybe deployments really offer no happy medium. You’re either extremely busy or extremely not, and it’s on you to fill or allocate your time in a way that keeps you moving and sane. Enjoying the furlough in Farah seemed appealing and necessary, but after a few weeks, I found myself painfully bored and anxious to return to Kandahar. After returning, I was quickly swamped down with work and responsibility, which will probably leave me gasping for air in a month or so. If nothing else, these highs and lows certainly change the scenery, and years would be long without seasons.
Farah had its share of highs and lows. After our first morning of excitement, we responded to four other Medevac calls throughout the next few days. One day we received a call to deliver an Afghani soldier to a nearby hospital, and after spooling up and preparing for the flight, a delay at Farah’s hospital pushed our timeline back for a few hours. Time was particularly critical in this instance, not only for the soldier’s health, but also because bad weather and low illumination loomed ahead of us. We took off just prior to sunset, and again, due to the angle of the moon and cloud cover, things were dark. It’s difficult to describe what it’s like to fly in this type of darkness. The sharp green contrast that you normally enjoy when flying under goggles becomes blurred and, at times, ambiguous. Your eyes almost strain to find some form of light, and you swear to yourself that something must be wrong with your goggles. Of course, nothing is, and having another experienced pilot in the cockpit helps you overcome some of the “blindness” that usually hinders the newer pilots (like myself). We weaved through mountains, avoiding clouds and storms and squinting through our goggles to find our way home. It was a stressful flight.
From there, things slowed down significantly. Besides the daily aircraft prep and a few moments of excitement, my days were reduced to working out, correspondence, and reading. Our four-man room was small, stuffy, and smelled like everything in it needed a shower, so I tried to limit my exposure to its wrath. My first stop each day was usually the gym. The gym building seemed like it served as a safe house in a more distant, dangerous past. Square holes were scattered on in its white, plastered walls, shedding dusty rays of sunlight onto its floors. The gym itself was small but adequate, equipped with a few treadmills and basic weight sets and machines. Fitness posters lined the walls, including a signed, large image of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his younger, stronger days. With no mirrors or real windows in the room, the California governor and I had many “eye to eyes” during my workouts. The crowd was always entertaining, as I found myself particularly observant (hopefully not judgmental) while frequenting the gym.
The Italians were such a lively, happy group to watch. They constantly smiled and laughed, carrying on conversation and stretching in their obscenely short shorts with their big, bushy beards. As a soon to be married man, I feel comfortably compelled to say that a disproportionate amount of Italian men were/are very “pretty.” I imagined that their dark hair, thick beards, and chiseled features alone would be enough to woo most ladies, including Caroline, Katie, or my Mom. And as much as I bumped up the speed on the treadmill or added plates to the barbells, I still couldn’t match the European manliness that consistently surrounded me in the gym. One afternoon I was lying on a bench lifting dumbbells, and as I closed my eyes and tried muster one more repetition, I looked up to see a very large, very strong, very friendly Italian soldier standing over me. He supported my elbows, smiled, and gave me the universal “you’ve got one more in you” signal as he helped me knock out another rep. I smiled and thanked him…the Italians obviously won my heart in Farah.
I struck up conversation with other soldiers, particularly those directly involved with Farah’s Provincial Reconstruction Team. These Special Forces and Civil Affairs soldiers work with the local population to make lasting improvements to everyday life in Afghanistan. They build schools, establish markets, train police forces, and plan infrastructure. Their ranks include lawyers, doctors, engineers, economists, police chiefs, state officials, etc. It’s the side of the war that isn’t/wasn’t publicized, or, initially, emphasized enough. One evening I noticed a Civil Affairs officer walking down the hallway wearing Pittsburgh Steelers slippers, so it was a nice icebreaker for conversation and very intriguing to hear about his development work.
This officer also happened to have a tailless, fluffy, orange and white friend. His dog’s name was Murphy – a stray who he befriended in a surrounding village. I laughed to myself…this dog was dramatically calmer and better trained then my dog, Basil. Murphy probably lived and scrounged for food amongst Taliban thugs, gunfire, and violence, while Basil enjoyed the luxuries of my couch, bed, and tested patience. As Murphy sat at my feet and I pet his fluffy head, I missed Basil’s howl, her manic fits and destructive habits. I wonder if she’ll remember me when I come home.
I found a copy of McCullough’s John Adams in our building and kept my nose between its pages for most of my two-week rotation. Katie joked that with my less than riveting schedule at Farah and all of my praise for his book, my next letter (this letter) might be reduced to a book review. My Mom’s been pushing the book on me for the past few years, and I’m happy that I finally budged and opened my eyes and the cover. I’ll forgo the book review, but, in short, it’s a beautiful account on so many levels…a geographical, historical, and political lesson combined with very personal insight into Adams’s private and public life. Having time to read like that in Farah was an appreciated gift.
When our two-week rotation came to an end, we prepped our aircraft and waited on the landing pad for our replacement crew, which included Tyler. As the two black specs grew into helicopters, we snapped photos of their descent into the FOB. They all seemed ready for the slower life at Farah, while we were ready to get back to work at Kandahar. Tyler and I ate lunch together, and I showed him around Farah’s small FOB as he filled me in on the last two weeks at “home.” We said our goodbyes, I climbed into the aircraft, and we flew over the mountains and deserts, back to our familiar, fast life.
A few days after arriving back in Kandahar, I received a call from my old company’s (D Company) orderly room, saying that I had a “few” packages and letters sitting in their mailroom. I walked down to their hangar after work, stepped into the office, and saw a stack of packages literally as high as my shoulders. I couldn’t stop laughing…”Come on man, there’s no way those are all for me.” “Sir, you must have a lot of people back home who love you.” After carrying the boxes back to my room, I sat and opened them, reading the cards, eating the cookies, smelling the cigars, and finding room to store my lavish stock of goods from home. And it was perfect timing…a touching reprieve after a busy day.
I can still remember those long winter days as a child, constrained to the confines of my home, feeling lost without the green grass, baseball glove, and friends that I spent the majority of my time with on warmer afternoons. “Mom, I have nothing to do!” I would complain, to which my Mom would respond, “It’s good to be bored!” Throughout the years, I’ve grown to appreciate those quiet, seemingly boring times, trying hard to force my usually restless soul to relax and breath for a few hours. Looking back, my time in Farah was pleasantly slow– a much needed break from hectic life in Kandahar. Once back at Kandahar, I have to remind myself that slowing down can be just as important as speeding up – it’s all about maintaining a sustainable pace. I guess Mom was right.
New Year (January 7, 2009)
Yesterday, I packed my bags and flew to Farah, a province in western Afghanistan, where I’ll be spending the next few weeks. Our Task Force provides a “Medevac Chase” aircraft there, and every 2 weeks, a crew of 4 (2 pilots and 2 crew chiefs) makes the trip and enjoys the rotation “away from the flag pole” (i.e. out of sight from our Task Force leadership). I’d been to Farah before – it was one the stops during my first flight with Isaac. I also knew that it was a good place to stay – small but accommodating, relatively quiet, and away from the daily grind back at Kandahar. Being a chase bird essentially means that we provide backup/security/support for the actual medevac aircraft in the event of a medevac mission. In accordance with the Geneva Convention, an ambulatory vehicle/aircraft cannot carry crew served weapons; this code obviously applies to medevac aircraft (hence, the justification for a “chase” bird).
If any coalition soldier in a given sector is injured and requires immediate care, our brigade processes that information and funnels it to the relevant medevac asset. Through a series of communication channels, the medevac and chase crews receive the alert on a small, handheld radio, which will transmit “MEDEVAC MEDEVAC MEDEVAC.” At that time, the PC (pilot in command) runs to the operations cell, and the PI (pilot/what I am now) runs out and begins starting up the aircraft. Getting off the ground as quickly as possible means rendering aid to the wounded as quickly as possible, so those first 20 minutes after the call are obviously crucial.
We arrived in Farah yesterday afternoon and replaced the previous crew. This crew and their 3 predecessors received ZERO medevac missions while on rotation, which means that for a span of nearly two months, being in Farah was almost like getting a two week reprieve from Kandahar. Gene and Paul, two of the crewmembers we replaced, enjoyed a pretty lush schedule – no alarm clocks, plenty of eating, phone calls to home and time in the gym. Why not take advantage of the precious personal time that seems so elusive in Kandahar?!
The FOB itself seems small, quiet, and surprisingly peaceful. The buildings look like old, clay schoolhouses, with native tile, oversized doorways and large common areas. Coalition efforts here appear more developmental than anything. Pictures line the walls of troops in Afghani communities, building bridges or schools, holding meetings with elders, and taking candid photos with children. The small dining facility combines many of Farah’s cultural appeals into an entertaining scene. There’s bearded Italians laughing in conversation, Afghanis in traditional garb serving food, Americans – both clean-shaven and bearded (meaning conventional troops and special forces) quietly eating together, flickering lights from the overworked generator, an Arabic music video on the small television in the corner, and Jimi Hendrix blasting on the radio in the kitchen.
After receiving our in-brief and meeting the medevac crew from the California guard that we would support, we went to our rooms with our guards down in an expected sense of comfort – chances of actually flying a medevac mission were slim to none, and everybody knew it. Our room was small and stuffy, but it provided enough space to kick up my feet and relax. Feeling physically and mentally drained from two hectic weeks, I crawled into bed…my head hit my pillow like a rock.
My dream brought me back home, back with my girl, in some relaxing, summer setting, conjuring happy feelings intertwined with slight anxiety (almost a combination of a romance/chase movie, if you can imagine). I was in deep sleep thousands of miles away from reality when reality woke me from my peaceful slumber: “MEDEVAC MEDEVAC MEDEVAC.” We turned on the lights, scrambled for our clothes, and ran out the door, all putting into practice what we had rehearsed only a few hours earlier. My body filled with adrenaline as I ran out to the aircraft –I quickly set things up, put on my gear, and crawled into the cockpit to begin starting the aircraft. As soon as Kevin (the PC) and the rest of the crew arrived, we goggled up (it was still dark), put in the necessary frequencies/grid coordinates, and postured for launching. My heart raced but I was confident and in the zone. So much for the two-week reprieve.
An Afghani soldier from the ANA (the good guys) had been wounded earlier in the morning and needed transported to the hospital at Farah. We arrived at the LZ (landing zone) and orbited while the Medevac bird landed and received the patient. We took off and raced back to Farah, landed and caught our breath for a few hours. Later in the day, we took him to a larger hospital at Camp Bastion - a British airfield roughly two hours away. As we returned to Farah and set up the aircraft for future missions, it was surreal to swallow what I’d witnessed throughout the day. Seeing our country use its arsenal of resources to save an Afghani’s life was a moving experience. Professionals – soldiers, airmen, and marines; doctors, surgeons, medics, special forces, pilots, colonels, and privates – all worked together, all rushed and ran and labored, to save this young soldier’s life. Seeing diplomacy on such a first-hand, personal level made me proud of our country and helped me appreciate just how much diplomacy and strategy are intertwined.
That aside, the past few weeks have been busy, challenging, interesting, and incredibly fast! It seems like the days have all clumped together into a never-ending Monday, where you wake up in the morning feeling the overwhelming weight of unfinished work from the previous week and crawl into bed at night scratching your head wondering where the day went. I like it this way – no time for self-pity, a consistent list of things to do, camaraderie from shared experiences, and a rushed, “skip in the step” sense of urgency that follows you throughout the day. It makes for great friendships, growing appreciations, a sense of purpose, fast days, and heavy eyes in the evening.
Through it all, I still managed to find some time to celebrate my Christmas “holiday.“ On Christmas Eve, I went to a Catholic service with some friends, squeezing into a pew to enjoy a relaxing escape for a few hours. Soldiers from different services and countries all congregated into the small, makeshift building, and I noticed some senior leaders from my unit sitting quietly amongst the crowd. All of us were probably lost in the same thoughts, thinking back to previous Christmases with family and friends, missing that familiar hand on our lap or the traditions that made our Decembers so special. Sitting in that church brought home just how far away from home I really was, and it was comforting to know the soldiers around me felt the same way. The priest was a Canadian, and his comforting, soft accent was a perfect compliment to the bittersweet aura surrounding the evening. We took some pictures after the service with old friends from school and headed back to get some sleep. I still felt the “spirit of Christmas,” but it was short and sweet – I had another “Monday” to look forward to in the morning.
I was able to talk with my sister, Mom, and Katie briefly on Christmas day (hearing their voices always makes my day). Over lunch I enjoyed a delicious holiday feast at the dining facility, which included turkey, stuffing, shrimp, pies, and other holiday treats. A military band played the traditional holiday songs, and midway through the meal a pair of bagpipes walked the isles of the mess hall and played the four service songs (Army, Navy, Marines and Airforce). Anytime I hear the Marine Corps song I think back to my graduation week at West Point. My four grandparents, mom and I all went to a choral ceremony one evening, and at the end of the event the choir director asked members of the audience from the various services to stand while their song was being played. When they sang the Marine Corps song, my grandfather, Bennie Summers, stood up at a sharp attention. There were only 2 or 3 other retired Marines standing in the audience, and as my grandfather sang the song with pride and tears rolled down his red cheeks, I knew it was a moment I would always remember. Now, I appreciate that memory even more.
Work has been challenging but fun. Tyler and I have many different responsibilities as platoon leaders. We plan flights, account for property, “manage the troops”, etc. We serve as a middleman between our flight company and the Task Force’s operations cell. When our company receives mission requests (usually 48 hours in advance), we choose the aircraft and crews that will fly those missions and prepare briefs for the operations cell to hand off to “higher” for approval.
It’s amazing how much goes into making these decisions...pilot experience, rest (“fighter management”), and training… aircraft hours, inspections, and maintenance. Additionally, our Task Force has a troubling shortage of Blackhawk pilots, and due to this shortage, our company must rely heavily on “staff” aviators to fly missions. (For clarification, each flight company has pilots, like myself, who form crews for missions. The Task Force also has many “staff” aviators – pilots who currently reside in a staff position outside of the flight company but still maintain flight status and can fly missions when needed. Prior to coming to the flight company, I was considered a “staff” aviator). As you can imagine, each staff aviator has a critical position and role in the daily operations of the Task Force, and there’s definitely a cost/benefit analysis that goes into choosing which staff aviator should fly and when. Giving them adequate time to plan and prepare for their flying duties helps mitigate some of the costs of their absence from their staff position. Tyler and I came up with a “forecasted,” monthly flight schedule to help them and us find the right balance between flying and staffing. It’s a work in progress, and this month will be an experiment of sorts to help us develop workable schedules for the future months.
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