No, not the dance; the state of... Training continued, time passed, and more people were
notified of their assignments. I
was among the few who still didn’t know where we were going. Among the “unchosen”
from our group were Patti, John (the specimen) Green, Greg Fetsch (a die-hard
Oregon Ducks fan), and Bob Molina (a Latino from California who, like John, had
completed previous missions) and myself. Since we were in standby mode, John,
Greg, and Bob decided to take advantage of a PSD (Protective Security Detail)
course that was being offered. It
would be long hours, but good training for which a coveted PSD certificate
would be issued.
For a few more days I finished the required on-line training
(which we took twice before – the
administrative glitches continued), and got caught up on a number of things
that I had not yet had the time to do.
The days seemed to go by quickly.
I also spent a good amount of my time on my laptop trying to determine
my finances, since I had a sinking feeling that I was forgetting to pay a bill
that I hadn’t arranged to automatically have deducted from my checking
account. It should be no surprise
that I’m quite forgetful sometimes!
With most of the others enrolled in the PSD course, I began
assisting with the convoys, acting as the shooter in the right front passenger
seat. For my first detail, I was
assigned to ride with Christian, one of the Romanian drivers. Since arriving at the camp, it would be
my first trip “outside the wire”, and would entail a late afternoon drive to
one of the airports to pick up some in-transit people. “In-transit” meant that some might have
been flying (usually by chopper) from one outpost to another, for any number of
reasons. Whatever the reason, someone was always coming and going.
As I climbed into the truck under the weight of my vest, and
additional rifle and handgun magazines, I took my position, turning more
towards the passenger window than facing front, with my rifle held below the
window line. We were the second
truck in a four-truck convoy. My
job was to stay vigilant for anything suspicious or threatening. Of course, we were always on the watch
for someone with a weapon; but it could also be a vehicle driving erratically,
or approaching at a high rate of speed.
Additionally, we acted as another set of eyes for the driver. Because we travelled together, much
effort is expended trying to maintain the integrity of the convoy. That means not letting anyone between
our vehicles, which in turn, requires tailgating; but at a safe speed (somewhat
of an oxymoron). What would
normally be a moving violation back home was standard operating procedure
here. If you were driving a trail
vehicle (2nd, 3rd, etc.), your job was to stay on the
bumper of the vehicle ahead and concentrate on what the truck ahead was
doing. If you drove the lead
vehicle, not only would you have to “lead”, but you’d also have to keep an eye
on the following vehicles so as not to get too far ahead should the convoy be
broken. It may sound simple, but
the real challenge is that it all has to be done in Kabul traffic.
Now in my “past life” with the NJSP, I’ve driven quite a
bit. As strange as it may sound to
some, I don’t mind driving in NYC.
But THIS is driving like I’ve never experienced before. It takes
some getting used to. In addition
to the tailgating, there’s the constant “gas-to-brake” motion: accelerating to
stay on the bumper, but braking because a car, truck, motorcycle, pedestrian,
donkey cart, horse, etc., made its way in front of the lead vehicle, causing it
to slow down or stop abruptly.
There’s also the occasional driving around the traffic circle in the
opposite direction. This occurs not only because sometimes it’s the best option; but also because we
occasionally are directed to do so by the police – needless to say, they have
an interesting spin on traffic control here.
In training, it was impressed upon us that there were a good
number of accidents in which members have been involved. These run the gamut from fender benders
to pedestrian fatalities. It’s
something that the company seems to be trying its best to prevent. From what I’ve witnessed since being
here, however, it seems that many accidents are indeed, unavoidable due to the
senseless actions of others.
In fact, the latest account of an accident that involved one of our
drivers was that of a little girl who had been hit after she ran into the
roadway. Some of the hazards that
I’ve seen include children that are left unattended to walk or run into the
street; disregard for, or the lack of lane markings; non-enforcement of driver
licensing; and I’ve yet to see a traffic light. It all adds up to be quite the thrill ride!
While en route to the airport, I got a better glimpse of the
outskirts of Kabul. Our camp
was situated amidst yard after yard of connex boxes (shipping containers that
travel by tractor-trailer, rail and ship). Not only are these “boxes” used to transport goods, but they
are also used for storage, offices, storefronts, and in some cases, homes. Driving out of the neighborhood of
connexes, we made our way to a busier part of Kabul. We passed vacant lots and wedding halls mixed in among small
shacks from which all sorts of merchandise was sold, and/or from which meat was
hung. Seeing the pieces of meat
hanging in the open air, without refrigeration, among the dust and pollution
dampened my interest in eating the local food. In our path, people both on foot and on bicycles, darted in
and out of traffic, and cars rapidly braked in order to avoid rear-ending slow
moving donkey-drawn carts. On one
occasion, Christian hit the brakes and slid to a stop, just before hitting the
lead truck. Due to the extremely
dusty conditions, the ever present silt on the road prevents a driver from
stopping a vehicle quickly, under control.
As we approached one of the turns toward the airport, I
observed a car coming at us on the right, traveling in the opposite direction
of traffic. My first reaction was
one of surprise that Christian didn’t seem to see it for himself. As it continued to make its way toward
us, I shouted, “Vehicle coming at us on the right!” Christian calmly continued to drive, saying in his Romanian
accent, “You’ll see dat a lot here. It’s shorter for dem to turn here and go
against traffic, den to go all de way to de circle.” Apparently, he did see the
car, but was accustomed to the bizarre traffic behaviors. Eventually, the car passed us as it
continued in the wrong direction, repeatedly stopping and going as it wound its
way down the right shoulder. After
turning right at the intersection from which the wrong way driver came,
Christian said softly, “Dis is were I hit de girl.” He was referring to the accident that we had heard about
back at camp. “What happened to
her? Did she survive?” I asked.
“Yes, but she broke two of her legs.” He replied. Not
knowing what else to say, I blurted out, “Well, I supposed it could have been
worse.” “She just run out into de
road.” He added. “Yeah, I see how
people just walk out without looking.” I said to indicate that I understood.
Having arrived at the airport with an increased heart rate
by a couple beats per minute (and I’m certain that my blood pressure was also
elevated by a few points), we made our way to where we were to meet our
passengers. Shortly after parking
and shutting off the vehicles, we were told by the Afghan National Army (ANA)
sentries, who were assigned airport perimeter security, that we would have to
move the trucks to a different area.
When Christian attempted to start the truck – no go, it wouldn’t even crank. After many failed attempts to get it
started, Christian telephoned the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) to advise
them that we had broken down.
Following subsequent calls back and forth, we were advised that another
truck would be coming to assist us.
During a conversation among the Romanian drivers in their own tongue, I
thought I heard Marius (the giant who assigned me to the vehicle at the airport
when we arrived in Kabul) mention something about a tow truck. “OK”, I thought, “that sounds reasonable”.
Me and Marius (AKA
“Tank”), one of the Romanian drivers. A good-sized guy to have on “our”
side.
Once our passengers arrived, all but one piled into the
three working trucks. The one who
remained with Christian, me, and our downed truck was Petkov, a retired
lieutenant colonel from the Bulgarian Army, and also one of the drivers. He volunteered to stay with us for
additional security. As afternoon
began to give way to dusk, the camp truck arrived. When it stopped, Tim, one of the security supervisors was
visibly angry as he stepped from the vehicle. He was complaining about the vehicle service center refusing
to send a tow truck. Tim would
have to tow us back to camp with his pickup, using a tow strap. “A tow strap???” I thought. Although we had practiced such a
scenario at T1G, I didn’t think I’d be doing it on my first ride out! Plus, since there were regular
intelligence reports of vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices (VBIED’s) on
the roads of Kabul, we were concerned about two trucks moving so slowly through
town, tethered together with a tow strap.
Talk about an inviting target!
Petkov, the retired
Bulgarian lieutenant colonel (much more “reasonable” in size).
In planning the return trip, Petkov’s opinion was given much
credence. He suggested traveling a
route that would take longer, but was less traveled. One of the reasons it had less traffic was due to the road’s
condition. Most of it was unpaved
with many large potholes and ruts.
Upon choosing the route, we reviewed our actions in the event of an
attack, hooked up the tow strap, and began the journey back to the camp. As we began to pull away, darkness was
rapidly approaching. As we
left the smoothness of the airport road, I felt an increased anxiety. As alert as I was on the ride in, I
tried my best to be even more vigilant while we were being towed back. However, along with the thoughts of
what a slow moving target we must be presenting, my best efforts at being
watchful were being challenged. As
we lumbered along, I made eye contact with a few Afghans along the side of the
road. I wondered if some were
plotting to do us harm, or if one of the many who were talking on their cell
phones were alerting someone ahead that we were slowly making out way to their
location. One up-armored American
pick-up truck with a giant whip antenna was easy enough to spot among a sea of
Toyota Corollas; but one slowly towing another had to be an insurgent’s
dream. With every void and hole we
hit, we were violently bounced up, down, and around the interior of the truck. Christian was the most stable as he had
the steering wheel to hold onto; but he had to fight to keep the truck on
course without the assistance of power steering. He also had to struggle to ensure he didn’t ram into the
truck ahead whenever Tim slowed down, since he didn’t have power brakes
either.
Occasionally I caught Christian looking over at me. He seemed to be taking in my feeble
attempts to hold onto the “oh shit!” handle with my right hand, as I tried to
control my rifle with my left hand, as it rattled and banged against the floor
board. However, it wasn’t until my
ass came completely off the seat that I saw him smile. That was all that was needed to break
the tension. As we continued to
shake, rattle and roll down a dark, bumpy dirt road In Kabul the three of us
couldn’t contain our laughter.
After a while, our laughing fit subsided. As I periodically glanced back to see if anyone was
approaching from the rear, I caught a glimpse of Petkov flying up towards the
roof like a rag doll. That was all
that was needed to start me off again.
Even though I was turned toward the passenger side, just hearing me
cracking up started Christian laughing again. As we continued to bounce along, our laughter became more
uncontrollable. The thoughts of
those who enjoy 4-wheeling entered my mind, “Some folks at home wait all week
to get a ride like this!”
As we approached camp, Christian swung the truck wide to the
left in order to make the sharp right turn into the gate. Fighting the loss of power steering, he
just barely missed hitting the Hesco wall; and almost standing on the brake
pedal, the truck came within inches of hitting Tim’s truck. By then, the laughter had stopped. However, as we sat in silence, waiting
for the gates to open, one snicker was all it took to start us up again. When we finally made it through the
gate, my stomach hurt from laughing, and tears were in my eyes.
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