From: Lance Cpl. James W. Clark Unit: 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment Location: Marjah, Afghanistan Counting the close calls FORWARD OPERATING BASE MARJAH, Helmand Province, Islamic Republic of Afghanistan – I’m not an infantryman, far from it. I’m as much of a Pog (meaning person other than grunt) as one can be, but with the Marine Corps being what it is, even Pog’s are afforded the opportunity to see combat. While in Helmand Province, Afghanistan with 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, I’ve nearly been shot several times. I’ve wound up pinned down in a muddy canal by sniper fire and have watched stunned as a rocket-propelled grenade spiraled through the air, bounce of a doorframe and skid to a halt, ten feet away. After the first time you take contact, the elation and excitement starts to fade. The next time you don’t smile as wide or laugh as hard, and soon after that you’ve stopped grinning entirely. Without ever meaning to, I find myself making a mental checklist. Small-arms fire? Check Sniper fire? Check RPG’s? Check IED? Blank You stop looking at what has happened and begin to wonder about what will happen. Based on what you’ve gone through, what do you have left? How many more close calls do you have in you? Will there be enough? With this realization, you begin to look at things differently. You take stock of yourself, of what you have accomplished and what you still need to do. In an effort to better explain this, I spoke with other Marines in the battalion about their closest calls and the lasting impressions they left.

An inch to the left – Cpl. Kyle Sutherland Recently, while conducting a routine census patrol in their area of operations near the district center in Marjah, Afghanistan, the Marines with 81 mm Mortar Platoon, Weapons Company, 1/6, took fire. Corporal Kyle Sutherland, on his second deployment, and present during the helo-insertion into the city with Bravo Co., 1/6, was hit by an AK-47 round during the firefight. The bullet impacted his side, slipping between the folds of his flak jacket and grazing the bullet-proof plates Marines wear inside of their body armor. The round came within an inch of his vital organs, but slipped out the other side of his body armor without ever breaking the skin. “At the time, I thought we were taking sniper fire, but as it turns out, an insurgent put his rifle through a hole in a wall and squeezed off three rounds,” said Sutherland. “I heard the first crack and got into cover, taking a knee. I waited a few seconds, to hear if someone was hit, then I heard the screaming. I had to decide if I was going to shoot back or get to the wounded Marine. The corpsman was too far away, so I made my way to [the injured Marine].” At this point, Sutherland says he felt something, like a heavy pressure on his side and looked down to see a hole in his grenade pouch. One of the Afghan soldiers ran up and made the “?” gesture with his hands, asking if he was hit. “I had him check me for wounds, putting his hands inside my flak and looking for blood,” said Sutherland. Once he was sure he wasn’t hit, he ran to provide security for the incoming medivac, falling at least four times along the way, recounted Sutherland. Looking back on the incident, Sutherland spoke on the change in perception both during the firefight and afterward. “Time slowed and the rounds all sounded far apart to me,” said Sutherland. “During my first firefight, everyone was just shooting and you could only think to shoot back. Now you can process a few more thoughts, like what should I be doing?”

“It’s been a week in all, but every time we go out, I just wish we could not do this anymore,” said Sutherland. “I used to be the point man for our patrols, but the guys got together and decided to place me on rear guard because I have a wife and a kid on the way and need to get home to them.” Do they just not like me? – Cpl. Killian Zahringer Prior to the invasion of Marjah, Marines with the Personal Security Detachment, Headquarters and Services Co., 1/6 and Marines with Charlie Co., 1/6 went to set up the forward command center. While providing security, Cpl. Killian Zahringer found himself in his first firefight. “I leaned down for just a moment to talk to my vehicle commander, and a round went through the plates covering the turret, right as I ducked down,” said Zahringer, who is on his second deployment. “It makes a big difference, knowing that he’s aiming at you and that you’re not just at the wrong place at the wrong time, like with an IED.” Zahringer touched upon a thought that is often expressed among Marines. The majority of the time, Marines who are providing security or are on patrol are fired upon, and are forced to react to the situation, rarely being able to take the offensive. Constantly being the victims of attacks makes you wonder at times, whether or not they simply don’t like you, on an individual level. Do the men we’re fighting have something personal against me? What did I ever do? Additionally, it is sobering to realize that all it takes is a few rounds from an assault rifle. “On the news and television, you always see helicopters, tanks and bombs, but all it really takes is just some guy with an AK-47,” said Zahringer.

From: Michael S. Hertzog II, 1st Lt, USAF Unit: CSTC-A CJ8 Title 10 OMA (Combined Security Transition

Command Afghanistan Resource Management Operations and Maintenance, Army)

Location: Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan These are the first 5 e-mails I've sent home... Don’t Cough Up a Lung: Afghanistan 101.1 Dear Friends and Family, I arrived safely at the Kabul International Airport on Wednesday night and am halfway through day 4 of my year in Afghanistan. Traveling here was as easy as one can hope for when one goes the long way around the globe from Japan. Landing in Kabul was extremely uneventful, although the airport staff seemed a bit overwhelmed with our relatively large group (about 200 of us). Who is us? Soldiers, Airmen, spies, contractors, and a few diplomat types. We spent the night at the airport and then headed out to the various installations in the capital. The drive to the New Kabul Compound... When I walked in the Airport Wednesday night, I was told I was going to be working at NKC instead of Camp Eggers. I was a bit surprised and trying to figure out what I could possibly being doing at the U.S. Forces Afghanistan headquarters. After all, I am still very much a newbie in financial management and even more so in deployed operations. Nevertheless, we set out for NKC Thursday morning in an armored SUV. Looks just like a suburban, but everything is thicker--windows and doors. The driver gave us the "here's what to expect" talk. My favorite part was how said that he and I (since I was riding shotgun) would provide covering fire in the event we had to ditch the vehicle--I at this point had no bullets for my 9 mm, so if things did go south, I guess I was going to throw it and my empty magazines at any would be assassins :) The driver then said, "Feel free to take out your cameras and click away for the rest of the drive. I guarantee you'll see some things you've never seen before." He wasn't

lying. Downtown Kabul is unbelievable. No one thing is so out of this world, it is just the combination of people and things in such a small space arranged so haphazardly and seemingly randomly that seems to catch you off your guard. Two scenes really caught my eye: skinned and strung up goats, cows, pigs, dogs, cats, and chickens all in a row and for sale to the right bidder and a bicycle (as in pedals) with a sidecar built for 1 transporting 4 Afghanis--now that's what I call a road trip! We rolled up to the most congested traffic circle I will likely ever see and sat for about 45 minutes to go through and there on our right was the NKC. Huge walls and 3 tall buildings inside--that's it. I was already kissing outdoor strolls goodbye as we rolled through the gates. I dropped my body armor and bags outside the front door and went to find my office. Walked upstairs, found Major Clark, a friend of my boss at Kadena, and was quickly assured the folks at the airport were mistaken--I would be at Eggers after all. Camp Eggers... So I jumped in another armored transport and what do you know? I'm riding with the new inbound civil engineering group commander for Kadena. It is a flat and small world after all. After we left him at the embassy, we drove on Eggers. I started laughing almost immediately. It looks very much like an amusement park with tiny roads, tiny little toy land buildings, and a row of banners reminding me very much of Six Flags. And who is the first face I see when I step out? None other than Clayton Perce, the former 18th Communications Squadron boss when I first arrived at Kadena in 2007. I met the folks from the office--great people and way more personality than seems humanly possible in a group of 7 people. Civilians, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps all represented--as joint as it gets. All but one will be leaving before me, beginning with Major Memminger, whom I am replacing, this coming Friday. We're spending a lot more money than at Kadena ($890M annually vs. $125M), but the pace on the whole will be much slower because of the relatively high price tag of each purchase. It really is difficult to get anything here as there are no direct flights from any major world city and no ports, as we are entirely landlocked.

Nights 1 and 2 I slept outside Eggers at an Annex folks call the Alamo. Just think of it as the ghetto and you won't be far off. I was one of two Americans in the tent: Uzbeks, Mongols, and Czechs made up the rest. And talk about cultural inferiority! They could all converse easily in English and I couldn't return so much as a "hello" in their language. Would that I had a Greek around! It is funny to see everyone running around with AK-47s and MAC-10s. I feel like I am in a movie until I look down and see a holstered side arm on my hip. We've seen many improvised explosive device (IED) scarred trees, walls, and people in the short days we've been here but it is hard to get your mind to associate past catastrophes and present memorials to them--perhaps it will be impossible unless I get first hand experience. I'll close for now since this is long and rambling already. Give me a holler if you have a question I can answer next time, and I'll try my best to cover it. Also, please send me e-mail addresses for those folks who might like to receive these updates. I reserve the right to deny privileges to maintain operational security :) Much love from Afghanistan, Michael Click, click, boom: Afghanistan 101.2 Dear Friends and Family, Next to Tom Hanks, Robin Williams is my favorite actor. He's in so many poignant films, but one of my favorite is "Good morning Vietnam." There's a scene in it when he has to say his signature line that he opens all his radio broadcasts so that people will believe it is him. I found myself wanting an Armed Forces Network (AFN) broadcaster to give me a big "Good morning Afghanistan!" this morning to get me grounded the way Williams does and get the day started right. Nathan wrote me and told me at least he has heard the news about the explosion this morning in Kabul. Obviously I am

alive and breathing since I'm writing this, and I apologize if you've been worrying and waiting to hear from me. I will do my best to let you know how I'm doing after incidents in Kabul, but I won't always be able to do so immediately because of operational obligations we have here at Eggers. If you do hear or see news reports, first look and listen for the area of the city or country it is in--if it isn't at Eggers, there is a 99.999% chance I am not involved and am fine. And even if it is at Eggers, I'm still probably okay :) I do appreciate all your concern for my well being! So before I launch into thoughts and observations since the last update, let me address a few of your questions... What kind of heat are you packing? I carry a 9mm M9 Beretta, Serial Number 1290428 What does a normal day for you look like? Get up at 7, SSS in the loo, time with the Word, breakfast, brush teeth, head to the office, open the document control register (DCR) and move money around. How do you move money? Very carefully :) For me, I reserve it and obligate it using the Army's Resource Management Tool (RMT), a web based app that the Defense Finance and Accounting Service (DFAS) oversees, and "encourage" it to move by coordinating with real property and vehicle lease officers, contracting agents, vendors, and customers. Loving acronyms already? 10:30 I hit the gym so I can hone my soldierly look--after all, looks can kill, and you want as many weapons as you can get your hands on in this crazy country :) Shower, lunch, back to the office, fire up RMT again and go nuts until about 5. Watch a little TV with the guys and then grab dinner. Who are the guys? Civilian, sweetheart, and sole female Charlene Weber, roly poly Private First Class Brendon Lyons, crusty and seasoned Sergeant First Class Thomas Robinson, Reservist and "Shipmate" Petty Officer Second Class Samuel Borges, the resource guru and my Air Force homie Master Sergeant Tommy Marin, the "token Marine" with a whale of a history Captain Heath Ruppert, and the "any day now" ex- Master and Commander Major Martin Memminger. Back to the office and wrap up loose ends until 8, 9, 10, and head to bed.

Olympics? Food? Free time? I finally understand curling! Picture a Spainish omelet, honey glazed French toast, grilled steaks Friday, stuffed peppers Tuesday... And you take care of what you need to take care of when you need to take care of it. Beyond that, Fridays and Sundays are "reduced operational tempo" days, Friday for Muslim religious observances (the Afghan contractors don't work) and Sunday for Christian. But we're here to work! Is there live music??? Actually, no one asked this but YES!!! There is live music--bluegrass, to be exact! Last night The Four Horsemen treated us to some classics and some grassy covers. They're losing a member in three weeks and are looking for some fresh blood... Pensées for .2 I think we would all agree with Patty Griffin that "It's hard to give; it's hard to get, but every body needs a little forgiveness," and this week has found me wrestling a lot with the cycle of forgiveness: a wrong is committed, the wrongdoer becomes aware of the wrongdoing, the wrongdoer becomes the suppliant, the wronged one(s) choose to forgive the wrong or cling to it (and not necessarily in that order of course). There were some big apologies this week from some big guys: Tiger Woods and General McChrystal. Tiger apologized for betraying the trust of his wife, family, friends, and fans. McChrystal apologized for the deaths of all the civilians that were killed in the Marja offensive. I've seen Tiger's apology, for the most part, dismissed and dismembered while McChrystal's has, for the most part, been put on a pedestal. There's a lot of hurt in the world, and a season for everything under heaven. I think it is good thing for people like these men to apologize. But so much baggage gets attached that, it seems to me, a lot of the power is lost. It is good for a suppliant to be sincere, but too much scrutiny of sincerity neuters an apology. And it is a very good thing to apologize for civilian casualties in

war, but to assume or demand that there will be no civilian casualties in war is all but impossible. In case I haven't been clear about where I stand, I think Tiger was as sincere as he could be, and I think the Marines in Marja did about as good a job of protecting civilians as is possible for fallen, broken humans in a time of war. And that those of us observing Tiger and the Marines should be delicate, so very delicate, in how we think and speak of what they've done because they could have done oh so much worse. I only pray that in their stead I would behave half as well. I have loved hearing from some of you and look forward to hearing from the rest of you! The other question I have to address before I close is whether I need anything sent to me. I'll copy what I already shared with my Comptrollers: I know we like to put together care packages for our deployers. It is a great way to show we care and stay in touch. But if you are considering sending a package this way, would you please read this hyper-linked article (http://ntm-a.com/news/1-categorynews/127-war-time-humanitarian-relief) and consider sending an item or two to support the humanitarian mission Eggers is involved in? I am exceptionally well provided for here at Eggers and I would love to see more of Afghanistan's people taken care of like I am. I hope each of you have a wonderful weekend and week upcoming! Much love from Afghanistan, Michael Eye for Eye & Life for Life, or Instant Karma: Afghanistan 101.3 Dear Friends and Family, A picture is worth a thousand words--and often more than that--and I had hoped that I'd be able to send a little photo album instead of waxing on again as I have in the first two installments. I am reading Wuthering Heights right now, and reading my first two updates may have seemed

to some of you a bit like :"Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabes Branderham" that will eventually render me, as Branderham, "the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon" :) But not to worry! I have here in my Sandbox only 52 weeks, and I'll write less than that, and just maybe, if the interweb fairies are kind, you'll get at least one picture at the end of this treatise! On the weather (really my only question since .2)... Washington had his Valley Forge and Pop and Grandad had their Battle of the Bulge but it is all sunshine and blue skies for this young soldier (I know, I'm not a real soldier but this is as close as I'll ever get! So I'll go on pretending...). I am sure none of you are checking out Kabul on weather.com every 45 minutes, but don't worry--you aren't missing a thing. "Winter's come and gone; a little bird told me so," at least so far as Gillian would have it. Folks here have described what's outside as Phoenix's climate with Cleveland's soot. I've heard reports that the air quality is so bad that you automatically qualify for 10% disability! Looks like I've got a retirement plan after all... New places, old faces... I already mentioned seeing Colonel Perce from Kadena here on day 1. I forgot to mention Captain now Major Gibbs, the head of our inspector general evaluation team for our unit compliance inspection at Kadena just before Vanessa left. He's the comptroller at Manas in Kyrgyzstan, and we got to talk a bit before I left to come down to Kabul. And about 5 days after I got here, I ran into Captain Buycks from Hickam, who I'd never met in person but talked with a lot in e-mail and on the phone, and Craig Poirier, a hilarious guy and good friend from days in Mississippi finance school. Ask Vanessa for stories :) And with any fortune at all, Josh will be joining me here at Eggers in a few weeks! And now for the philosophy, or my loss of officerly objectivity...

Dad gave me a great article from Imprimis before I left to come over here entitled "Classics and War" which struck a lot of chords with me, not least because it was a great application of a classical understanding to a modern dilemma. But one thought in particular Dad and I talked about and I have continued to wrestle with has been the relative value of life that we who observe and are involved in this enterprise in Afghanistan (and all America's engagements for that matter) project on the players. That is, Americans tend to value American lives more than Afghan lives, and likely the Afghan people reciprocate that sentiment. It is of course extremely natural to feel a stronger connection with one's own than those of others. Parents tend to love their own children more than other children, politicians represent their own constituents often to the neglect of those outside their purview, and so forth. Now I know for a fact that all of you reading this are not on the exact same page when it comes to valuations of life, but I think we would all agree with our Declaration that all men have equal natural rights, if not equal natural opportunities. If that is true, though, how do we justify the greater concern for own than that of other? One of my favorite solutions has been the proximity argument. Any of you remember the Elizabeth Taylor version of Little Women? The family is discussing giving their breakfast away to hungry neighbors and Meg, I believe, says in response to Amy's "what about the starving children in Africa?" argument something like, "We don't know them, but we do know our neighbors." Sometimes rephrased as, "Think globally, act locally," the angle is to be concerned with everyone and manifest that concern for those nearest you (whether geographically, familially, etc.) simply because you can't impact those outside your sphere of influence. The problem is though that now we live with those starving children in Africa, or in my case Afghanistan. And how then do we interact with them, specifically in terms of value of life interactions? This struggle has made itself evident several times since my arrival here. Let me tell you about the most recent episode. The Joint Acquisition Review Board (JARB) is an element of the Army resource execution process. All requirements whose

total cost exceeds $100,000.00 as well as all contractual services and any sensitive technological purchases must be discussed and approved by the JARB. At this week's JARB, the options on two service contracts for installation security were eligible for exercise, and the Contracting Officer's Representative (COR) was advocating for the options. It was announced in the course of the discussion, that the contract for internal security was managed by a British company and executed by third country nationals (TCNs), mostly from Mongolia, while the contract for external security was managed and executed by Afghanis. The internal contract (for security and escorts inside the gates) provided a third of the manpower at three times the price in comparison to the external contract. Colonel Rauhut, the former deputy director for Army budget and JARB president (and a personal favorite of mine already), pitched the question: why are we paying a third of the people three times as much money to provide the same service, simply on different sides of the fence? Additionally, doesn't our "Afghan First" policy (a U.S. Government effort to give protection and incentives to Afghan companies that can provide goods and services that U.S. agents need for in-country efforts) mandate that we let them provide this service if we do choose to contract it? Commander Swain (the Navy advisor and administrative chief of the JARB) said, "Do you see the picture of that girl on the wall?" pointing to one of over a hundred framed photographs in a group on the wall of the room where the JARB was held. "She was shot by an Afghan guard who was working in the Eggers observation tower as she was walking to the gym. That's why we now have a British company running our internal security." That's the struggle right there--we want to think of the Afghans as we think of any others, but we have so much trouble with it. Americans have killed Americans--in fact, they do it every day. But the level of trust the average American loses for other Americans because of each killing seems to be exponentially less than the trust lost when someone else kills an American. We don't mourn the loss of life any less--compare your responses to the Fort Hood tragedy and the tragedy Commander Swain related. But that next step reveals the struggle: we are probably more upset and moved to action by the second tragedy than the first. The British security company contract is clearly evidence of that.

I said I was behind General McChrystal's drive to get out of our armored vehicles and out from behind our fortified compounds to come alongside Afghans in the effort we're engaged in here. I have to be perfectly honest though when I say I do sometimes get chills walking by Afghan guards with locked and loaded AKs. But I still think I must work on trusting them and valuing their lives just as I trust and value the lives of those I know well. Because if we work at all similarly on a human level, and I believe we do, then mistrusting and devaluing them will bring me no good, no way, no how. And I'm guessing a lot of you would choose my m.o. in this endeavor for me: "shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves" :) For my Tuesday House folks... How hilarious was Wilson in our latest installment? I was laughing so hard watching it that I woke up a few neighbors. Guess my walls are even thinner than the bloggers--oh wait, I have no walls :) I do hope you all are well and enjoying a March as mild as mine! Good old summertime soon enough. Much love from Afghanistan, Michael P.S. Grandma and Grandad, I received your card and the cookies. On behalf of myself and co-workers, thank you for both. And do not despair of raising a glass of mead in the mead hall together quite yet! The king is gone but he’s not forgotten: 101.4 Dear Friends and Family, He's known to many simply as "The Connection." He's an avid fan of Michael Scott, both the silver screen and real life version. He is "trading up" in choosing to fly half way around the world to work 7 days a week while dodging bullets and bombs. And he is going to join me here at Camp Eggers any minute now. He's Josh King of Grand Forks North

Dakota, formerly of Chatan Cho Okinawa and State College Pennsylvania. Get excited people because it is about to get crazy in Afghanistan... Quick Q&A: What does a day in the life sound like? I really loved this question because I had thought things would be very quiet out here--a sort of lull peppered with the occasional explosion. Reality couldn't be further from that. Although we don't really hear the sounds of the city (Kabul after all has a population of over 3.5 million), there is almost never a moment of pure silence. The day starts with the sounds of alarm clocks, electric razors, and the thump of boots on 1/4 inch plywood tent flooring. Showers running, toilets flushing, and towels rubbing clean but chapping skin greet you in the bathrooms, and vehicles whir to life in the parking lot just down the road. Everything that isn't paved is graveled to keep the dust down, so the distinct crunch of stone on stone almost never stops. R&B in the dining hall keeps the serving staff dancing and in good spirits, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox broadcasters on office TVs keep the troops "current" and somewhat connected to the events of home, and yes, there is the occasional burst from detonation of explosives--usually controlled and given advance notice of but every now and then a surprise and slight reality check. But the one sound I didn't at all expect was the chirping of birds. They are out in full force foraging for the produce of a new spring, returning from winter vacation in warmer climes away south. Do you visit neighboring installations? I do, though perhaps not quite as much as I would like to. The International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) headquarters is just out the main gate and to the left of Eggers. They host an outdoor bazaar every Friday where local vendors peddle their wares, and if you have a hankering for European cuisine, the dining hall here is a critical destination. There is also a very pleasant park in front of General McChrystal's residence outfitted with picnic tables, benches, and gazebos perfect for taking a few minutes away from the rat race that is the hectic operational tempo here. A few hundred meters beyond the gate for ISAF is the U.S. Embassy. Major attractions here:

thick green grass, a 4 lane 15 meter pool, a tennis court, and an assortment of beer and wine at the gift shop--of course, unless you are ambassador or attaché, "you can look but you can't touch" :). The New Kabul Compound, which houses the US Forces in Afghanistan headquarters, is a few hundred meters more beyond the embassy, but unless you have a craving to see multi-floor office buildings, there is no particular reason to continue your stroll in this direction. And in the spirit of, "Take nothing for your journey; neither stick nor bag," we are currently permitted to make these outings without body armor if we chose. I'd say it is about half and half that forgo wearing the extra gear. Of course, unless you are a civilian, you still have to have your weapon with you. Mine is finally beginning to feel more appendage than baggage. My depiction of Kabul may make it seem to be a small city, and it may also be a small world after all, but there is nevertheless a lot going on in it--city and world. And with all the activity transpiring, it is easy to feel like you are either missing something important or being overlooked. I have been thinking for several weeks now about the Academy's newest "Best Picture" and its implications for both Americans and Muslims at home and abroad, wherever "at home" and "abroad" might be for them. The three attachments are text files of articles from the New York Times in response to seeing "The Hurt Locker", relating bits of the perspectives of some embedded journalists, soldiers, and Iraqis on the message and implications of this film. After I saw the movie and read "How Not to Depict a War," I went through a wave of frustration followed by a sense of vindication. As the author rightly pointed out, veterans are often sticklers for detail in war movies. But I ask each of you: is it any different with you as you view portrayals of your fields of expertise? Dad, I know you've often chuckled at ridiculous cases in House and Scrubs; Emily, you've had your fun with outrageous depictions of equine stunts--it is just human nature to measure the distance between reality as we perceive it and depictions of reality. The vindication came on reading Kamber's closing: "It (the war) deserves a minimal degree of historical accuracy and attention to detail." More, much more, than Kathryn Bigelow's dedication of the film "to the women and men in the military who risk their lives on a daily basis" did I want a film that gave truer testimony to the manner in which they took that risk.

But I kept reading and thinking. Arango shared the response of the soldier in Iraq to Obama's Super Bowl shout out to soldiers in Afghanistan and Haiti which at the same time left those in Iraq unmentioned. "That completely demoralized me," the soldier said. I had to rethink Bigelow's dedication. Because the dedication wasn't placeless. She finished it: "in Iraq and Afghanistan and around the world. And may they come home safe." Arango's source might now find comfort in being recognized on another internationally broadcast event. And still there was more to read. And more perspectives on the film to consider, perhaps one of the most important: that of the Iraqis. And although they too found details to be disappointed with, I was blown away by the ultimate response. ' "In the future, when we talk to our children and grandchildren about what happened here, this is one thing we will show them," Mr. Hassan said.' Talk about a jaw dropper. A film that casts countrymen, neighbors, perhaps even family members, as enemies can nevertheless be appropriated as a tool and means for educating, mentoring, and relating with progeny. The humility evident in that assertion and the graciousness to share it hold up the mirror for me to consider whether my own mettle might ever yield such fruit. And beyond that, and perhaps the crux of all these things (the film, the articles, the personal responses to it) is the desire that manifests itself so clearly, that longing we all feel so deeply--to know and be known. Don't we all say or think or feel: 'I know the action is there right now, but don't forget about me here,' or 'for all its faults, at least a part of the story I've experienced in reality is memorialized for posterity,' at one point or another? For now, then, here's to you as you struggle to know and be known--may you find a measure of each in this season of life. If you connect more easily with visual media, I've posted a few more pictures on my facebook page--I wish we had enough bandwidth here for me to upload some of the videos from the Mongolian martial arts demonstration, but they will have to wait a few more months I am afraid. I'll try to continue adding more to that album throughout the year. Much love from Afghanistan, Michael

P.S. If you didn't get releases 1, 2, or 3 and want them please let me know! Aprille with his shoures soote: Afghanistan 101.5 Dear Friends and Family, Do any of you remember getting a ride to school with your parents? I know Nathan and I will always remember Bob Edwards throaty introduction to "Morning Edition" and Chuck Colson's thick Boston Brahmin "Breakpoint" opening from rides with Fred Decosimo and Dad. When I was younger, I used to hate listening to morning radio. The voices sounded so full of energy and so awake--unnatural, in my mind, for humans up before the sun. As I got older, however, and realized that in general to be American meant to be a morning person, I began to take a cue from these early morning broadcasts--acting like and thinking you were awake and ready for whatever the day had in store for you helped to make it so. And, as an added benefit, there were some good things to learn about and start thinking about that you could pick up if you listened. One new thing I learned about was the Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT). Introduced in Afghanistan in late 2001 and comprised of officers, diplomats, and technical experts in various disciplines, these teams would assist local governments in ruling more effectively and efficiently by providing advice and executing infrastructure improvement projects--water purification, crop rotation, school construction, you name it. Almost as soon as I heard about them and the work they did, I knew I wanted to one day be a part of one. As I found out more about my deployment last fall and winter, I began to think that this deployment would afford me little to no opportunity for involvement with a PRT or its work. That began to change yesterday. The Commander's Emergency Response Program (CERP) is a program that "provides U.S. Governmental appropriations directly to operational and tactical forces, enabling them to meet emergency needs of civilians" (Lt Col Mark S. Martins, Deputy Legal Counsel to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff). Projects that win approval both employ

and directly benefit Afghan civilians. And how do the PRTs fit with CERP? A PRT member will often serve as project coordinator for a CERP effort. When I arrived at Eggers, Charlene, our chief of accounting from the Defense Finance and Accounting Service (DFAS), was handling all CERP funding for the Kabul area. She headed back to the states last week and Aaron Cohen arrived from Kuwait to take her place. At first, it looked like he would assume all her duties, but over the last few days we decided I would take on CERP so that he could focus on clearing unliquidated obligations. So yesterday I went back to the New Kabul Compound to get training on executing CERP requirements, and today I am managing the program. Although I am not going to have hands on involvement with most of the projects, assisting with their funding already has me very excited and has renewed my sense of engagement with the work I am doing here. Although comprehensive details of CERP are classified, I can say that there is a great deal of as yet untapped CERP funding that I am making plans for. That's right--even the most seemingly insignificant person in the country can nominate a project for CERP funding. The next step is getting endorsement from an O-5 (Lt Col in Army, Navy, Air Force and Commander in Navy), which is not hard to get with good justification for a project and all the required substantiating documentation (legal reviews, signed approvals by/proof of coordination with local officials, statements of work, etc.). I am planning on talking with Yates (one of Conrad and Emily's groomsmen working here in Afghanistan with Swiss NGO MedAir) to find out what needs he sees and if any of them might be met through a CERP project. I am of the hope and opinion that a robust CERP and adroit PRTs will go a long way in securing Afghanistan's future and in repairing burned bridges between Afghans and the West (listen to Karzai’s remarks from the past few days for more on this), but only time will tell. Many of you are familiar with Coldplay, heir to the popular music throne relinquished most recently by U2, the Grateful Dead, and the Beatles. I have resisted their music for a long time (the reasons for which it would take a novel to fully parse out), but finally bought their sophomoric effort, "A Rush of Blood to the Head." The refrain of "The Scientist" has been much in my mind of late, and the longing for going "back to the start" has dovetailed perfectly with so many of the themes that have grabbed my attention in the book I just finished and highly recommend

to each of you. It is "AWOL: The Unexcused Absence of America's Upper Classes from Military Service--and How It Hurts Our Country." Be not deterred by the long subtitle or the "Upper Classes" it might seem to target. It is one of the most accessible pieces of non-fiction I have read in quite a while, and it has something to say, in fact a lot to say, to everyone: upper, middle, and lower class Americans, veterans, current U.S. Service members, Americans with no working knowledge of their military, and those citizens of other nations who nonetheless experience the impact on a daily basis from America's military and her national policy. Kathy Roth-Douquet and Frank Schaeffer make the perfect pair for broaching such a potentially polarizing and alienating subject. They have at once experience with living abroad and at home in America, liberal and conservative perspectives, people with whom the military is as familiar as life itself, and people who have no inkling of the difference between a first sergeant and a Lieutenant Colonel. They write in the same pen stroke with both compassion and conviction, and the result is a message of which anyone, everyone can partake. I won't quote it too much because I want you to read it for yourself, but I have to share a few words from it with you. They so perfectly and fully encapsulate my hopes and feelings about my experience here. They are actually not the authors' words but from a letter that the authors quote. I find these words in many ways as moving and gripping as those of Sullivan Ballou in his Civil War letter to his wife Sarah. On the experience of deploying in war, Major John Thomas writes: None of us can be sure if we understand, on the grand scale, what actions are right--like our country going to war. We can trust and pray that our leaders are acting ethically. But even they have to make decisions without omniscience, with their human intellect. So we are left, all of us, not just those in the military, to act as best we can to do good given the circumstances we are put in. Just like anything else, in the military it is more a series of decisions. You find

yourself in a situation and are faced with acting within the situation. You wake up each day and do your job. It goes something like this, we think: Is it right to defend freedom? Then we raise our hands and swear to do so by joining the military. And at that point we also pledge [in the oath of enlistment] to follow "the President of the United States and those appointed above us." Is it right to go to war? No one is asking us. We follow the decisions of the elected officials who represent the will and wisdom of the American people. What they ask us to do is fight that war--morally, without malice, without giving in to evil. We are asked to follow the "law of armed conflict" by not shooting at medical operations and by not targeting civilians, and such. We conduct the war and try to spare lives by ending it quickly. So we get orders to go, and we go. The right thing is to honor our oaths. The right thing to do is to make the part of the conflict we touch as good as we can. To, with prayer, bring good to an evil situation; to cradle and feed the orphans; to destroy those who are given to evil; to tend the wounds of an enemy soldier; to smile at a group of scared civilians; to be a Good Samaritan. What we do even unto the "least of these . . ." When you're someplace across the world, you don't feel you're a world away. It becomes your daily life, and you act just as you might if you were back home and saw someone with a flat tire and stopped to help, or if someone were trying to kill your neighbor and you had the means to stop them. You don't think every minute about the grand scale of things. You do what you can to be good where you are. That's not so much courage, that's focusing on doing what you are there to do. You've given your oath. If you weren't doing it, someone else would be, and you'd rather be there trying to do good than have someone else there who might not. The courage comes when having to leave your family at the airport. The rest is just trying your best to get through the days until you are with them again. There is so much I could treat in this letter, but I definitely want to address this: I don't know if it is a result of shared military experience or something else, but Thomas' depiction of sense of place is exactly as I feel it. When I wake up every morning, it is not as though I am

having an out of body experience where my corporeal self is getting dirty in the desert while my cognitive self is coolly observing from a bedroom at Summerfield, a colonnaded campus in Charlottesville, or even my beloved Halfway House nestled in its green Awase hillside. I am here, body and soul, doing my best to live and to love as fully as I can. I do miss the people (like you, dear reader!) and places that are not here, but not with a sense of agonizing urgency that would render life here a less than tangible, gritty, and complete reality. As for the rest of the book, let me share just a few of my thoughts, especially those centering on renewal and new beginnings. Back when I was finishing my senior year of high school, the 5 Hertzogs, for so we were then, took a trip to Fontana and were sitting on a boat in the middle of the lake. Dad asked me why I had decided to be a part of ROTC and pursue a commission in the Air Force. I don't remember my answer too well now, and I am fairly certain that this is a good indicator that I did not have a particularly good answer for him. AWOL has caused me to revisit this question many times even in the past several days, and has definitely given me many ingredients for cooking up a robust, meaty answer were I to need one again. AWOL depicts the military, and all public service with it, as an entity that, by joining, allows you to be a part of something greater than yourself. It is a thing that throws into sharp relief the needs of others, and how they must, for mutual survival and benefit, supersede one's own. It is, like any other institution, full of both weak and strong, base and noble, wise and foolish--humans. And it is a tool. A good tool in its own right, yet one that may be bent to good or evil ends, and therefore rendering it crucial that those who wield it do so with the greatest deliberation, wisdom, and care. And it is you, my fellow Americans, who ultimately wield this thing, this United States Military. In a very real sense, my orders are those that you give me. It may seem a sea of bureaucracy between you and what I am doing, but there is a very real and unbreakable chain bridging that distance. So I add my commission to that of the authors: make your voice heard! Let there be no mistake about what your will and wishes are for your military and the future of our country. And make all the world your sphere for service and love--no occupation too small, no task too

menial, no person or institution beyond redemption. Leave no stone unturned. Much love from Afghanistan, Michael

From: Sgt. Nate Danger Geist Unit: HHC 2-130 Infantry Battalion Date: 04/13/2009 Location: Paktya Province, Afghanistan Yesterday morning, as we were getting ready to leave on the convoy, it dawned on me that the mission I was about the go on was, in fact, another dangerous mission. To get to where we were going, I would again have to get through IED alley (also known as Route Idaho). But it was another soldier that put the situation in perspective for me: the soldier, one who was on a mission the day before that got attacked, said to me, “Hey, at least you’re not going down Route Virginia!” That’s when I realized that at least that was true: after all, Route Virginia was probably the most dangerous route in the area at the moment, as that was the route that the convoy was attacked on, not to mention that there were two known pressure plate IED’s placed on the road somewhere, just waiting for a convoy to be the first to roll over it. The convoy successfully made it through IED alley and to our destination with no complications, but while we were there, the command decreed that there was another necessary mission that had to be completed, and so it was decided that we would try and complete it on this same day. And so, we began heading back down IED alley. Except, after we got through IED alley, we wouldn’t be heading towards Gardez, where we came from. Instead, we had to head out to a small Afghan National Army (ANA) base out in the middle of nowhere… an ANA base that was off of Route Virginia. And so, we trekked down the most dangerous road in Paktya province as the sun was setting on the day. Riding down Route Idaho and Route Virginia all in one day was one of the rockiest experiences of my life. The seat I was sitting on in the vehicle (known as a Cougar) was directly above the wheel, and every bump literally sent me flying in the air. Both Idaho and Virginia are unpaved roads, and so maybe you can imagine how bumpy it was. If you’ve ever played “break the egg” on a trampoline, then you have an idea of how it felt to be in that Cougar. Except, in the Cougar, when I flew in the air, I wasn’t falling down towards a trampoline; it was instead a hard

seat, and I was surrounded by bags and weapons that continuously flew onto me. The trip was like a roller coaster from hell, and it lasted all day long. It even got to the point that I eventually learned how to react so quickly that, while in mid-flight, I’d extend my legs to stand and press my hands on the top of the ceiling so I could better stabilize myself. Near the end of Route Virginia, there was a dead body of an Afghan, covered with a plastic sheet, lying on top of a grave off to the side of the rocky road. I felt fortunate that, even though today was going to have its unpleasantness, at least I wasn’t that dude. To get to the ANA base, we had to travel offroad for a couple miles. We arrived to the ANA base with no complications, except for the fact that we didn’t have enough sunlight to make it back to Gardez. And so, we stayed at this small ANA compound that simply consisted of a 10,000 square foot area that was closed in by some Hesco barriers. We were out in the middle of a field, literally sharing the space with an Afghan shepherd and his flock. We were completely exposed with several mountains off in the distance that mortars could easily be launched from. There were no buildings in this compound, nor any real facilities (i.e., flushing bathrooms, chow hall, or lodging). We were either going to have to sleep in our vehicles or sleep outside on the ground. There were some cots, but not enough for everybody. All in all, many of us anticipated getting attacked that night. To remedy this likelihood, or at least be ready in case it happened, we decided that everyone needed to pull guard shifts. Fortunately, because there were so many of us, we only would have to pull one-hour shifts. We had officially settled in The Middle of Nowhere, Afghanistan. That night, I laid down my sleeping bag on the rocks right near our commander, knowing that if we were attacked, I would dedicate myself to protecting his life. I settled into my sleeping bag with my rifle and looked up at the stars above. I acknowledged that, today, I had been up and down some of the most dangerous (and bumpy) roads in Afghanistan, I didn’t have any shelter above me, I was very vulnerable to an attack, and here I was, lying on the ground on top of some large rocks as my bed. And at that moment, I finally acknowledged how miserable I felt. No, not miserable for myself, but for you. I felt miserable for everyone who wasn’t going to fall asleep like I was, able to spend my entire night watching God’s craftsmanship above

me. I felt miserable for everyone who has never experienced what I’ve been privileged to experience. And, I felt miserable that there were so few moments like this that I would get to enjoy in my life. I looked up to the sky and prayed that God ensure it didn’t rain this night, even though it already was cloudless and most likely going to be a dry night. I also had to pray that He protected all of us that night from snakes and scorpions. And just before I shut my eyes, a shooting star shot through the sky. I smiled and closed my eyes, cuddling my rifle, ready to defend this base in the case of a likely attack. 0300 hours rolled around, and the soldier on guard shift woke me up. It was my turn to man the night cameras mounted in the Cougar. I got out of bed, put on my boots, and carefully watched the cameras for the next hour. I scanned for any suspicious activity, searching my zone for any possible Talibs. When my hour was up, I woke up my relief, and headed back to my sleeping bag and crawled back inside. A couple hours later, as dawn broke and the sun began to shine above me, I felt something poking at me. The night had gotten very windy and therefore very cold, so I was completely cocooned in my sleeping bag when the poking woke me up. “What is that?” I wondered. “Is that a scorpion? A snake?” I poked my head out and saw a little puppy back away in fear from my emerging face. I couldn’t help but laugh. That is, until I realized he had my boot in his mouth, and had already carried it much farther than an arm’s length away. I yelled at him, “Hey! Hey!” as if he would know I wanted my boot back. He continued running around with it, and eventually I had to get out and chase him in my socks on the rocks. I got back my boot and went back to sleep, but not without first allowing my boots access to my warm little cocoon. When I finally woke up for the day shortly thereafter later, I found out that after the puppy got bored with trying to get my boots, it took the commander’s boots and dragged them to a ditch. As I got out of the sleeping bag this morning, I was so extremely sore. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the bumpy convoy or from sleeping on jagged rocks. I imagine it

was a combination of both. But, shortly after we all woke up, we were all ready to drive back down Route Virginia to get back to FOB Lightning. As I walked to an area that I could take a leak, the puppy followed me, biting my boots as I walked. Before we left the base on the convoy, we were heeded one warning: if anybody was to see any motorcyclists driving parallel to us, we needed to immediately call it in, because that cyclist would most likely turn out to be a Taliban spotter that was following us to blow us up at the opportune moment. Route Virginia was a little bit different than it had been the day before: today, there were no children, which is almost always a bad sign. When there’s no children playing outside on a warm day, that usually means they were forewarned that there would be an attack. If that wasn’t bad enough, as we traveled, the villagers stopped what they were doing and stared at our convoy as it passed them, as if they knew we were hiding Santa Claus in one of our trucks. To further raise anxieties, within minutes of our convoy, the very thing we were warned about appeared. An Afghan on a motorcycle was waiting for us off the road, and when we neared him, he began driving parallel to us. When we stopped, he would stop, and when we sped up, he’d speed up. The entire time, the cyclist kept his eyes on our Cougar, as if trying to figure out the timing of the vehicle’s movement. There was no question about it: we were in the proverbial crosshairs of the enemy, and he was most likely about to blow us up. But, because of the rules of engagement, we couldn’t do anything about it because we had no proof he was a member of the Taliban. As we continued on our route, a soldier witnessed an Afghan watching us from an alley, and it was quickly determined that there was a good chance the Afghan was a spotter in cohorts with the motorcyclist still riding beside us. The Colonel said over our radio system to me, “Sergeant, if an IED goes off, I want you to dismount and tackle the guy on the bike.” This command greatly excited me, and I responded, “Roger, sir!” Then, the Colonel made it clear he was joking, to which I made it clear I was not. I explained

to him that I would be more than willing to do it. He chuckled and said, “Yeah, I know you would.” As we traveled on, we prepared ourselves for an explosion, if not from the motorcyclist, then at least from one of the two pressure plates that we had somehow avoided the day before. But amazingly, once again, this story doesn’t end in the expected way. Instead, after a certain point, the motorcyclist slowed down and eventually faded away in our rearview mirrors. And from there, we successfully made it back to FOB Lightning, unscathed. Today, we weren’t blown up as we anticipated. And sure, there’s a possibility that the jamming system on our Cougar prevented the explosion from occurring when the trigger man pressed the button. Or, there’s also the possibility that everything was a coincidence: the kids weren’t out today because they were busy with chores inside; the Afghans gawking at us just moved into town and had never seen an American presence before; the motorcyclist was intrigued by our vehicle and just wanted to study it in action; the “spotter” perhaps was just a man who enjoys dwelling in dark alleys; maybe we got lucky and just barely missed the pressure plates. Could be. Yet, how can I see all the evidence and not lift my eyes to God, thanking Him for being the source of my protection?

From: Kelly Robinson Unit: 4th ID spouse Location: Colorado Springs, Colo. War stories are not new to me. I am a granddaughter of the greatest generation. I just never thought I would be married one day to a man who has so many combat tales of his own. Often I am asked if my life is like the show Army Wives. Honestly, I don’t know. I have never watched it. What I do know is that I am pretty sure it is much harder than the Lifetime channel ever depicted. The nights are lonelier. The fear is tangible. The grief of lost life can be felt in your bones. Anniversaries and birthdays are missed. Your children cry for their dada who is half a world away. You cry too. You miss phone calls and panic because inside you are thinking that one call could have been your last. Your friends with civilian husbands tell you they could never do it. Most of the time, you think you can’t do it either. Every time the doorbell rings when you are not expecting it, you become nauseous. You peek out the window to make sure a government car is not parked in the driveway. Unexpected visitors often find a not as warm greeting. You shower with your cell phone. When a fellow shopper asks you the time, you tell her the time in Afghanistan. Inevitably, someone asks you if your husband has killed anyone. You control your rage and tell the truth. You have never asked. Slowly, there is light at the end of the tunnel. No, the war is not ending. His deployment is. A countdown of weeks transcends into days. You actually shave your legs and blow dry your hair. The house is clean and the kids are too. Finally, you will find yourself at his redeployment ceremony. Desperately you search for your Where’s Waldo in camouflage. Your hands are shaking. You are over-caffienated and did not eat breakfast. The toddlers are bribed with cookies to stay seated and quiet.

They are released. You see him. You can breathe again. For the moment, you are no longer the Army’s mistress. You are his wife.

From: Capt. Benoit Pare Unit: French Army – GIACM Date: July 26, 2009 Location: Afghanistan As a French Army Reserve Officer, I have served 3 tours in Afghanistan between 2006 and 2009 where I happened to work with American soldiers. I thought you might find some interest in my perspectives, Below are extracts of my diary, that nobody ever read till now Extracts of my Diary 26 July 2009, Afghanistan 09.15: The Helicopter Flight. Fate decided that I would be sitting next to the open doors. Besides the pilots, the Caracal chopper is manned with no less than 4 gunners, two of them sitting with their legs hanging outside. The gunner who is by my side wears a beard. He looks Arabic. A week ago, an Air Force Special Forces managed to shoot himself in the foot while going out of the helicopter, so I am asked to withdraw my magazine from my pistol. As the helicopter slowly and almost imperceptibly leaves the ground, before remaining stable a couple of meters above the runway, I notice that the French Arab gunner is discreetly praying, hands open towards the sky. Everyone looks dramatically serious. Last week alone, 2 helicopters crashed in the South of the country, without anybody knowing how it happened. This said, I’m thinking the Muslim gunner probably prays each time he takes off. And I’m also thinking that his mere presence in our ranks shows that we are not here to fight Islam, but an extreme and distorted vision of it. This is good for everyone to remember. And so we leave, and it’s a fantastic journey, between 5 and 20 metres above the ground. First I recognize the area where I drove so many times North of Kabul. It is so much faster with a helicopter. The canyons before N., our final destination, are magnificent, with the river below surrounded by trees, contrasting with the dry beige rocks above. Very quickly, 20 to 25 minutes after take-off, I can

see the base, this FOB (Forward Operational Base) that I am visiting for the first time and where we land quickly. 10:21 The Mission Brief As soon as we landed, the CIMIC (Civil-Military Cooperation) major who welcomes us takes us to his winterized tent to receive the Mission brief. The objective is multifold: to inaugurate a pedestrian bridge that we funded. To recce the main polling centre and to organise a shura with the local leaders. It is a Battle Group size mission, which means that around 500 soldiers, French, Afghans and Americans will be part of it. Risk raised from medium to high. Location: the B. valley in the T. district: Troops have not been there for 6 months. An estimated 200 insurgents in the area. On average every static position is attacked after 1 hour 45 minutes. We plan to stay there for 3 hours. It is estimated that the most sensitive moment will be when we leave. "Not a patrol, a combat mission ", said the Battle Group commander. And we will have to walk along the last 2 kilometres before we reach the foot bridge. So, an attack on us is almost a certainty. Yet we will go. My throat is getting narrower. It makes noise when I swallow my saliva. I do not want the others to notice. I then wonder: why the hell does it make so much noise when I swallow my saliva? And why do I feel the need to swallow it anyway? Even my chief, who came with me this far but who was about to go back to Kabul the following day, seemed to wonder whether he had made the right decision to send me there. “Its OK, Paré?, he asked. The question and the tone of the voice seemed to imply that if I did not feel ready to participate in this mission, it was still time to withdraw. “It’s OK”. I replied, trying to sound as determined and calm as I could. I may be a reservist, when I wear the uniform, I want to be considered as a soldier like the others. Instead of sending others in harm’s way for a project I have largely conceived myself, I feel more comfortable sharing the risk in person. This mission is a chance for me to recce a part of the terrain for the major project I am trying to launch, the construction of 19 security posts for the Afghan Police in this very sensitive district. 11:21 End of brief The waiting before the departure planned at 1600:

And so the moment to leave comes, a few hours later. My chief appears almost moved to see me go like a soldier and insists to take a couple of pictures of me with all the warrior’s gear. Before embarking, I managed to negotiate a position as right rear gunner in the VAB (French APC - Armored Personel Carrier), which would allow me to see “my” security posts along the way. As we are embarked, engines on, ready to go, we hear on the radio that there is a suspicion of 5 IED’s (Improvised Explosive Device) along the way till the next FOB. A few minutes later, we hear that 90 insurgents are waiting for us in a village just before our destination. The departure is delayed as extra intelligence is needed. We disembark and start to wait. The engineers who were sent before us confirm at least one IED along the way. It is an anti-tank mine, enough to blow up in the air one of our APC’s, killing all its crew. We need to wait till they neutralize it. An escort is being sent to protect the engineers. But the rest of the convoy, 12 French VAB’s plus 1 US MRAP needs to wait untill the road is safe. The atmosphere is pretty tense. The Americans in the MRAP (US APC), then start to sing some typical military song in their loudspeaker. That helps to cool down the atmosphere a lot. Walking by their vehicle, I hear one of them say loud “ IED”. The way he says it is peculiar. Americans have a history of having been severely hit by IED’d in the area. Yet, he does not sound too upset. It is almost as if he was upset to have to wait. His colleague in the vehicle then starts to play a song from Alice in Chains which reminds me of my time as a student in LA. It is called: “Here comes the Rooster”. Nice eye blink, as the rooster is the symbol for France (as the Eagle is for America), All of a sudden, the scene becomes surreal to me, these military vehicles in a camp, with the Afghan mountains in the background, and the US flag waving in between, all of this being lit with the golden sunset light. What a video! It is almost beautiful. Memories from movies about Vietnam come back to my head. This mix of drama and coolness, somewhere between MASH and Apocalypse Now. Then comes Hell’s Bells from AC/DC, plus some bagpipe parts, mixed with hard rock. That later part sounds like a tribute to the French 3r Marine Infantry Regiment, that is composing the bulk of the French Battle Group in this province. Indeed, the 3rd RiMA, based in Brittany, always carries bagpipes on missions to play during ceremonies. These Americans have taste and manners. I find out that the band that is playing is called Dropkick Murphies, from Boston.

From: Captain Peter A. Van Loon, US Navy Unit: Regional Security Advisory Command - Central and

CJTF-Horn of Africa Date: 03/21/2010 Location: Afghanistan and Africa Lessons learned going to war at age fifty The military does not have to make payroll Wondering whether you will have enough cash on hand to cover your payroll was a continual concern in several jobs. Ensuring that money was there; by stretching payments, badgering creditors, but mainly ensuring our business was viable to generate that cash taught me how to look always for the best way of doing things. It also demanded ruthlessness with those businesses that are not performing – either to change them or shut them down. The US military does not have that defining discipline, and it shows in its profligate use of people and resources. Beware the military-industrial complex Eisenhower was right fifty years ago, and the warning is still valid. The fears raised after 9/11 have given defense contractors and the military a shield. The support of the American people should not mean free rein. Supply of “defense” will expand as long as demand is left unchecked. Both the military and the defense contractors require scrutiny and limits to ensure proper stewardship. They can not be trusted to be stewards over themselves. People are the same I want my kids to be healthy, educated, and free from fear and violence. I want to be able to be free to do the work I want, and I want not to be dictated to by anyone. I have come to see those desires as universal – it is the same for Pashtuns in the Pech river valley, the southern Sudanese, and I bet everyone on God’s green earth. However, people have different ideas about work, education and how they want their kids to grow up. If we think we can get people to change to an American perspective, I believe we are both foolish and disrespectful. Civilization can be thin

Evil exists, and it is not going away. Standing in a church opened by its pastor to Hutus desiring to kill his Tutsi parishioners sheltering there, or looking at the shards of a young boy killed by a suicide bomber outside Kabul because he chose to sell his wares in the wrong place that day, I have felt a malevolence that is old and patient. I had felt it strongly decades ago when I was charged with making nuclear weapons inoperable, but had to leave many ready to use. The evil remains. Military force is limited I am proud to be in the US military. I work with all of America, and we can come together as a force beyond any group with whom I have ever been a part. But there is only so much we can do. The military exists to kill people and destroy things as we are directed by the civilian leadership of the United States, in order to defend against threats and neutralize those who would harm us. It is a job that has to be done. However, in the challenges we face today, military power is not the solution. The twin enemies of ignorance and poverty are not tamed by superior firepower. We, as a country, must come to understand that we are going to have to bring the better angels of our nature to work if we are to safeguard our way of life. We can not shoot our threats into submission. There are things worth fighting for I am not a pacifist. I am anti-war; most military people are and I am a military person – although I honestly thought I was done with the military a long time ago. I will fight for the principles our country was founded upon. I believe America has a role in this world yet. I believe our Constitution is the best foundation of any country since the beginning of time, and that we have a long way to go to making it work like it can. It is worth fighting for, and we will have to continue. We just have to remember that our military is just one tool, and a very limited one at that. People are good I have seen honor and altruism in Afghanistan and Africa in the midst of violence, death and poverty. If you treat people as you would like to be treated, they will treat you as you desire. It is very hard to do this, it can be terrifying, and it takes much effort. Friends are invaluable

When you are scared and confused, and I have been both in the past couple years, you need your friends. Some take care of those you love at home, others literally watch your back as you watch theirs, and all of them have kept me oriented towards what is right. Family is priceless Betsy, Elizabeth and Jacob have had the tough job the past couple years. I volunteered for this decades ago, and they were drafted. If I have made any good progress, and I believe I have, it is due to the foundation of their love. This lesson has been the one that has been hardest to learn. I tried to put my family out of my heart, beyond the pain and fear I saw and felt. It was a mistake. They are tougher than I knew. There is work yet to do I have been blessed with health and experience in addition to the love of family and friends. My job is to continue to put my talents and blessings to work. It is the way to honor all those who have believed in me; as a father and husband, and as a leader in business and the military. You do not get the option to sit back and relax in your old age. There is work to do. God is with you You may believe you are alone, but you are not.

From: Captain Peter A. Van Loon, US Navy Unit: Regional Security Advisory Command - Central Date: 08/29/2007 Location: Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan The air was cool at 0300 at Bagram, the main airfield in Afghanistan. I had just left my duty of the past year as the deputy commander for the Central Region, where we were embedded with and training the Afghan Army and police. It has been hot all summer and I was glad for the coolness. I had one more official duty to perform. I had to put three of our guys, killed the day before, on a plane back home. The caskets rolled up in humvees. I marched toward the aircraft with my general. The honor guards picked up the caskets and followed us. We stepped to the side to allow them on the aircraft first. The C-17 transport cargo bay was lit brightly against the black of the night. The red on the flags was livid in that harsh light. We knelt at each casket as we made our way through the aircraft. I am usually good at prayer, but that morning I had nothing to offer and I was too tired to think of what to ask for. The couple hundred people on the flight line left once the ramp on the aircraft was closed. For the ceremony, all work and noise had been suspended and now it started back up. I stayed, alone, for an hour until they rolled to the runway, and I saluted as they took off into the morning. Immediately after, two F-15’s, evident only by their noise and the fire of their twin afterburners, took off on the first fire support mission of the day.

From: Kerri Mullen, sister of Spc. John Michael Mullen Unit: 101st Airborne Location: Afghanistan and Berlin A very wise therapist once told me that all family visits should be legally limited to no more than three days. Three days is enough to enjoy, to reminisce, to wonder why they aren’t staying longer. Four days and you know exactly why. Michael’s been here for seven days now, sharing my 37 square meter apartment. It’s not a tiny place – Berlin isn’t New York – but it’s still a small space for a 24 year old brother and his slightly neurotic 26 year old sister. When I walked into my apartment, there used to be a weird burned coffee smell coming from the kitchen. Now it smells like booze, man body odor and man body wash. My own odd stink has been completely engulfed. He’s here, and it hasn’t been so long. It’s now May and I last saw Michael when all of our family did, at Christmastime, before he was deployed in February. He received his leave from Afghanistan quite early and decided to come to Berlin to crash with me for a couple of weeks instead of going back home. A free trip, he reasoned, and he could come to Europe for the first time, and so he did. And now he’s here, and his clothes and laptop/camera gadgetry really don’t take up that much space, but it seems like they now physically dominate my apartment the way that thinking about him, over in a war zone, used to dominate my mind. I tried to explain it to him, and he’s tried to explain it to me. Why do you disapprove of me being in the Army, he asks. Why did you join the Army, and what is it like, I ask. We both start and stop our answers, shaking our heads in a way that makes us look like siblings even though none of our features look alike, and say that it’s hard to explain. Michael Mullen is a Specialist in the Army, which means little to those he meets here. He’s on leave, visiting me in Berlin, where friends and acquaintances (Bekannter, an important distinction in Germany, where Bekannter are definitely not friends, and so it’s weird to see him

interacting at a party with people he’s just met who are asking him about war and whether it’s changed him) come from the US, Germany, Israel, Spain, Bosnia, Canada. All of them ask about what it’s like over there. He tells them all, “It’s not as bad as you think,” and then either they ask more questions or they don’t. Some questions he’s had include: Are there any Spanish soldiers where you are? How did you get here? Can I buy you a beer? And the beer has been plentiful. I greeted him at the airport with a bottle of Berliner Pilsner, because I can – you can drink anywhere you want in Berlin, almost – and because it kind of sums up how different it is to live here and to be stationed there. Also, it was a beer, and it eased the first moments when I saw him, badly sunburned and skinny, heavily muscled and red-eyed from 72 hours of helicopter and airplane travel. And since Michael is not allowed to drink while deployed, the time he’s spent here on leave so far has been a bit of a bender. We wrote a song about it, to the tune of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstitious”: Here comes little brother/He’s a big fat slob/You’re gonna fail this semester/You’re gonna lose your job. It may happen – I’ve faked sick both for classes I teach and for classes I must attend, but how often am I going to have the opportunity for my little brother to visit me on leave from being deployed in Afghanistan? I hope it’s just the one time. He’s been talking about re-enlistment, and at first I thought he couldn’t be serious. But he explained that it’s a practical decision: Currently, Stop Loss is still in effect, but will be phased out completely by 2011. When that happens, it means that after soldiers do their tours of duty, they go home and finish their active duty (a total of three years, in my brother’s case) and then have five years of inactive duty. As long as there is no Stop Loss program in place, that means Michael gets a regular job, maybe starts a family, anything he wants to do. But there’s a chance that Stop Loss could be re-established. At that point, Michael could get deployed back out to Afghanistan, or wherever, and instead of receiving daily training for his job, he would maybe be able to train once a month if he were lucky. The majority of those who are called back in, or stop-lossed, are drawn back into National Guard units, which meet up monthly for training, but they still maintain normal civilian lives. That’s when

guys get killed, he says. When they stop training so rigorously, but they have to go back. This was one of the first things he explained to me, along with some basics on hierarchy and what’s a unit, what’s a battalion, what do you do over there, where do you live, etc. And I don’t know whether stop-loss logic is military spin, trying to get him to re-enlist, or a real risk management strategy, a lesser of two evils. Probably both. He’s out right now with friends of mine, at the bars, determined to be doing something, meeting someone, seeing something, every minute he’s here. He’s practicing the Spanish he’s forgotten in the three years since he majored in it at college, before he dropped out. He’s asking me about German girls, and German guys, and how people meet people, and how they talk to each other. What do they think of American soldiers? What do they think about the war in Afghanistan? It’s so different here, he says. It’s so different there, he says. It’s hard to explain. It’s good to have him in front of me, at least trying to explain. It’s good to have him here.

From: Sgt. Edward J. McCormick Unit: Police Mentor Team "Warrior" Date: Jan. 1, 2007 to Jan. 1, 2008 Location: Zhari District, Khandahar Province, Afghanistan Vespers for Baba And evening growing old, they would leave through the gate. Herded onto an ATV; its diesel incense exhaust gently wafting across the base, they would be huddled together. A flock of men and boys, arms and legs, all piled high atop cardboard and wood-scraps. Foreign hands would search them before leaving; the char-men clutched whatever scraps the alien hands allowed them to carry. Plastic jugs, the colour of tallow, odd pieces of metal used for God knows. Fires stoked from anything combustible would boil the pots in the mud houses of loved ones and keep the earthen walls warm on cold nights. Grazing on fatty sheep and rice, nesting under thick blankets and rugs, families would sleep and eat in their dens. Dismounting at the gate and left to roam the road into Panjwai Bizarre alone, they would traverse one of the most violent places in the world. The doorways, balconies, and shadows would be watching, waiting; the shark’s teeth mountains and mounded fields of grapes would bare witness. The grease stained men and boys, worth their weight in extortion, intimidation, and labor, became commodities worth exploiting, members of a silent horde burdened with the weight of war. Their lives of squalor shadowed the opulence of the forces they would serve. Their hands would seldom carry the protection of a gun, or the promise of reinforcements. And evening growing old, Baba left through the gate, forever. Mealtime was a time of rest. We would gather, wait in line, and then go into the mess tent, holding our plates of food. Inside, tables of deserts, salads and fresh fruit welcomed us. The television sets would have on the evening news, a hockey game. The green canvas tented walls cloaked that khaki scrubby world of Afghanistan, shrouded, save for the char-men. In the mess tent, we could interact with the Pashtuns. We were from the same village then. Our guns and our tanks slumbered. Tariq, wearing western clothes and

speaking broken English, the foreman; he was young, hopeful, smiling. The boys were waifs, urchins, as playful as hard working. And there was Baba, scrubbing, cleaning, in constant toil, a dervish of labor. Baba, with his wizened eyes and long snow colored beard. On his feet a pair of oxfords, made from sawed-off combat boots, coal hued from grease. His body was Merlin-esque, slight, and aged beyond the years. To many on our base he was part of the scenery, ignored as a fixture. To others he was the jolly Maître de. I became friends with him with a simple phrase, “Tsanga Yea Baba?” His eyes would twinkle, his voice come forward, “Shy’am, shy’am! Tse tsanga yea?” After that, he was my friend, guiding me to the cooler that held the coldest water, leading me to the secreted Häagen-Dazs ice cream. He would walk over and clear our table after we were finished eating. “Manana Baba.” and he would reply by placing his hand on his heart in that Pashtun way, where actions speak louder than words. After dinner chores were complete, and the last pot scrubbed, Baba, the other men and boys would leave the gate, their fate unknown until seen at breakfast. Several times Baba or another would not be there and I would be anxious, worried. When I saw them later, I would feel relieved. In Afghanistan any work done for ISAF was punishable by death, no matter how lowly the occupation, garbage men, dishwashers, and septic truck drivers often disappeared, or became spies because of threats on their families. Baba was not at breakfast one day and the boys wore red eyelids. Tariq disrobed his smile. The Canadian cooks draped themselves in anger. Cooks have an ancient chivalric code of honor to protect anyone worthy that works under them. Any being who has ever wielded a pan or spatula is in this invisible brotherhood, and acts as a noble champion. In that strange land of rock and dust, these Knights became powerless. Before dawn, Baba went to mosque in Panjwai Bizarre, an obligation under the five pillars of Islam, which he always kept. As the old man was lying prostrate to Allah, jackals were in the shadows, Kalashnikov fangs shining bright in the twilight of the day’s birth. The jackals struck, leaded teeth tearing through his body. A nearby Afghan Army patrol, hearing the shots, ran to the mosque only to find

Baba’s body outside. The wizened saint had left a trail of his life force, so that all could see the cowardice that lurks in the heart of man; the jackals having feared the wrath of Allah had dragged his body from the mosque. His attackers had fled and disappeared, as jackals do, preying on the weak of the herd, leaving the strong for another day. An old man was one thing and an armed patrol quite another. This is the story of Baba, the story of war, the story of Afghanistan. As armies of technology fight armies of shadows, men and women trying simply to live, often find that they simply cannot, and for them there are no Vespers.

From: Major Eric T. Smith Unit: 1st Brigade 10th MTN, HHC Location: Camp Spann, Northern Afghanistan Dispatch 15: The Long Ride to Pol-e Khomri US forces in Afghanistan have just begun to receive a new vehicle in the past few months, known as the M-ATV. In addition to having the eponymous distinction of embedded acronyms (M-ATV stands for “Mine resistant ambush protected – All Terrain Vehicle”) the M-ATV was also designed specifically for use on the unimproved roads and byways that are the rule in Afghanistan. It’s armored against direct fire, protects against homemade bombs of a variety of types, and has a full set of communications equipment designed specifically to allow every passenger the ability to talk from his seat using the handy vehicle intercom. Unfortunately, the seats are horrendously uncomfortable. Six hours into a nine-hour trip from our camp to the neighboring Hungarian headquarters in Pol-e Khomri, my thoughts were dominated with diabolical plots to track down the engineers who had designed the seats and force them to sit in where I was sitting for hours on end, wearing body armor and all the accoutrements issued to the modern infantryman. Pol-e Khomri (pronounced “Pole-ee-Koamree” or PeK) is the first major town north of the Salang Pass, the network of tunnels and tortuous mountain roads that surmounts the Hindu Kush north of Kabul, and connects the rich northern grasslands of Afghanistan with the arid, rocky south. The “ring road” that circles Afghanistan bisects PeK and serves as its crowded central avenue. The influence of Soviet central planning remains evident in the unusually gridded streets, poured concrete row-houses, and derelict factory complexes. The Hungarian Provincial Reconstruction Team Headquarters sits in a small compound on the north side of the city. Our trip began in the pre-dawn darkness, as we sought to traverse Mazar-i-Sharif before the morning rush hour. We

were travelling in a group of six M-ATVs, each with a growling diesel engine and gunner on the roof, spinning with the turns of the road to look for insurgents and hazards. On the east side of Mazar-i-Sharif the road was fast, and the green fields turned brown while the mountains to our south grew out of the haze. We turned right at Kholm, a small forested city at the river delta where the Samangan River, held captive by the rocky valleys to the south, empties into the flat grasslands and spreads itself into multiple channels, each winding their way to the sluggish Amu Darya that forms Afghanistan’s northern border. Here the road narrowed to a small shelf over the rapids with vertical cliffs on either side. When we emerged, temporarily blinded by the morning light after the shadow in the cleft, the vista made me think of Jurassic Park meets a Thomas Cole painting. Tall cliffs on either side bounded lush green pastures and orchards, where old men with flowing white beards tended the trees and young goatherds chased their gamboling charges. As we drove south, the mountains on either side distanced themselves from the road, leaving a rolling green plain for us to traverse. I felt like I was in Western Nebraska, driving for hours through vast empty spaces. Occasionally we passed old Soviet wreckage on the side of the road; armored vehicles stripped of everything but their steel fuselage. After we passed the third one my gunner made the sentient observation, “We better be careful when we see those old wrecks. If the Russians got jacked up here, it’s probably a good place to jack someone up.” Several kilometers outside of Pol-e Khomri we stopped in a traffic jam. Some American Special Forces, operating with the Afghan Army, were moving into a defensive position on the south side of the road. There was a lot of activity as Soldiers ran back and forth between vehicles, antennas and cables waving from their helmets, directing traffic and signaling to each other. One of the traffic-directors ran up to our vehicle and banged on the driver’s door, so he could brief us on the situation. “Go on through! Keep moving! We’re about to be ambushed!” the American yelled at us.

“Then why are you staying here?” my driver asked. The Soldier shut the door, apparently satisfied that he had conveyed the message, and waved us through. We continued into the city where the small Hungarian headquarters compound was located. A few sharp turns and a serpentine entrance through the front gate and we were there. I practically leaped from the M-ATV, massaging feeling into my legs as I staggered around the parking lot like a tin woodman in need of oil. The Hungarian compound was a busy place, with vehicles large and small from a variety of nations moving back and forth between tents and buildings. We left our body armor in the M-ATVs and went to find the Commander in order to introduce ourselves. He worked in a small, but well-appointed office and was able to impart a great deal of knowledge particular to the area. He was also an amateur historian and treated us to a long dissertation on notable 19th century Hungarian military leaders. We had a long trip ahead of us, so we had to politely excuse ourselves and return to the motorpool. On our way back we ran into the Special Forces unit that we had met out on the road. The expected ambush hadn’t materialized, so they were stopping by to get some fuel and water before heading off with their Afghan counterparts on another mission. To my disappointment, they told us the road was clear and we should have no problems driving back. I was grasping for an excuse not to have to climb back in the M-ATV for another eight hours. The return trip was marked by only a brilliant sunset over the mountains. Like all trips that retrace familiar ground, it seemed to go faster than the first one, and the landmarks, so novel in the morning, were now indicators of our growing proximity to home. What did I learn? Next time I make that ride, I’m bringing a seat cushion.

From: Pfc. Zachary Montgomery Unit: First Battalion, 87th Infantry Date: April 3, 2010 Location: Kyrgyzstan I am still in Kyrgystan. It's been five days. If all goes well we will be leaving tonight. Not to say its been awful or anything, just wish I could be in country by now. Simply put, it is what it is. Here spending my time as become somewhat routine. Nothing I do here is set in stone, yet i pretty much do the same thing every day. Wake up when ever my eyes open, eat chow, smoke a cig, then call home. If i'm in the mood I'll check my email or update one of my pages on my social networking sites (which i hardly ever really update anything since no one ever wants to talk to me - so close friends and family are the only ones i communicate through). Being a cook does have its advatages. For example, I don't eat the dairy nor the seafood since both are PHFs (potentially hazardous foods). I've knocked the soda dow