Hot, Hot, Hot!

As I mentioned at the beginning, the Arkansas heat made itself known the minute we stepped out of the airport and continued throughout. The training was good, but the heat was oppressive for the entire 2 weeks we were there. Each morning, as soon as we left our quarters for breakfast, we could feel the heat beginning to rise. Sometimes, we would get brief respites when we had classroom instruction, but during practical training outdoors, we bleached in the summer sun.

Me (the balding guy, of course) and Patti, to my left, enjoying the
cool classroom and yucking it up as usual.

Perhaps among the most unbearable were the range qualification days. On one of our firearms instruction days, one of our classmates had to receive medical attention (I.V.'s and liquids) due to the effects of the heat. The following day, our group had the benefit of pop-up tents, but the sun was still scorching. I longed for a dip in the ocean, which seemed so far away from this land-locked state. From the time we began in the early morning, until we showered late in the day, we remained soaked with sweat under our uniforms.

A better shot of Patti. With the sunglasses bought from an Exxon station,
a true "Jersey Shore" type, don't you think?

In Afghanistan, one of the weapons we would be carrying would be the Beretta 9mm. I remembered that, at one point, the NJ state police considered choosing the Beretta as our on-duty weapon, but chose another manufacturer instead. Years ago, while training local police officers at Sea Girt, I remembered the range master cautioning new trainees about being       “Beretta bit”. It sounded like it hurt, but I wasn’t really sure of what it entailed. On our first day of qualification while I was trying to manipulate the handgun, I pulled back the slide and didn’t position my left hand correctly. As the slide snapped forward, “Oww!” I left a chunk of my lower palm in the ejection port – I was officially “bitten” by the Beretta.

Yours truly familiarizing myself with the AK-47 -
a Russian assault rifle used by the Afghan police, army (and others). 

  

The shooting range was reminiscent of many of the shooting areas at home: A berm behind the targets to keep rounds from traveling where they shouldn't; and, as at all outdoor ranges, despite attempts to clean them up, brass casings from spent ammunition scattered on the ground here and there. The uniform of the day was the army combat uniform (ACU). As hot as it was, it was probably a good thing to be wearing long sleeves, since we had to fire a number of times while laying on the ground.

Part of the class undergoing firearms qualification

Despite the heat and the piece of flesh that the Berretta had removed from my hand, the qualifications seemed to be going well for me. I should have remembered, however, that bad things come in 3's. Throughout the qualification, I was the last shooter positioned at the extreme right of the firing line. To my left was Daniel Evans, a tall southerner. He was an excellent marksman whose shot groupings on the target were tightly packed. He was a good shot that is, for the bullets that leave the barrel and travel to the target. I came to find out however, that he didn't much care (nor should he have) about where the spent casings were going. For those unfamiliar with the Berretta, the shell casing that holds the gunpowder in a bullet usually gets ejected upwards and to the right after the round is fired. During one of the handgun firing sequences, the trajectory of, not one, but two spent casings coming from Daniel's gun traveled in an arc and plopped right down the back of my shirt. I felt the hot brass hit the nape of my neck and trickle down between my sweaty back and undershirt, searing my skin. Knowing not to point the gun at anyone else, I did a hopping/dancing movement, while keeping my arm extended with the gun pointed towards the target. When the burning finally subsided, I stopped "dancing"and looked behind me towards the firearms line instructor. Smiling, he said, "At least you kept the gun pointed downrange!" As I looked beyond him, to some of my colleagues who were waiting to shoot in the next relay, I could see broad smiles on some of their faces. Once again, I was glad to provide some of my classmates some entertainment.

Regardless of the spartan conditions, it was always good to get back to our quarters after the long, hot days. The smokers would gather and relax before heading to chow or taking a shower; while could be seen roaming around the buildings, with their phones to their ears, trying to get a better signal as they attempted to speak to friends and family. On one occasion as I was trying to get better reception, I saw something moving slightly in the grass. My first thought was that it might have been one of my least favorite things - a snake. But as I looked closer, I realized that it was a baby rabbit. As I moved closer still, I saw that it was 

...our friendly little Arkansas critter.

eating the surrounding blades of grass. As I stooped down, it made no attempt to move. As I reached down and got close enough to touch it, it simply moved a bit forward and continued eating, allowing me to pet it.  As it continued to nibble, it didn't seem to mind as I gently placed my fingers under it and lifted it into my hand. My encounter with the baby rabbit gave me a bit of a break from the full day of training. Thinking that no one would believe that I picked up a rabbit, I went to the room and called John to join me. When we returned, there was not one, but two baby rabbits. The "specimen" was as shocked as I was to witness their complete lack of fear. For a few brief moments, we were like two little kids amazed at our brief encounter with our fuzzy little friends.
We also did our share of driving which included convoy maneuvers in the event of a threat, vehicle breakdown, changing personnel from one vehicle to another, and other exercises.   For me, it afforded the opportunity to handle driving bigger vehicles, like armored Ford F-350's,Chevy 2500's, and Suburbans.  During our last days of training we took part in a culmination exercise.  It consisted of a day-long practical application of medical procedures, driving, emergency vehicle maneuvers, and other skills that we had learned during our stay in Arkansas.  Paint-ball ammunition was used to help us correct any mistakes that we made. For example, if one of us exited a vehicle improperly we could expect to get pelted with paint balls. There was talk, however, that there may have been a couple of candidates who would most likely get “lit up” by the instructors, regardless of how well or poorly they did.  The reasoning for such treatment was because they may have been class clowns, or perhaps  taken too many liberties as “students” during training.  I wasn’t sure how the instructors would identify their “target” since we were all dressed in ACU’s, and wore full-face protective helmets. The extremely tall and the extremely short (like guess who) would be easy to pick out, but it was difficult to distinguish everyone else in-between.

During the exercises, instructors rode in our vehicles to evaluate, guide, and help direct the scenarios. "Bull", a lead instructor for many of our classes was riding in one particular vehicle which contained a relatively "out-spoken" candidate.  When it came time to respond to an “assault” on the vehicle, all of the occupants reacted as they were supposed to, including the gabby one.  Being just a bit more than average height, with protective mask on, he was a difficult target to identify – no matter.  As the occupants exited the truck, Bull, standing a few feet away, raised both arms and pointed out the clown.  Whap! Splat! Whack!  When all was said and done, our classmate looked like a human paint chip sampler from Sherwin-Williams.

Returning from convoy excercises - note the paint-ball spatter marks

As each night came, most didn't need help falling asleep.  Some of the "veterans" who had been on previous missions, hung "curtains"  (fashioned from neck and head scarves commonly worn by many men in Islamic countries) around their bunks to keep the light out, and to maintain as much privacy as they could among 20 other guys. This was home for  2 weeks until it was time to ship out for our next desination.

Neck scarves hung from the bed.

Upon completing training at T1G, we were all looking forward to leaving the heat of Arkansas.  Our next stop would be Dallas.

  

Tuesday, July 18, 2011

With my arms still sore from the inoculations the day before, I, and three others were scheduled to take the PT test. Two of the other three, like me, had finally gotten the clearance that was needed.  The last of the three was Pasquale Patti from Linden, NJ.  He had already taken the test on Monday, but missed the time by about 10 seconds; so this would be his second attempt. If he didn’t make it this time, he would be going back home.  The pressure was on.  Knowing that he was from Jersey, I watched him test on the previous day.  It was then that I learned that he was a member of a previous session, and had blown out his left knee during the same test a few weeks back.   As he ran around the course, it was obvious that he was favoring his left leg. 

In describing the PT courses, I failed to mention that we had to complete them wearing a 30 lb. vest, carrying an 8 lb. M-4 rifle and a holstered side arm.   I placed the vest over my head, and let it fall onto my shoulders.  My knees buckled a bit under the weight.  It was much heavier than the body armor that I’d last worn over eight years ago while in the state police.  I draped the rifle over my shoulder using the “1-size-fits-all” sling and was concerned that it might drag on the ground during the test.  I tightened the gun belt as best I could, and hoped that it wouldn’t fall off while I ran, as it did on one of the previous candidates. 

About a quarter into the first of two laps, I was feeling pretty good.  By half way into the same lap, things quickly eroded – so much for being in shape! After descending the stairs following the first lap, my legs started feeling like jello; and as I rounded the last curve my lungs were on fire.  With each inhalation, the added weight of the vest pushing on my chest got worse.  With each step, running seemed like a nightmare in which my heavy legs were moving, but I wasn’t getting anywhere.   As I crossed the finish line, I didn’t bother listening for a completion time since I was concentrating on not falling down, as I had seen someone do the day before.  The best I could do was to look back to the instructor with the stopwatch.  After he gave me the “thumbs up” I was relieved that the first part of the test was over.  After we all completed the ¼ mile run, we were given a brief respite before beginning the next course. 

As soon as I began the obstacle course I could feel the effect of the heavy armored vest as I stood up from the chair.  After going over the low 2 ft. obstacle, I leapt up onto the 4 ft. wall.  As I swung my legs over, the rifle got hung up and I was snagged, with my legs dangling above the ground. A little manipulation of the rifle was all that was needed to free myself, so it didn’t add much to my completion time.  It did, however, provide a few people with a good laugh.  The other obstacles posed no problems.  Patti (the other Jersey guy) followed me in the rotation, and successfully passed both events – gutsy guy.  

That evening, with the PT test no longer hanging over my head, I began to “settle in” and started getting more acquainted with my classmates.  In a squad bay of about 20 others, I bunked next to John, a big guy – in good shape, shaved head, and focused (Patti would later come to nick-name him, “the specimen”).  He seemed to be pretty quiet and somewhat kept to himself. His planned, deliberate actions seemed to convey his experience.  He looked to be in his early to mid-forties.   After briefly engaging in some small talk, I detected what I thought to be a New England accent.  “You from Boston?” I asked.  “No, Long Island; but I live in Charleston.”  He replied.  After serving in the Navy for 9 years, he worked for 2 sheriffs’ departments in South Carolina.  He left law enforcement in 2002 to take part in the international police mission, spending time in Kosovo and Afghanistan and has been doing it ever since.  I would come to rely on his experience and take his lead regarding what to expect; both in the upcoming training and during the mission. 

Within a couple of days, I decided that breakfast was my favorite meal at T1G.  This was because, more often than not, we could order Belgian waffles - and for those of you who know my eating habits, the waffles were of course, drenched in syrup.  If the waffles weren’t available, there was always an egg entre prepared in one form or another.

T1G also provides training for select teams of the armed forces.  The dining schedule was such that the military groups were usually behind us in the serving line.  During our stay, there were some special forces teams undergoing training as well. Many in our group of police trainers commented on the lean, healthy look of the younger, more fit, special forces members.  The praises were genuine, with a true appreciation for the sacrifices they were making to their calling and our country.  Along with my admiration for their service, I noted how they moved about so freely, without complaints of sore muscles and old injuries. I wondered if others’ shared my respect for the members of the special forces, with a twinge of envy of their youth. 

After having completed the medical and psychological screenings, at breakfast on the day we would begin training in earnest, John and I discussed the upcoming training schedule over my Belgian waffle floating in syrup.  The practical instruction would consist of firearms training, vehicle operations, tactical movement, combat casualty care, etc.  Other topics such as the Afghan culture, administrative procedures, stress, IED’s, etc., would be covered in the classroom.   About midway through the meal, John slowly looked down into his bowl and said somewhat dejectedly, “Look at this! Here I am eating granola, and the special forces guys are eating Fruit Loops!”  Well, I guess I wasn’t the only one thinking of earlier days…  

July 17, 2011 - Somewhere in Arkansas

Sunday, July 17, 2011:

It was an early morning wake-up at T1G.  (For those of you who are interested, T1G’s website can be accessed at http://www.t1g.com/) Daylight allowed me a better perspective of where we were.  At 6:30 am the warm air was already heavy with humidity. A dirt road was the only access in or out of the compound.



To the south was a tree line.  Far off in the opposite direction, I recognized a farm identified only by the large sprinkler irrigation machinery that traveled over the fields on large wheels.  I remembered seeing the same type of sprinkler systems used on sod farms back home; other than the buildings used for training or sleeping, there were no other structures in sight.

After breakfast we underwent medical screening to determine who would be eligible to take the PT test.  A number of people were temporarily rejected because of elevated blood pressure readings.  Others were advised that they could not continue until they provided their records for any one of a number of reasons.  Some still needed chest X-rays, hearing tests, dental records, and what I thought to be the worst – the required vaccinations.  Relieved that I had gotten all of my medical requirements completed, I remembered thinking, “How could so many people report for training without having satisfied the medical requirements?” I would soon find out: administrative glitch. When it came my turn for the medical review, I was surprised to learn that they had no records of my EKG, hearing test, or inoculations.  After attempting to convince the staff that I had taken and forwarded all of the required tests, the nurse simply opened the folder to show me that the records in question were indeed missing.  I could feel myself becoming anxious over the foul-up.  What if I couldn’t rectify this situation?  I wouldn’t be able to go back to my old job since I had been granted a year’s leave of absence from the college.  A new dean had already been appointed in my position, and a faculty assignment wasn’t an option since the classes had already been scheduled to other instructors.  Being that is was Sunday only added to my frustration.  Since my doctor’s office was closed, I couldn’t contact anyone to fax the necessary information.    Those who had the proper documentation would be taking the PT test Monday, the next morning.  The rest of us would have to scramble and try to obtain the reports that were needed before we could take the test.  So far, this wasn’t going well.  Being my birthday added a little more sting to the situation.

That evening we gathered behind the dining facility (or DFAC) to walk through the two-part PT course for familiarization.  The first event was a quarter mile run which included ascending and descending a set of stairs twice.  It would have to be completed in 2½ minutes.   As we walked the track, there were grumblings about its condition.  It wasn’t a smooth cinder track, but rather quite rocky.  Following the quarter mile run, we would have to complete an obstacle course.  Starting from a seated position, we were given 2 minutes to go over a 2 foot low hurdle, clear a 4 foot wall, carry 2 – 30 pound ammo cans up and down a staircase, go through a 15 foot tunnel, run through a 30 foot serpentine course, then run 75 yards to a 20 foot ladder climb, drag a 185 lb. dummy for 20 feet, and then fire an empty weapon four times within a six inch circle.  Passing seemed to be within the realm of possibility.

At this point, allow me to digress to provide some background information on my physical preparation for training (or more accurately, describe some of the problems I experienced in trying to prepare). Having developed plantar faciitis just prior to my planned schedule of training, I chose to start on a stationary bike instead of running.  However, that was eventually interrupted by the gout; hand, foot and mouth disease; and an allergic reaction to one of my medications.  What a mess.  Eventually, I made my way back onto the stationary bicycle, 12 pounds lighter.     

On Monday, while most in the group were taking the PT test, I was back and forth on the phone with my doctor’s office. I was advised by the medical staff that my EKG results were confirmed, but they had no record of the required shots which I had received.  I guess the colonel jinxed me at the airport when he joked about me looking like “… a nine shot guy.”  “Please roll up both sleeves.” The nurse ordered.  As it turned out, I only got stuck six times.

Saturday, July 16, 2011:

Following my son, Matt’s lead, who kept us informed of his worldly travels by blog, I’ll attempt to do the same.  However, due to my poor computer and internet skills - this mode of communication may not yield very good results; but I’ll give it my best shot, none-the-less.  Be further warned:  I have a convoluted writing style, so please try to refrain from screaming at me through the computer, and ordering me to get to the point…

First of all, let me thank all of you who offered your support and continue to do so.  I realize that my choice to take part in this undertaking, has given many of you cause for concern.  Please know that I will do my best to stay safe and that I fully expect to return upon completing this mission and look forward to my return home.   

My journey began after being dropped off at Newark Airport by my two sons, Jason and Matt.  It was a tearful departure as we gave each other big hugs, and as they both gave me their admonitions to be careful.  As I glanced back through welling eyes to watch Jason’s car drive away one last time, I felt proud of the two fine men that they had become, and again was reminded of how quickly time escapes us.  I dabbed at the tears and entered the terminal.

I had stayed up late the night before, separating what I needed to pack from things that would be shipped to me later.  Being in a rush, I gave little thought to what I put in my carry-on and what I placed in what would be checked luggage.  I was given a reminder of what I put where when the x-ray revealed my Leatherman tool (with five different blades) in my smaller piece of carry-on luggage.  Not wanting to toss my multi-tool, I decided that I would check the suitcase that I had planned on bringing on board.  Upon  returning to the baggage counter I learned that I would have to cough up an extra $25.00 – this was on top of having to pay $35.00 for the first suitcase. Since I wouldn’t be seeing a paycheck until September, I hoped that this wasn’t a sign of things to come. 

I haven’t flown a lot, but it was the first time that I slept through a take-off.  Waking up with about an hour left in the flight, I began reading, and fell asleep again.  I next awoke to the sound of the pilot advising the flight attendants to prepare for landing.  In the time remaining, I looked out the window and thought about what the training in Arkansas would entail, and hoped that my gout would continue to subside.  As we neared the airport, the approach to Memphis slowly changed from green to the familiar maze of roads and urban infrastructure.  I made a mental note of the landscape and wondered how different the scenery would look over Afghanistan. 

After landing and gathering my bags, I was met by a representative of T1G, a military training company that supports in the preparation of those about to be deployed for the international police mission. My greeter was a colonel in the National Guard. When asked how he knew I was a member of his group, he told me that I had “the look”.  He led me to a group of about fifteen others who also possessed “the look”.  All were either prior military or law enforcement officers.  While I’m usually somewhat reserved until I get a better feel for those with whom I’m around, it wasn’t long before I introduced myself to a number of people, and found myself engaged in various conversations among a small crowd of about twenty-five others who would also be attending training.  Amongst this collection of former cops, soldiers, and sailors, I felt like it was old home week.  After being retired from the state police for almost eight years, it was good to be back. 

The colonel briefed us on what we could expect in the next few days.   Upon our arrival at T1G, we would be assigned to a barracks, be issued equipment, and get our medical records reviewed before we could begin training.  For those of us who were cleared, we would be taking the physical training (PT) test, possibly tomorrow, Sunday. He went on to explain that those who weren’t medically cleared would have an opportunity to take the test the following day.  As an example, he stated, “Some will need to get the remainder of your vaccinations.”  As he spoke he looked around the group, and after completing his sentence. He pointed directly at me and stated, “You look like a nine shot guy.”  Relieved, I silently thought to myself, “I’m glad I got all the shots I needed.”  I didn’t like the prospect of having to get vaccinated then having to take a PT test.  I felt confident in knowing that I had faxed my records  their doctor, who had given me the medical clearance I needed.   

Following the colonel’s briefing, we stepped out of the airport, and into the humid Memphis air.  As we stood in the hot late afternoon sun, with our bags in hand, my thoughts immediately turned into a prayer that the weather would break.  While waiting for our transport to the T1G training site, the discussions were ripe with cop war stories from around the country, as well as with the accounts of those with military experiences in countries such as Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo, and other places around the globe.  The different discussions were upstaged by someone stating in disbelief, “You gotta be kiddin me!”  As I looked to the left, just rounding the turn, came an old yellow school bus spewing a dark cloud of exhaust smoke as the driver accelerated toward us.   My anxiety about another gout attack was quickly replaced by a different concern – having been prone to motion sickness, I hoped that I wouldn’t get bus-sick!

After loading our luggage into a box truck, we took our seats on the bus.  Since there was no air conditioning, the open windows helped dissipate the heat once we got underway.  We were all grateful that the sun had started to set as we began our trip towards Arkansas.  I was surprised that I fell asleep during the hot, sticky, bumpy ride, but was glad none-the-less. At least I didn’t get sick. I woke up briefly as we crossed over the Mississippi River from Tennessee into Arkansas.  Through the rear windows of the bus, the Memphis city lights slowly disappeared.  We weren’t driving long before we were traveling in a rural area surrounded by farms and dirt roads.  As we turned down one unpaved road, the bus’s headlights illuminated crops of soybeans on either both sides of the road. We had finally arrived at what would be our home for the next few weeks - in the middle of nowhere.  After being divided into our respective groups, we were led to our barracks to bed down for the night.  Despite my on-again, off-again sleep pattern throughout the day, sleep came quickly.

PS - Sorry I didn't have any pictures, but I hope to post some in the future.