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.
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