The Compound

Sunday, September 18, 2011 (continued)

After the required check of our ID’s, and a sweep of the undercarriage of the truck for explosives, we were granted access to the compound.  As we cleared a second security gate, I observed a training exercise involving two men lying face down on the ground, amidst a number of on-lookers.  The only the men in uniform were those dealing with the prone individuals.  I had expected everyone on base to be wearing the ANCOP (Afghanistan National Civil Order Police) uniform, but most wore the traditional Afghan garb (or as we referred to them, man-jams). I was told that since the compound was also an assembly point for police officers awaiting a permanent assignment, or coming back from leave, many were authorized to be in their civilian clothes.  Still, others had not yet received their official ANCOP uniforms.

Afghan men in their local dress, as they appeared on the training compound

 

Up to this point the only people in this style of dress with whom I had interacted, were the local workers on Camp Pinnacle.  But even there, they were always outnumbered by the other workers who wore western styles and by us in “contractor” clothing.  Dressed as I was, I was now in the minority.  This helped me realize how prejudiced I had become by associating a certain style of dress with “the bad guys”.  So now, here I was among all these “possible terrorists”.  I began thinking more rationally, “Certainly, they can’t all be members of the Taliban, al-Qaeda, or the insurgency.”  Well, I hoped, anyway!

The compound's front/main building below an empty billboard.  The two men in the foreground are language assistants.

The site itself had been some type of manufacturing plant during the Russian occupation.  There was a large building that housed administrative offices and lodging for select ANCOP members.  The others were quartered in tents, behind the building and throughout the compound.  The building’s roof provided “high ground” upon which small guard towers were positioned along strategic points.  The shell of another building was situated to the rear of the main building, and at a lower elevation.  Within its walls stood tents where the less fortunate were housed.  They were, however, heated and cooled.

Tents in which many of the officers were housed

Interior view of the spartan conditions in the tents

One of the rear buildings still bearing the remnants of previous years' fighting

As we dismounted from our trucks, I followed my coworkers’ lead in removing our body armor.  While, physically, it was a relief to have the extra weight lifted off our shoulders, the prospect of wearing less protection was somewhat troubling.  Probably sensing my unease, Kenny, one of our team leads instructed, “It’s relatively safe here.  But we always try to stay in pairs when we move around the compound,”  - his advice seemed to conflict with his security assessment of the facility.  As our small contingent of contractors walked among the man jams, I noted how at ease my colleagues seemed.  I, on the other hand, despite my best effort to look nonchalant, felt as though I had the “deer in the headlights look”.  Some of my anxiety was due to my perception (whether true or not), that I seemed to be attracting more stares and attention than were my comrades.  Again, I chalked that up to being the “new kid on the block”. 

I was introduced to a few of the LA’s (language assistants).  All were quite friendly and seemed eager to be of service.  Only one wore the manjams; the others were dressed in western-type clothing.  A few wore a mixture of clothing types and styles.  With these, one could discern with some accuracy, some of their previous working partners.  For example, one LA wore military issued combat boots, contractor pants, and a NY Jets jersey.  In discussing whom he had worked for in the past, he indicated that he had worked with a US Marine unit, and a contractor who liked the Jets – therefore, the reason for his “multiple personality” dress. 

Me and Brooks Sanderson (in baseball caps) and 4 of the LAs

For my first day I would be shadowing Bill, a retired Maryland trooper.  As he drilled weapons manipulation and reloading exercises for the AK-47, I was impressed by his professional demeanor and how he presented himself to the Afghan students.  I was surprised by how much of a delay was caused by the translation from English to Dari, the primary language spoken in Kabul. It seemed to take away from the flow of the lesson.  I wondered how it would affect my own teaching style.  Hell, I lose my train of thought while I’m speaking English; let alone having to wait for someone to translate!  

I was introduced to Hashimi, a young LA who would be my primary interpreter.  He was 22, lean, athletic, stood about 6’, and was an avid boxer.  He had a good nature about him, and it wasn’t long before he could easily understand my jokes.  Nor did it take me long to learn that humor doesn’t always translate well – that’s where Hashimi was worth his weight in gold. 

The first time I took a stab at being humorous, I recall Hashimi pausing and shooting me a serious look.  The stare was followed by silence.  As if he were attempting to hide his non-verbal communication to me, he shook his head ever so slightly from side to side, as if to say, “Don’t go there!”  When the lesson was over he simply said, “That would have not been good.”  He then explained some of the cultural nuances, and that to have translated the joke, would have probably crossed the line.  I took his word for it.  Being thankful that he prevented me from becoming embroiled in some kind of international incident, I expressed my gratitude for using his better judgment and asked him to feel free to censor me in the future. 

It wasn’t that Hashimi disapproved. He was very open-minded, to the point of regularly requesting jokes of me.  He was just being protective of my (and probably his) welfare.  Such is the importance of a good relationship with an interpreter.

Hashimi, my language assistant...

....flashing the obligatory gang sign.

  

At the conclusion of training, as Bill, Hashimi, and I made our way through the crowd of manjams, I asked Hashimi why so many people seemed to be staring at me.  He told me that they thought I was an Afghan, but they couldn’t figure out why I was dressed the way I was. 

Once back in the truck I was informed that the “training” we witnessed as we pulled into the compound earlier that morning wasn’t training at all.  Instead, the men that were being searched on the ground were two suspected insurgents attempting to gain entry into the compound. 

It’s going to be an interesting place to work.

 

New Ride, New Territory

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The B-hut started stirring at 5am in preparation to leave for the training compound.  The anticipation of finally getting to interact with members of the Afghanistan National police overcame my interest in breakfast.  As we climbed into the truck for the ½ mile escort to the front gate, I looked forward to seeing a different part of Kabul.  Immediately outside the camp, we passed the sights with which I was already familiar as a result of driving on previous airport convoys. As we made our way past the last airport entrance, we left the route with which I was acquainted.  Along this new course of travel, there was much more open road - sufficient room for three lanes in each direction.  I choose my words carefully here since, while the roadway could accommodate three lanes, there were no lane markings designating it as such.  While the absence of traffic lines sometimes allowed drivers to drift and meander along, traffic mainly stayed within their imaginary lanes.  Somehow, lane-less driving seemed to work out. However, slower moving donkey and horse drawn carts brought their own challenges when trying to maneuver around them at higher speeds.  

Horse cart with a horse in tow (To my nephew, Jerry, owner of Gemini Towing: See, no need for a flatbad!) Taken just outside of the Kabul Airport...imagine a few of these outside the Newark International terminal!

There was also a trade-off for roadway beautification.  While the tree plantings in the median soften the landscape, they also serve to conceal pedestrians who dart out into speeding traffic in their attempts to make it to the opposite shoulder of the road.  Driving is like playing a reverse version of “Frogger”.

 As we continued driving, we passed an area of new construction of high-rise apartments, hotels, and more lavish wedding halls with ample parking. These newer buildings stand in stark contrast to the mud and brick huts that still dot the landscape.  All in all, the surroundings were much more varied and interesting than traveling through the industrial areas with which I had become familiar. 

 

Some of the larger wedding halls, hotels, and other commercial establishments

A mosque under construction

 As we approached a circle, alongside the road stood men holding money in one hand and what appeared to be lottery tickets in the other.  This marked the beginning of a bazaar area where people were selling their wares. As we entered the circle, it seemed as though everything and anything was available for sale. There were hanging displays of pots, pans, clothing, shoes, brooms, vegetables, umbrellas – you name it, they were selling it.  The area was filled with pedestrians, making it treacherous for driving, especially in a convoy, as people attempted to dart in between the trucks.   I was told that this was “Indian country”, another name for a “hostile” area believed to be supportive of the Taliban and/or other insurgents.  As we slowly made our way among the sea of people, “questionable stares” were evident and there certainly weren’t any “thumbs up” to be seen.

Questionable looks were common in "Indian country"

Leaving the bazaar area about five minutes behind us, the truck suddenly slowed again. Turning my attention from my task (which was to scan out of the right rear window and behind us), I instinctively looked ahead to see the reason for the reduced speed.  Looking through the windshield I saw what looked to be a large, disorderly gathering – mostly of cars, trucks, horse-drawn carts, bicycles, and a sprinkling of pedestrians.  Only after a few seconds of focusing did I realize that we were entering an uncontrolled, unpaved intersection. Let me be clear:  Unpaved, doesn't merely mean lacking concrete or pavement.  In this case, it meant a very uneven roadway with large stones protruding some 8 inches or more in some spots.  There were cars going every which way.  Some were being driven to avoid potholes or the large rocks; others attempted to squeeze in between other vehicles in order to get to the opposite side of the crossing.  It was incredible.  As the truck violently bounced up and down, the sight of donkey carts, motorcycles, bicycles, goats, and pedestrians, all making their way through and around this traffic mess, made me laugh to myself.  It was quite a ride.  Navigating this intersection would become my favorite part of the commute each day.

My favorite intersection.  This is a LIGHT traffic day...

After passing through the first circle we came upon another bazaar.  James, who was acting as the shooter in the right front passenger seat, and who also seemed to be the overall team leader, informed me that this area was “friendly”.  The area seemed almost indistinguishable from the first bazaar we passed through, except there were less unfriendly stares from the locals.  Such looks were still present in the crowd; there were just less of them. 

After passing through a busy (and more orderly) intersection of “friendlies”, we began making our way up a steep hill.  With Grant, the driver, relentlessly keeping his foot on the gas, the truck’s engine whined, wheezed, and strained, as we climbed higher and higher.  To our right, a few shops were spread out along the road.  Homes populated the mountainside above and behind the shops. In some short stretches, the mountain exposed its bare rock.

Shops along the roadway...

...gave way to homes on the slopes.

Homes perched atop some of the rugged and worn mountain

  As we continued to climb, we passed slower moving trucks, cars, and push-carts on our right.  As we did so, Grant kept a cautious eye out for cars that were travelling in the opposite direction, to our left.  This wouldn’t be out of the ordinary had we not been traveling on a one-way road.  Beyond the left shoulder was a steep drop, into a shallow valley.  Occasionally, cars would head in our direction, halfway on the left shoulder, and halfway in the left lane.  As we approached the compound, the hillside homes and small shops gave way to used car dealerships.  How the proprietors kept the cars relatively clean in the Kabul dust, is a mystery to me.  As we made our way closer to the training site, children dressed in their school clothes, walked on both sides of the street.  Boys wore blue shirts and dark colored pants, while girls wore a traditional white head covering and dark slacks and jackets.  

Girls on their way to school (we often referred to them as "penguins")

 

Particularly in regard to the young girl students, I wondered how they regarded their education.  Under Taliban rule, women and girls were prohibited from attending school.  Since most of the school girls seemed too young to remember much of the Taliban regime, I was curious as to what accounts were passed onto them about their vital right to an education. 

The next slowing down of the truck signaled our arrival at the training compound.

Camp Phoenix

Friday, September 16, 2011:

Since my departure from Camp Pinnacle was set for mid-morning, I took my time packing.  Being at Pinnacle for only 5 weeks, I was leaving with much more than I came with.  How I managed to accumulate so much stuff in such a short amount of time remains a mystery to me.  Suffice it to say that such is the life of a pack-rat. Among my newly acquired possessions were a couple of blankets, two small pillows, and a few articles of clothing from a guy who was ending his mission.  It didn’t matter that the clothes didn’t fit; I figured I’d use them as barter somewhere down the line.  Marius, the big Romanian driver also loaned me a carrier – a vest that’s worn over the bullet resistant armor.  It holds various pieces of equipment like extra ammo magazines, a sling for the rifle, an individual first aid kit, a flashlight, and other accoutrements to hang on one’s body.  The trouble was that all the “extras” ate up space around my small frame, leaving me to look like the Michelin Man.  It also made it difficult to access many of the pieces that I hung on the carrier, as they were pushed up against each other. 

Despite gathering the additional stuff, I still managed to fit it all into a duffel bag, a rolling suitcase, and my backpack.  I got help carrying my gear to the truck from John and Patti.  On the way out I asked the masseuse and nail gal to take parting pictures and said my goodbyes. 

Final farewells - John "The Specimen" Green, Me, and Patti

 

"The nail gal," me, and the masseuse

Some of the remaining crew at Camp Pinnacle, as our numbers began to dwindle

One of my favorite solo shots of Patti - Is he "Jersey" or what?

 

In good traffic conditions Camp Phoenix is about a 10 minute ride from Camp Pinnacle.  It’s also closer to downtown Kabul, the country’s capital, and a short distance from many embassies, (American included).  Located within this hub, are a number of ministries and other offices associated with the seat of Afghanistan’s government.      

As we pulled into the main gate, I caught a glimpse of the legendary “Rambo”, a Camp Phoenix hero.  The two previous times I visited Phoenix I never got to see him at his post.  He began working at the camp’s front gate in 2003.  Since then he has been on the lookout at the front gate with near perfect attendance, alongside private Afghan security workers and members of the U.S. military.  He is truly the camp’s first line of defense. His well-known status is due to him single-handedly prevented a suicide bomber from entering the camp in a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device (VBIED).  He was credited with saving the lives of the soldiers and workers who were present that day, and as a result, was commended by President Bush, for his actions in defending the base. A good article appeared in USA Today a few years back, and can be accessed at http://www.usatoday.com/news/world/2007-03-08-rambo_N.htm.  It’s a good read.

Once on Camp Phoenix, all occupants must exit their vehicles to unload their weapons.  After making my sidearm and rifle safe, I returned to the truck for the ride to my new quarters.  The camp requires that most vehicles follow a “ground guide” – someone on foot that walks ahead of the vehicle.  As we slowly trailed behind our escort, we passed the parked “Rhinos”.  These are massive armored vehicles used primarily to transport personnel from base to base.  They resembled giant book mobiles with heavy armor plating. Being painted a drab desert-colored tan, made them look even more imposing. I immediately thought that if I needed to travel, I would prefer to ride in the rhino.  As we passed the rhinos, a parade of all types of vehicles led by their pedestrian guides continued in the opposite direction.  As we approached each oncoming vehicle, the ground guides turned their faces away from the billows of dust and diesel emissions in order to keep from sucking in the fouled air.  As we passed the PX, laundry facility, and post office, the procession of different vehicles continued.  There were large, hulking MRAPS (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles) and MATV’s (all-terrain vehicles), some with their turrets still manned.  There were Humvees; American armored SUV’s; Bulgarian and Romanian military vehicles; construction equipment; as well as vans and regular passenger cars carrying Afghans in their traditional garb.  Each vehicle added to the swirling dust and dirt that prevented a clear view of the distant mountains that surrounded the camp.

Some of the military vehicles common to the camp

 

As we followed our ground guide to the left, I heard the sound of helicopters.  Seconds later, two Blackhawks took off from the other side of the concrete wall to our right.  Their rotor wash kicked up more plumes of dust and grit which added to the grimy air.

Constant helicopter take-offs and landings near the B-hut took some getting used to.  Shown here are transport choppers.

Blackhawk helicopters - They always travel in pairs

Twin rotor Chinooks: When these land, the entire B-hut shakes - literally.

 

After about a ½ mile walk from the gate, we finally made it to the “B-Hut” which would be home.  I was met by two team members, Ken and Kenny, who were extremely welcoming and helpful.  As I retrieved my belongings from the truck, I met the remainder of the team who also extended hearty welcomes and immediately began to make me feel at home.  They showed me to my room within the “B-hut”, and began to give me the low-down on Phoenix living. 

Basically, our B-hut is a small plywood building (photo), partitioned off into eight rooms. Since the 6 ft. walls don’t go all the way up to the 8 ½ ft. ceiling, one can still hear each other’s’ telephone and Skype conversations, snoring, and other bodily sounds.  They still, however, provide some degree of privacy.  The room was rather Spartan – a bunk bed with one mattress and some makeshift plywood shelves – and measured about 7’ x 9’, with faux wood linoleum flooring that was bulging in some areas.  The only other furniture in the room was a lop-sided swivel chair that was probably taken from somewhere else on the base. A good layer of dust covered everything.

Home sweet home- entrance to the B-Hut.

The cozy interior of the B-Hut.  I think it needs a little "something"...

After dropping off my gear, I was given a walking tour by Ken, the team’s lead.  Among our first stops were the dining facility (DFAC) and gym, both of which were open 24 hours.  We then walked to the running track, which encircled the helicopter landing area.  I immediately recalled the dust that was kicked up by the choppers as they lifted off and decided that rather than suck in the smog and dirt, I’d steer clear of the running track.  

Machines in the well-appointed gym

Open workout area where the jiu-jitsu club meets three times a week.  On the other side of the mats, basketball, roller hockey, and volleyball is played. 

...and my favorite area of the gym (note the popcorn machine - all you can eat for free!)

 

As I took in my new surroundings, I was taken by how busy the camp was.  Throughout the post, people were constantly on the move.  Considering that we were in a war zone, with all the base had to offer, it seemed like a good place to be.  Just knowing how good the food was at the DFAC was enough to make me feel fortunate to be assigned there.

I was told that I should use the next day to set up my room, and therefore wouldn’t be traveling with the team to the training site.  I went to the PX hoping to get a lamp, sheets, and another pillow – all to no avail since the shelves were pretty bare. No worries, I was just glad to be there.  

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.