Things I Won’t Miss

On the flip side (this is continued from yesterday, remember?), you’ve got the less desirable aspects of deploying into a combat zone.  There are certain things you accept when heading downrange.  When you volunteer to deploy, you know (or should know) it’s not going to be like your typical week-long TAD trip in a Doubletree Hotel on Uncle Sugar’s nickel.  There’s no maid to clean up after you and leave a mint on your pillow.  So you man up, shut up and deal with it.  While I freely accept the degradations to my quality of life, it doesn’t mean I have to like them.  Or bear my burdens meekly and in silence.

I won’t miss:

• Separation from family and friends
• Food that tastes like ass
• Long hours with no days off (177 straight work days as I write this)
• Oppressive heat
• Toxic dust blown into my every nook and cranny by high-velocity winds
• Overpriced and unreliable Internet
• The dicks upstairs with their inflated sense of self-importance
• Interminable conference calls with long-winded nimrods at Tampa
• Barbers whose repertoire begins and ends at “high-and-tight”
• G.O.-1
• No beer
• Body armor
• The pervasive smell of sewage
• Getting rousted out of bed in the wee hours to fix the chiller at the data center
• Rocket attacks
• Wondering if the Hajji who scoops my ice cream by day spends his nights hosing off rockets in our general direction
• 40-grit toilet paper
• Cheap mattresses
• Punching in a cipher code or combination to open any door (including the laundry room)
• Living in a tent
• Eating with plastic utensils off a cardboard tray
• Man-Love-Thursday jokes
• Pairs of F-16 taking off at full burner at 2AM
• Duck Butter
• Standing in line for 20 minutes at the DFAC on Soul Food Sunday or Surf ‘n’ Turf night
• Overcooked meat, pasta and veggies (okay, they overcook everything but the tubs of Baskin-Robbins)
• Did I mention “no beer?”
• The overtime

Things I’ll Miss

As I wrap up my time here and prepare to start the long journey back to civilization, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to reflect back on my six months downrange.  There are clearly some things I won’t miss, and others I will.  So, in a move reminiscent of amazon.com’s “Listmania,” this post and several that follow will features lists of my favorite … and not-so-favorite … things (cue Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music).

Let’s lead off on a positive note with the more enjoyable aspects of this deployment.

I’ll miss:

• My team and the camaraderie
• The mission
• The sense of accomplishment
• The 90-second door-to-door commute (yes, I clocked it)
• My daily MOAC
• Being a hero in the office when a box full of cookies arrives
• Hajji pizza
• Saturday night Herfs
• Writing this blog
• Asking Hajji for extra bacon at breakfast
• www.ilovebagram.com
• The overtime

More Random Thoughts

Today is Day 176 of my deployment.  Amazing … I still remember my arrival in the AOR so vividly, even though I was dealing with the double whammy of jet lag and sleep deprivation.  And now, here I am, five days from popping smoke.  Now, rather than dealing with jet lag and sleep deprivation, I’m just feeling a bit spaced and worn out.  And that’s a dangerous time for me, that’s when I do my worst stream-of-consciousness rambling.  For example …

Saturday morning (in the wee hours), we had another IDF attack.  I don’t know how many rockets hit, or where they impacted.  I only know that our NCO came banging on my door around 2:30 AM to ensure we had 100% accountability of all personnel.  I eventually woke up, answered the door, grunted in his general direction, then promptly went back to sleep.  Then I woke up thinking … what if that was the last rocket attack during my deployment, and I SLEPT THROUGH IT!!!

To do a 180, from light-hearted to dead serious, we were all devastated here by the loss of a Chinook helo loaded to the gills with SEALs.  Thirty of America’s finest youth, snuffed out with a single RPG shot.  I briefly wondered why I didn’t go into one of my signature f-bombing rants at tragic loss of life.  But the reality is, this is war, and young men and women will die.  That’s what war is all about.  Sad, but not unexpected.

My rants, on the other hand, have been triggered by stupid stuff back home.  Judges out of touch with reality, or religious “leaders” who pervert their faith with hate.  In retrospect, my episodes of righteous anger on the job have been inspired by stupid or negligent stunts in Tampa or DC.  This tour has made me much less tolerant of people who, through stupidity or malice, impede the mission.  My attitude towards slackers may make for a bit of a rough landing back inside the Beltway.  Only time will tell.

More to follow …

Wrapping Up

So here I am, six days away from flying out, and I'm starting to feel a bit of separation anxiety.  Yeah, really.  I dearly want to head home, but I also realize I'll miss the mission here, and the jokers who work with me.  I've started my emotional separation ... been a little quieter than usual, except when some bureaucratic hump ticks me off and I go on a tirade.  Last week was a banner week for people making ill-informed, unprofessional remarks and decisions and incurring my wrath.  Maybe I'm getting just a little bit touchy, a little less tolerant than usual.  And, given my impending departure, getting a little more protective of my troops.

Who, by the way, have been working their tails off to fix some system crashes in the AOR.  I brow-beat Carmelita not to go back into the office, but to head to her room and decompress.  Her idea of decompressing is cleaning.  I just heard her next door, singing a Mexican folk tune as she banged around the hooch.  I never knew mopping could be so noisy.  But her singing was soothing, as it wafted through the thin walls of these cans we call home.

Time to post this and get back to sorting clothes ... what to pack for shipping, what to carry back on vacation.  I've procrastinated long enough, I'll soon be hating life as I stand in line at the post office.

Good night, gentle readers.

The Shoe’s on the Other Foot

Over the past few days, I’ve gleefully made disparaging remarks about my contempt for certain aspects of Afghan culture, most of which revolve around treating their women-folk like crap.  And I stand by those remarks.

But, as I’ve observed over the past few months here, we’re not blameless either.  We have some seriously screwed-up practices and policies that, at the very least, undercut our efforts at winning the hearts and minds.

Take, for instance, our efforts to protect and reward those Afghanis who work with us in what is, for them, an extremely hostile environment.  They work on base, they serve as interpreters and translators, and a provide host of other functions.  We offer to help some of them get visas to migrate to the States.  And then we drop the ball.

I shuttled around with Doug, my sergeant major, as he tried to track down a visa package for one such individual.  Educated, supportive of the cause, working with our troops for years.  His visa package has been  in the works for five years.  Yes, five years.  It gets so far, then we do the annual RIP/TOA (Relief In Place/Transfer Of Authority) and the paperwork gets misplaced.  So it starts again.  Lucky for him that Doug has been here for years and is able to follow up.  He’s still working as a translator, still keeping the faith, despite our best efforts to make him throw his hands up in frustration.

Okay, I’m off the soapbox.

At breakfast this morning, while working on a Ramadan-wich (bacon and ham muffin breakfast sandwich), I began to feel like I was trapped in a Family Guy episode.  Two of our youngsters were arguing about which sexy female cartoon character would win a mud wrestling match.  After much debate, they settled on She-Ra, Princess of Power (and sister to He-Man), as the presumptive champion mud-wrestler.  The things we do for entertainment here …

As I sit here writing this post, gentle readers, you should know that I have ten days left in country.  TEN!  Then on to Qatar for out-processing, then vacation, then home.  But fear not, I’ll keep writing through the end of my reintegration process back home.