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.
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