Dehydrated

Since I still had some time before reporting to the Wardak assignment, there I sat in the Personal Security Detail (PSD) class.  The instructors seemed knowledgeable and sincerely interested in providing the students with a good learning experience.  There were eight of us in the class; including two Nepalese Ghurkas. The topics of instruction would include weapons familiarization, driving, convoy operations, combat first aid, protection of the “principal”, tactical movement, and plenty of live-fire drills.

In the days leading up to the live fire range exercises, we were introduced to different weapons.  I’m not sure of everyone’s knowledge of firearms, but if it means anything, included were the M249 and the M240B machine gun; the 870 shotgun (with which I was familiar from the state police); and my new favorite, the M99 Barrett .50 caliber rifle.  Now I’m no gun nut, but the rifle won me over.  The M99 is a single shot sniper rifle whose round reportedly can travel up to 5 miles.  Even before firing it, I was drawn to it because of its looks.  I began to refer to it as the Dr. Doom Weapon.  Neat stuff.

Most who know me, also know that I don’t drink a lot of water – despite all your best efforts to get me to do so.  Even my physician, after I had taken the battery of tests and examinations to come here, told me that I needed to be drinking more water.  So, of course, the instructors’ warnings to hydrate the day and night before we were scheduled to go to the range fell on deaf ears. 

One could tell by early morning that it was going to be a scorcher. By 7am, after loading the trucks with the range equipment needed for the day’s shooting, we were already drenched in sweat. Since there would be no pit stop on the way, I decided to pass on drinking water until we got to the range.  As soon as we arrived, we began qualifying with both our handguns and rifles.  I was glad to see that all were good shots, since we would be shooting past each other during our bounding over-watch exercises.  By lunchtime we were finished with the qualifications and started practicing shooting while moving.  Since I started drinking water to quench my thirst as soon as we got to the range, I could feel the water jostling around in my belly as I ran past the targets, firing at them on the run. 

In the afternoon sun we started the training in earnest. We practiced our movements as we had a few days before, but this time with live ammo.  After my partner and I engaged our first target, I shouted, “Set!”  This was his signal to get ready to move while I would provide cover fire for him to retreat to my rear. After a few seconds, I yelled, “Move!” and began firing downrange.  He immediately shouted back, “Moving!,” before turning and retreating to the rear.  As I continued to shoot towards the targets, from behind, I heard him shout, “Set!”  This was now my signal to prepare to turn and retreat past him.  Shortly after he started shooting, I heard him yell, “Move!”  Over my shoulder, I checked his position so I wouldn’t run directly into his fire, then shouted back, “Moving!”  As I got up and turned to run, I realized that this was the first time I was between a target and a shooter with his weapon out; let alone out and firing.  As I ran, I could see the flashes from the barrel of his gun, and empty shell casings being ejected as he fired at the targets that I was trying to leave far behind me.  While I was glad that he had the “muzzle discipline” to keep his rounds on the target, and away from me; I was also trying to figure out where the other rounds that were pinging around were coming from.  I ran to a point offset and behind him, took up a position, acquired the target and again yelled, “Set!” to begin the sequence all over again.  As I continued to fire, the source of the other shooting became clear.  The instructors were letting the bullets fly as well.  Their rounds, however, weren’t aimed at the paper targets.  Their rounds seemed to be falling far enough away from us, yet close enough to give us pause.    

Lunch break at the range:  Gear off and trying to stay in what little shade there was. Man it was HOT!!

It was now late afternoon and we were about to finish up a full day at the range.  The end didn’t come too soon.  As the day wore on, so did my energy level.  At about the time we were being told to load our weapons for the ride back, I was having trouble shielding my eyes from the sunlight. The pain from the bright sun that reflected off the bleak landscape, only allowed quick glances through my tightly squinted eyes.  I wanted to get into the truck, not only for the air conditioning; but also for the shade and relief it would provide my eyes from the bright sun.  Gathering the last remaining strength I had left, I was able to clamber into the right rear seat.  I could barely feel the air conditioning, but the protection the tinted windows provided my eyes was a great relief.  For a few moments, all I could do was sit, leaning slightly forward with my head against the back of the front headrest, and try to catch my breath. It seemed as though I had used every bit of what little strength I had left to pull myself up into the truck.  As I tried to recuperate, it seemed as though the truck was spinning. This brought on a feeling of nausea.  As I attempted to shove the bullets into my magazines, my fingers were cramping.  I could feel the strain all the way up my forearms which were periodically going into spasm.  I was losing my fine motor skills.  Lacking the strength and coordination to cinch up my vest, I decided to leave it undone in order to take advantage of the cool air that was finally making its way between my body and the hard, hot, sweaty body armor. 

Still dizzy and trying to keep the nausea under control, I was grateful when we finally arrived at the camp.  For the whole ride back, my primary concern was my ability to respond, if needed.  Since I was having trouble focusing, and my coordination was shot, I was fearful that I didn’t have enough strength to even pull the trigger, if I had to. It was a good day that was ending badly.  I knew enough to conclude that my condition I was experiencing was heat related.  

After unloading the trucks, exhausted, I made my way back to my room.  As soon as I opened the door, I began dropping my gear as quickly as I could.  As dehydrated as I thought I may have become, I still had to pee – badly. Once in the bathroom, still dizzy, and with eyes closed, I steadied myself with an outstretched arm, as I stood above the toilet.  Even when I was done voiding, I just stood there for a few seconds with my eyes closed, supporting myself with one hand on the wall.  When I finally opened my eyes I saw the darkest urine I had ever seen!  I was amazed! If it had been any darker, it would have been red!  I stood in a cool shower for what seemed like an hour.  If nothing else, one valuable lesson was learned – I gotta start drinking more water! 

By all accounts, the “hard” part of the course was over.  We would still have to complete one more day on the range, do the driving course, and finish up some coursework in the classroom, but for the most part, I wouldn’t have to worry about dehydration! 

That evening, with about six more days left of the course, the Specimen, Greg and I were called to a late meeting.  We were told that our assignment to Wardak was being put on hold because of slow construction.  Instead, Greg and I would be reporting to Camp Phoenix, at least temporarily.  I immediately asked when we would be reporting.  Our supervisor said that since Greg was already scheduled to assist with some training for the next week, I would probably be going very soon.  I replied that PSD training was to finish on Sunday.  The supervisor said, “I don’t think you’ll be here that long. You’ll probably be leaving tomorrow or Wednesday.”  With such a quick departure there was no way I’d get to complete the PSD course.  As we were talking, a member of the security team was returning from an airport run, looking dog tired.  I decided that if I wasn’t going to be able to get a certificate for the course anyway, I may as well withdraw from the class and help with the transports. 

Wardak

September 6, 2011 (continued)

After a couple of stops, we began our descent to our final destination.  I watched as we slowly hung over the Hescos that encircled the camp.  Soon after passing over a chain link fence, the chopper hovered closer and closer to the “H” painted on the concrete surface of the helipad.  Looking further towards one of the corners of the landing area, I could see someone turned outward away from our descending bird, down on one knee with his rifle at the ready.  The rotor wash caused the dust and sand to lift from the concrete pad and sweep towards the sentinel who was now tilting his head, protecting his neck from the onslaught of dirt and debris that was swirling around him.  I was pleasantly surprised when there was barely a bounce as the wheels made contact with the ground.  As we stepped off the aircraft, one thing that was readily apparent was the lack of air pollution.  Breathing deeply, I thankfully took advantage of the clean air.

We were given a tour by two contractors who had been there since the first buildings were erected.  Wardak is a sprawling base surrounded by mountains in all directions. It made me think of what I’d seen on TV or in the movies that depict remote military installations out in the middle of the desert, sort of like an Area 51.  The younger of our two guides described a small gym and mentioned that running along the entire interior fence provided a 2 mile run.  Being that it truly seemed to be, “in the middle of nowhere”; there was ample standoff distance so that any bad guys approaching could be seen with sufficient warning.  From pretty much any position on post one could see the main road that ran parallel to the front of the base.  The senior contactor explained that not much traffic entered the camp anyway, since most of their supplies came by helicopter.  This was due to the regularity with which the convoys were attacked on the highway.  In addition, they were currently experiencing a lull in rocket attacks, which was a good thing.

Good views of the expanse between the roadway and the camp fence.  The orange truck is on the main outside road.

 The few buildings that stood were new, but most were in need of the essentials like electricity and finished plumbing.  However, the post had the potential to be an impressive training facility. 

The buildings had ample space for classrooms and practical instruction areas.

 We were taken through what would be our living quarters.  There were approximately 12 people to a squad bay, with makeshift partitions for walls. For whatever reason, our guide rolled his eyes as he informed us that the area was currently occupied by a small contingent of French soldiers.   As he continued describing the living conditions, a French soldier, apparently fresh from the showers, briefly interrupted our tour as he made his way to his area.  All eyes were immediately drawn to the speedo he was wearing.  Once the soldier passed, we all shared mutual glances with each other.  As we exited the area, our guide shook his head and grumbled, “Ugh, the French!” 

As our tour concluded, we made our way back to the landing pad to await the chopper’s arrival. We could hear the rotor noise as it approached from the same direction from which we came earlier that morning.  I was glad I got to tour the base.  It would be a good place to train.

A couple of colleagues standing by for our return chopper ride to Kabul.

   

Once on the helicopter we were grateful to lift above the heat which had steadily risen throughout the day.  The air swirling through the open door was an extra treat; as once again, the sweat was soaking our shirts beneath our gear.  The ride back was shorter, maybe 45 minutes, since there were no other stop-offs on the way back – the Kabul express, so to speak. 

Now, at least I had an idea of what the training environment would be.  Starting at a new compound would definitely have its advantages – a new range, driving course, and ample classroom space.  Finally, after about a month of being in-country, I’d be doing what I signed up to do – train.  Since the base wasn’t yet ready, I would have ample time to become more familiar with SWAT tactics and methods of instruction. I was hoping that the construction schedule wouldn’t be further delayed since I was anxiously looking forward to interacting with the Afghan trainees.

A View From Above

September 6, 2011

I got word that I’d be touring the base in Wardak to get familiar with what would be my new assignment.  I’d be flying with Bob Molina from my T1G class, and a few others with whom I had been assigned.  Also scheduled for the flight was Mike (“Too Tall”) Hall.  Mike grew up in Florida, and had worked for the Tennessee State Narcotics Bureau.  He stood 6’8” and played pro basketball in the Philippines and Australia.  He was also an accomplished musician.  I teamed up with him on a number of convoys which were, to say the least, hilarious.  Being so quick-witted, he was no stranger to the one-liners, and could throw the barbs with the best of them.  If Mike thought he was starting to get under your skin, he became relentless.  He seemed to especially enjoy ribbing the retired Bulgarian colonel, Petko.  The colonel would attempt come-backs, but his English wasn’t good enough to make any comedic sense.  Often, when he would attempt to tell a joke, or otherwise say something humorous, too much time would elapse as he searched for the right English translation, thereby making the punch-line ineffective.  Any time Mike directed a barrage of insults and jokes toward him, one could clearly see the colonel’s frustration as he tried his hardest to figure out how to respond in English.  This put him at a distinct disadvantage whenever the two would go at each other in front of a crowd.  In truth, however, we could tell that the two were close friends, so the good-natured joking was taken in stride, and to the enjoyment of all who witnessed it. 

The “Colonel/Too-tall” comedy act didn’t have to be face-to-face in order for the teasing to take place. The clowning around sometimes occurred over the airwaves.  We use a coded system for locations, in which colors and numbers represent different sites.  For example, when calling in a specific position, one might say, “blue 1-1-5”.  Because of his accent Petko would usually fail to pronounce the “L” in “blue”, and instead say “boo 1-1-5”, over the radio.  “Too tall” would immediately key the mike, and in his best rendition of the Count from Sesame Street, say, “Wan, two, tree (rolling his “r”, of course) – Ah, ah, ah!  After all, Bulgarians do have somewhat of a “Dracula” annunciation.  Other than Molina and Too Tall, the other travelers were pretty much unknown to me, except for the two Nepalese Ghurkas who were providing flight security as gunners on board the flight.  

As usual, we mustered for the flight early at the regular assembly point.  It seemed much different, however, since I would now be a passenger.  Of course, should something arise that would require action; all “passengers” were fully expected to respond accordingly.

It was still dark when we arrived at the airport.  After going through the first gate, we were told the vehicles could not continue past the second check point since we didn’t have the proper passes.  We experienced this on a number of airport runs before.  Sometimes the drivers were successful in getting the guards to allow the trucks through; but other times, not.  What often determined success was what we might have to offer the guards in return for letting us pass.  Used boots, water, or food, could all often be used as barter in getting the trucks past the checkpoint, and saving the passengers the half-mile walk to the flight line.  Yes, this was bribery, plain and simple; but often effective in saving our comrades some shoe leather.  Unfortunately, for this run, we had nothing of value to offer.

As the sun began to rise, we grabbed our gear, helmets, and “go bags” (small backpacks that contained water, extra ammo, binoculars, snacks, and anything else that might come in handy in a pinch) and started our walk to the flight line, where we would await the chopper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aircraft on the flight line, early morning.

I boarded with the others, looking forward to my first ride in a Russian-made helicopter.  Prior to this, I had only been on smaller state police choppers which accommodated maybe six people.  This was a bit bigger with space for about twenty – much roomier, but by the looks of it, much older as well.  As we took off I was hopeful that all necessary maintenance had been performed.  Once airborne, I got a better aerial view of urban Kabul as we left it behind, flying in a southwest direction towards Wardak.  We flew over the lower ridge lines, but only made it up to about midway between the bases and peaks of the taller mountains that stood on either side of us.  As we followed the valleys below, the landscape quickly changed from to urban to rural.

Note: Sorry for the quality of the pictures taken from the chopper – the windows were tinted.

Flying over Kabul in the early morning haze...

 

 

...over more rural areas...

...and a some more desolate areas.

 

Once we were all on board, ear plugs were passed around.  Underway, the noise was deafening, even with ear plugs.  After coming to grips with the anxiety caused by thinking we were flying too low, moving too slowly, and hence, a “sitting duck”, it felt good to be airborne above the smog, and getting to see the outlying areas from the air.  The walls surrounding many of the properties below looked similar to the walls that I saw on TV that encircled the compound in which bin Laden was found.

Mike "Too Tall" Hall enjoying the flight.

Bob Molina taking in the sights.

Our two Nepalese Ghurkas assigned as flight security.

Me (Tootsie Pop in mouth, of course) taking a picture of someone taking a picture of me taking a picture.