Now’s your chance to get your own little piece of FOB Bermel and help out a great organization, no not the ETT somebody else!  Read on and you shall see.

Upon my return to the FOB, thus concluding my journey across the Styx; I was greeted by a large brown box containing our unit t-shirts.  We’d ordered these to replace the ghetto unit t-shirts created by infringing upon the Bacardi trademark and a can of black spray paint. Classy is an understatement.

Bacardi you can sue me if you want but you're going to have to get someone to come over here and serve me.  So good luck with that.

Well, the new shirts are HOT and going like gangbusters here!  Not approved by DOD, DA but feared by the ACM.

The design was originally created by SFC Mike “SWEATY” Kennedy, an NCO from the Nevada National Guard.  A great tattoo artist if you ever need a tattoo and are in Reno, NV. 

Vision Strikewear out of Portland, OR took the design and ran with it creating a superb shirt.  Vision is owned by a group of Marines doing their part to class up the war zone and make an honest living.  These boys need no federal bailout money they're working like the highly motivated Devildogs they are and doing it on their own. The result is below:

(Front) "We do bad things to bad people"  That's pretty much the job description

(Back) Oderint dum Metuant "Let them hate as long as the fear"

Here’s the great part! 

Vision has agreed to sell our shirts on their website and donate $5 to Soldiers Angels/ Web of Support for each and every VAMPIRE shirt they sell.  Soldiers Angels/ Web of Support is an outstanding organization supporting deployed troops.  Check out their site at soldiersangels.org to see the great work that they’re doing.

So here comes the close.  Now you can own a T-shirt, designed by a Veteran, made by Veterans and sold to support and organization doing incredible things for Veterans.  You just can’t beat that deal, joint warfare at it's finest! 

Become an honorary VAMPIRE and support the fine organization that support us.  We really appreciate everything they’ve done for us and this is just a small thing we can do to show our gratitude.

Here’s the link:  http://campaigncasuals.com/22ettvartvs.html

Thanks in advance for anything you can do to support this great cause.

If you get a chance please surf over to Bouhammer and check out his post entitled "Friday Night Humor"
 
http://blog.bouhammer.com/?p=2884 

It truly hits the mark and was a superb morale booster for me as I once again journey up the rivers into the heart of darkness known as the rear areas of the War on Terror or what ever the left wingers want us to call it now.   Thanks Troy!

Sorry for the short post and the limited update but I'm getting charged by the minute to use this internet hook-up.  Nothing like having your government let some contractor gouge the hell out of you on your way back to war.

One question though before I go:  How many times must I be searched by the TSA before I'm allowed to go back to Afghanistan and kill Al Qeda?  Seems like a waste of resources.

VAMPIRE 06 OUT!  

De inimico non loquaris male, sed cogites.

She’s sitting there in the corner; we haven’t spoken in about 12 days.  Green eyes leer at me each time I pass by; leering at me with a knowing that I’ll be coming back soon.  Whether I want to or not.  Jealous-no- more a quiet confidence that no matter what in several days I’ll be back.  A subliminal Siren’s Song calling me to return and smash myself against the razor sharp rocks of combat. 

My rucksack. The green illum tape on the frame staring at me from the recess of my garage still covered in Afghan dust.

Her ad hoc family is strung out halfway across the world, due purely to my actions.  An overprotective, if oft described plump sister and hardheaded brother.  My IBA and ACH are stored in a container in Kuwait.  Waiting for that metamorphosis from normal human to combat advisor. 

The final piece of the functionally, dysfunctional family- a short, dark brother prone to loud outbursts- my M4.   Secured in our arms rooms.  The piece de resistance to the transition back.  Kafka would be dismayed that the change is not so sudden but happens over thousands of miles and hours of travel.  More a slow Darwinian de-evolution than a sudden shocking change.

But for right now she sits and waits in the garage.  My own private Durand line, the garage door.  I’ll take stuff out of it and bring it into the house, but not the ruck itself.  As if my failure to bring it in ensures that where it’s been won’t contaminate my home.  Having it here acknowledges that I must go back and ply my trade but not at this moment.

Being home is wonderful , but it’s slowly waning to an end.  The weather here in Northern California has been cold, wet and rainy serving as a perverse amuse bouche to my return. 

Going from a land of peace and plenty, back to Afghanistan; un-peaceful and without doesn’t seem to do it justice.  So much to so little, in so quick a time.

Am I ready to go back?  NO, I would never choose this and yet I did! 

But, as I said before it calls to you.  Only those that have experienced the gentle, syrup like call, know what I’m writing about.  Leaving what you truly love for a scene of anarchy and violence, doesn’t make sense it any rational way.  However, I still go.  Pulled onward not just by duty but desire. 

My friend, Old Blue, told me that Afghanistan would in some way be different upon my return.  I don’t doubt that and anticipate it with hope and dread.  Things will have occurred in my absence and provide proof that no matter how important I believe my actions are; events still proceed without me.

But, for now my ruck stays across our agreed upon line of demarcation; her there and me here.  The line is fragile but it’s there and shall remain.  What is on the far side does not belong here and the transverse is true. 

The day is coming when I will step across the line and begin my evolutionary journey.  Not today though. 

It will wait, sitting, leering and waiting for my predestined return. 

What it does not know is that there is another line farther off on the horizon marking an end to its hold.

  And each day brings it closer.      

While I have the available bandwidth at home I thought I'd take the opportunity to do some housekeeping on the blog.  It takes me on average 45 minutes to open and post in Afghanistan as opposed to 22 seconds being the longest so far at home.  Use it or lose it! 

The new header photo is courtesy of Rafal Gerszak who was embedded with us for several months.  It's the best unit photo that I've ever had taken.   Raff is working on a book documenting the Afghan War from the ground pounders level.  The guys out there getting it done day in and out.  He's also had to tolerate an inordinate amount of flak from Team Vampire, but he put up with it and became one of us.  Additionally, you've seen his work here in Santa Gave Us C4 and Somewhere Over the Ranibow.

Raff is a great photojournalist and he along with Scott Kesterson- who was embedded with us earlier- are guys who get the war and what we're trying to do in Afghanistan.

Scott Kesterson has a new movie out called At War.  I've seen the trailers and if you surf over to Bouhammer he has the links and some interviews with Scott.  I highly recommend going to check it out.  Great work showing what it's like to be involved in war and it's impact.
Scott was with us at the beginning of my tour working on another project which I'm sure will be equal to or greater than his current movie.  Please go check it out as we need to back the guys that back us!!

It's Valentines Day so I'm off to enjoy the day with the HOUSEHOLD 06.

DISCLAIMER:  No Fobbits were harmed during the writing or creation of this post. I would have liked to but they took away my weapons prior to departing.  Thus, much to my not so subtle dismay no Fobbits were injured physically; notice I did not mention emotionally.

I’ve been looking forward to going on leave for quite some time, in fact since the time I was notified of my leave date; I’ve been counting down the days.  The part I’ve been dreading has been the trip between Bermel and arrival at home. 

My dread stems from the sometimes horrific and often epic nature of the stories guys tell upon their return.  The Iliad pales in comparison to some leave stories.  Sorry Homer.  Weeks are the time measure for the actual travel, you can be gone for a month plus.

There are several stages to any leave journey:

Denial-  My trip won’t be as bad as everyone else’s was.  This is the “It won’t happen to me syndrome”.  Quickly dispelled as soon as snow cancels your helicopter (which happened to me) or when the C-17 you’re supposed to depart Afghanistan on belly lands on the runway with no landing gear (also happened to me) luckily no one was hurt.

(Thanks to The Duke for letting me know where I could find the picture of my original ride home)

Resignation-  This is as bad as I thought it would be and worse.  I’m surrounded by idiots and they control both the vertical and horizontal.  This sets in after I’ve manifested for the same flight six times; four days in a row.  I’m now an expert at the waiting game and fully tabbed out in the grab your armor and run to the gate to be told to return at a later time.  At this later time no one will be there and anyone I ask questions of will stare at me like I just asked my Labrador what the square root of a billion is.

Acceptance-  There is nothing I can do, however the ACM will pay for this upon my return.  I can’t do anything to these idiots but I can exact some form of revenge on the Taliban when I get back; if I ever get back.  I reach this point about the time I’m sleeping on a plywood floor in Kuwait, with the Superbowl blaring in the background and having a panic attack because I can’t find my weapon.   My weapon as I stated in the disclaimer has been secured for others safety in the arms room at Bermel. 

My leave travels were much like getting a tattoo.  I know that I’m going to be happy with the design and colors after but as soon as the needle bites I know it’s going to be long; painful and out of my control.  Once it starts you’re committed.  Yes, permanent scarring occurs in both instances.

Here’s are a snippet from my trip into the heart of darkness;

Setting:  Bagram home to thousands of Fobbits.  I’m walking to the chow hall-yes I still call it that- during darkness.  I’m squeezing between several plywood B Huts on my way to the divine grounds of hot chow. I’m lost when suddenly Bob the MP Fobbit stops me.

“Hey, where’s your road guard belt”?  He confronts me in that arrogant, you stupid ass tone, they use.

  A road guard belt is a belt made of reflective material which you wear while running so you don’t get hit by a vehicle.  From the look of Bob he hasn’t ever used his belt during PT hours but he can probably tell me where the chow hall is.

“ What”?  I respond in and exasperated manner.  I have limited time to get some chow and get back before the time my plane is rumored to leave.  This rumor will later morph into a lie on the part of the terminal personnel.

“Your road guard belt, you’re required to wear one during hours of limited visibility regardless of uniform”.  He tells me this in a way that leads me to believe he thinks I’m an idiot.

Currently, my uniform consists of the same ACUs I’ve been wearing for the last seven days, my IBA and my ACH helmet.

“Where’s your belt”? Bob asks again.  I’m considering asking him if he has a brother;  a Chief named Retard working at another FOB.

“Obviously, I don’t have one or you wouldn’t be asking me where it is.  I’m from a remote FOB and I didn’t bring one.  Where I’m from we try really hard to have people not see us”!   This seems like a darn fine answer to me and makes obvious sense.  I start to move out smartly toward what I think is the Fobbit feeding grounds.

“Well, you’re going to have to get a ticket then”.  Bob informs me.  Evidently, a violation of Supreme Fobbit Directive #1 results in a $35 ticket.

“You’re kidding right”.  My leave hasn’t even begun and I’m $35 bucks in the hole.  Heck, I haven’t even made it out of Afghanistan.  My wife is going to love this, I blew $35 dollars because I don’t have a reflective belt in a war zone.

“No, I’m going to issue you a citation for not being properly marked during hours of limited visibility”.  I keep wondering why Bob can’t just say dark.  I guess the other sounds more dangerous.

I’m deeply perplexed at this point.  I have no road guard belt which means I may get run over by a vehicle, but I’m standing between two buildings where Bob and I could barely pass each other.  Mostly because Bob’s refusal to use his road guard belt during PT hours.

“So, I have to be properly marked”?  I ask; as I take of my helmet and tuck it under my arm.  Visions of beating Bob with it are creeping in.

“Yes”!  Bob replies self-satisfied. 

Finally, this dumb ass war fighter gets the shear danger he’s placed himself in by moving about the FOB without a reflective belt. I should get a Silver Star just for saving this guy from himself, he seems to be thinking to himself.

“Oh, OK, cool”. I say as I notice the infrared(IR) strobe I’ve attached to the back of my helmet.  An IR strobe is used by us to mark our positions to aircraft at night (hours of limited visibility) preventing us from being torn to shreds by a JDAM or depleted uranium shells.  Not as dangerous as Bagram.  There’s shield on it that you can slide back and it turns into a visible strobe.  Something out of a disco!

I slide the shield back and turn on the strobe.

“What the hell is that”?  Bob asks clearly fascinated by the now bright flashing light.

“It’s my proper marking, can you tell me which way the chowhall is”?  I respond.  Overjoyed in my ingenious ability to scam the man.

“But you don’t have belt”.  He pleads

“True, but I’m marked; which is what you stated to me I needed’.  I’m now starting to wonder if maybe Bob is just trying to keep me from getting to the chowhall because he’s afraid they may run out.

“Later” I say as I move out smartly toward a chowhall I’ve got no idea about.

That just a little glimpse into my little journey; the nonsense and pain endured just to get home.  This next one is purely self inflicted.

I arrive in Kuwait at about 3AM.  We pile out of the bus and stand in a windswept open area as a Specialist briefs us about the procedures here in Ali.  I’m still basking in the pure cunning I used to outsmart Bob back at Bagram. 

Then I hear a magic word a whisper of democracy and true American power known throughout the world.  Proof that we’re the only remaining superpower a hegemony of greatness and invincibility.  A word not torn asunder by the Soviets, Saddam or Al Qeda.

McDONALDS!

As soon as the briefing breaks up I take off at the double time.  I’m running like the wind, falling over tent tie downs and rocks.  I look like Jeffy the Special Olympics sprinter unleashed.  I know that’s not politically correct but for God sake it’s illustrates the point and I get paid to kill people who don’t look like me so how correct can I be.  Stumbling and huffing I reach the Golden Arches, basking in their heavenly glow. 

Two Big Macs and fires please, I order in a reverence reserved for buying a Ferrari or house.  My slobber would make Pavlov proud.

And then they are delivered unto me and I devour them.  Breathing infrequently and in gasps I finish them.  God has blessed me and shone his face upon me!!  Amen!

Now, let me backtrack a little.  I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t issued to me by the US Army in four months and I just consumed enough fat, grease and carbs to support the entire village of Bermel for roughly two weeks. 

About an hour later it begins.  A hushed rumble, building to a cramping pain that to me verges on labor pains.  It’s good thing that women give birth because if it was up to me I’d never go through this again and the world’s population would greatly attenuated.

But it keeps coming and I begin my search for the latrine.  What is commonly called the clench and scurry.  The half bent over run of the panic stricken.  Pleadingly searching, I see it about 500 meters away.  It might as well be the NYC marathon.  Oh so far, can I make it?  God please let me make it!  I will be a better person if you let me make it, I swear no more Jeffy jokes! 

I go, reduced to a lumbering ape.  Pausing every few meters, pleading.  It’s a long journey and I swear that at one point my life flashed in front of me; it did.

I reach the sanctuary of the latrine, but the first door is locked, the second, and the third the same.  Oh how I’ve sinned and punishment is swift.  I look at see another latrine about 300 meters away, the face of the moon.

The fourth door.  I reach out, full of hopes and prayers.  A life so full of promise about to be decimated by two Big Macs.

But it’s open and I quickly initiate the butt claymore.  Saved!  Thank you God, I really didn’t mean the Jeffey thing.

Thus are my journeys in the Land That War Forgot.  I’ve finally reached home and it truly is glorious to be here, worth every ounce of pain and suffering to get here, seeing my wife and our home.  I know this is a crappy conclusion but it’s now dinner time and a beautiful women and a beer are calling my name. 

Yes, I am still alive!  There's been quite a long delay in posts and that's due to my soul sucking journey back to the United States of America.  It's great to be back in the US it's that getting here can crush your will to live.

I'm working on some posts, seeing my wife, drinking a beer and eating food that didn't come out of a cardboard box have taken priority over writing blogs posts. 

I'm also trying to convince myself that the kids running up and down my street are not reconing my house for a possible IED or rocket attack. 

In attempting to formulate my ideas about my journey into a coherent post; truth is stranger than fiction comes to mind.  Conrad's Heart of Darkness is a good base to start from, so that's what I think I'll use. 

So; I just wanted to give you a SITREP and let you know that I'm alive and kicking and will be back up on the net soon.

Damn, there goes that kid again up the street.  He looks kind of fishy, may have to plan a Cordon and Search of the playground!

Dear, President Obama

I know that you just took office about 48 hours ago and you’ve got a lot on your plate; but I thought I’d provide you with a small letter for SA, situational awareness.  I’m sure that GEN Petraus will provide one for you also; but mine comes from the trenches of the War On Terror.  My team is out here every day making sure that the policies you set forth get carried out; so we see the impact, successes and failures first hand.

First, let me describe the current situation from my fighting position.  It’s not great.  Currently we’re chasing the wrong thing, that being enemy forces.  They can always recruit more people, we need to attack the motivations to join the enemy.  Eliminate the supply.  

Predators, ROVER and other implements that we’ve paid billions for are most often used to second guess the guys on the ground and tell them that they’re not seeing what they’re seeing.  If this seems convoluted it is!  It boils down to this, you’re getting shot at and some dude a long way off is telling you you’re not and that by the way you better not shoot back at the enemy. 

Logistics suck!  No if, and or buts about it.  This is day 26 for this team without mail.  This is a lot different then you’ll see at the big FOBs where there’s ubiquitous ice cream, coffee and hot chow, and totally different than Iraq.  They throw away more than we eat.  I haven’t seen a PX in three months and I just ran out of deodorant and soap today, my wife mailed some to me in the middle of December but haven’t seen it yet.   As they say, “Amateurs talk tactics, professionals talk logistics”. 

There are some great American Warriors here doing their darn best to win the war, but the higher ups are too afraid; so they won’t let them off the FOB to do the work that needs to be done.  They track things like how many rounds we expended and what patch you’re wearing on your ACUs instead of issues like how many feet of road or the number of schools built. 

So now that I’ve painted a little picture of what it looks like, let me indulge myself and highlight a couple of things I think we could do to close the deal.

Roads, we need more of them.  A lot more!  This is the cornerstone to building Afghanistan and the government. The Romans were successful not because of military technology, it helped, but because they built an extensive road network.  Many of which still exist today and are in better shape than roads in Afghanistan.

Without roads the Afghans don’t really need a centralized government.  That’s a broad statement but I’ll qualify it here in a minute.  The tribe pretty much provides what they need.  The tribe protects them, settles disputes and enforces laws.  They’re more than capable of doing this and have been for the last several centuries.  They fulfill the basic governmental requirements common defense, law and order. 

The tribes though can’t build and maintain roads.  Now, you need a centralized government to construct, maintain and protect the roads.  You get an influx of money as people work on the roads and they quit getting paid to blow us up and it stimulates a demand for goods and services. 

With the road comes inter-province commerce for which you need regulation by a central government; a function a tribe can’t accomplish.  Sounds kind of like a little situation we had around 1776.  The road brings money, communication and progress.  You cut the link between Pakistan and the tribal regions because it’s now easier to travel to the interior of Afghanistan to get medical treatment, goods, services the whole lot.

So with a simple road we’ve now created an environment friendly to the support of the Afghan central government.  That doesn’t exist now.  It’s a lot easier to explain to the Afghans that the Army and police protect the roads and regulate commerce.  Additionally taking the, “this is a war on Islam” factor out of the situation. 

We’re making sure people can conduct trade and are free to travel as they wish.  Sounds like freedom. 

Democracy and liberty are damn hard concept to explain to someone who doesn’t see any benefit from the government in Kabul.  So what if I elect the guy if he does nothing for me?  The population earns money and then we explain that the government will protect their continued ability to do so and that’s a discussion someone understands.

Next we need education.  Only about 10% of the Afghans are literate.  This means that 90% of knowledge and news is spread through verbal means.  Thus, you’re at the whim of whoever is telling you the information.  You get the info with the bias and slant of the communicator, no real way to get an independent source.

If we start educating people they can form their own opinions.  Once again this sounds a lot like freedom to me.  But, I’m just a dumb ground pounder. 

We open up a whole new world to people if they can read and write.  The Taliban has the corner on the market for information; they tell the locals what they want.  We don’t even participate in the information operations fight.  We’ve put in radio stations but that’s a small step, they need to be able to read and write for themselves.   

Finally, start letting us make decisions at the tactical level.  That doesn’t mean we go out and start shooting everyone.  It means we go out with our Afghan brothers and protect roads, trade and schools.  We help them enforce the laws that have come with the roads.  It’s damn hard to do that sitting on a FOB or only going out to attack people.  Quit rewarding commanders who only think they’re killing enemy.  No one ever won an insurgency by killing insurgents.  Instead reward those guys making a real long term impact and get the counter-insurgency fight. 

Also, force the Afghan government to start taking the lead.  Make them build roads outside the major cities and quit letting them do nothing while we shovel money into this country to no avail.  Make the government a meritocracy instead of a means of rewarding tribal loyalty, this goes for the Army and police too.  As long as these guys just enrich themselves nothing is going to happen and the people will become more pessimistic forcing them back to the tribe that looks out for their welfare.

So Mr President just a few thoughts from the trenchline.  You probably won’t hear any of this from the higher ups.  They’ll tell you we need more combat troops, but we can’t even support the ones we already have here.  They should tell you to send engineers and logisticians, but that’s not too sexy.

Very Respectfully,

VAMPIRE 06      

 

“Oh yes; faster, harder” she says to me in a low sultry voice.  A whisper.

“Yeah; faster, harder” another feminine voice chimes.   Inviting, sexy.

This is getting interesting now. I’m starting to sweat and my breathing is getting heavier.

The siren song continues.  “Oh God, don’t stop, faster, harder; I love it” a totally different voice this time.  Insistent more commanding than pleading.

Wow, three women at one time!  But, now the beautiful siren song has risen to a much higher level and the pleasant overtone is being shed for something along the lines of demanding.  More caustic and sarcasm laden. 

“Go faster or I’ll make you pay”.  The second one tells me in a more assertive manner.

My breathing is labored and I’m sweating profusely.  The enjoyment I was once having is slowly slipping away; being replaced by a sense of dread and concern.  Three may be too many, more than I originally thought I could handle.

“I’ll have my Dad fire you if you don’t go faster and harder” the first one a stately blond threatens.  Hey, is that Ivanka Trump?

“I can go faster than you” the dark haired second siren proclaims, she looks an awful lot like Danica Patrick.  She seems to be the ring leader.

The pace, tempo and sound has risen to a cacophony of yells, now berating me.  I’m gasping for breath and covered in sweat.  I think I’ve over estimated my capacity.

“Oh YES, almost there DO NOT stop” the final one screams this one looks like a Victoria Secrets model.

 …and the elliptical trainer beeps signaling the end of the workout.  Not exactly where you thought this post was going is it?  You should be ashamed or here in Afghanistan, either one will suffice.

I’m currently in our workout room here at the FOB, leaning against the front of the elliptical trainer trying to look cool and not vomit up my internal organs. It’s imperative in the Army to look cool no matter what you’re doing or how stupid it may make you look.   My encouragement for the workout comes from the pictures adorning the walls and probably the anti-malarial drugs I’ve been given. 

Scavenged copies of Maxim, SI, FHM, Jet and others provide the scenery in the plywood hut housing our aerobics equipment.  Pictures snipped from the pages and placed here by the soldiers of the FOB.  It’s insight into the psyche of the soldiers here, better than a dating survey, as to what they like in women.  All types of women are represented here.  This is true democracy in action, anyone can vote as long as they have a staple gun.

By the way none of them are nude as we’re forbidden by regulation from displaying those type images.  Not out of any fear of harassment suits; hostile workplace takes on new meaning here; but so as not to offend the Afghans.  It’s OK to shoot at people here but not display naked pictures.   I’m unclear which is more offensive being shot at or seeing women??   

I was reading through my blog the other day and came away with an interesting impression.  Combat and Afghanistan sounds really cool and exciting.  After reading I was thinking,” Dude; this is cool I want to be there” and then I realized I was there.  It’s just not that cool and exciting.  95% of the time it’s pretty monotonous.

Much of my time gets spent on the mundane, trivial and downright boring.   Such as working out. So we come up with ways to negate the feeling that our will to live is being slowly drained from our bodies.  Thus, I now have Ivanka Trump, Danica Patrick and Victoria Secrets models as workout partners.  By the by they’re not as nice as they seem, they regularly scream obscenities and call me weak.

An example, cleaning weapons.  This gets done multiple times a week.  During the last session MSG Famine, several other Vampires and myself launch into a spirited debate about whether or not you’d want to date Daphne or Velma from Scooby Doo.  After much spirited debate Velma seemed to be the popular consensus as we think Daphne is way too high maintenance.

Here’s another one for you; demonstrating our willingness to go to any length to break up our monotony.  We get Armed Forces Network here consisting of 12 channels of mostly crap movies and shows that aired several years ago in the US. 

The commercials are all public service announcements.  If you watch AFN for any extended period of time you’ll be left with the overall impression that all soldiers drink too much, beat their wives and gamble away all their money.  All you previously deployed personnel know what I’m talking about. 

After watching this stuff for a while I became deeply concerned that my drinking was getting out of control and that I might hit my wife.  What should I do?  What the…?  I can’t even drink here and my wife is thousands of miles away.  This tripe is rotting my mind!

MSG Famine and I launch a secretive and poorly thought out plan to get Indian Satellite TV.  120 channels of pure bliss and entertainment.   It’s exactly what it sounds like, SAT TV broadcast out of India.

So; we work a dope deal to get this hooked up only to discover that 3/4s of the channels are in languages we don’t even speak.  We are soooooooo smart!    Never fear as my guys have demonstrated the ability to watch MTV in Urdu and enjoy it. 

Notice nowhere in this post did I mention reading or getting mail as we still don’t.  The last time we saw mail was on 26 DEC.  So that is out as an option for the use of our time.  I’ll be adding as a regular feature of Afghanistan Shrugged a ticker on the number of days we’ve gone without mail; until the Army figures out how to get us our mail.  Current count is 24 days!

 This in all actuality are our lives as a deployed American Warrior.  Spending vast amounts of our time being bored and inventing things to do with our time.  Some of the readers of this blog have sons stationed here with me and I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of boredom.   This isn’t Rambo and I’d like to say that we’ve developed through much thought and calculation cleaner nuclear power.  But we haven’t.   Just decided that we’d rather date Velma and that music videos in Urdu are still pretty entertaining.    

Oh yeah, I know Danica Patrick hates me, I can tell by the sound in her voice.  I’m gonna have to get new workout partners, three women is way too many.  Anybody got a picture of Bea Arthur from the Golden Girls??

Ever seen what it’s like when a child gets their first...

winter coat?

taste of chocolate?

coloring book?

      I have. 

A child whose been exposed to rockets, artillery, gunfights and IEDs.  Little girls who have violence visited upon them by their own families and neighbors for the crime of going to school or learning to read.  Small boys who in very short years are recruited by the ACM to carry Kalashnikovs and launch suicide attacks; not valued as people but as tools of warfare.

Children here aren’t treated much different than adults.  I’m not talking about how they’re treated by the CF, this is their own countrymen.  Much of the time it’s not a pretty picture, but every once and a while there’s a ray of sunshine and an opportunity to just be a kid.

To see wonder and amazement in their eyes...

To explain that a packet of hot chocolate their tasting was sent by an American child half a world away...

This day was a ray of sunshine. 

This day we all won one.

This day is what I replace my memories of the artillery, rockets, gunfights and IEDs with. 

This day WE all get to be kids, together.

Enough said

I wanted to take an opportunity to showcase two other great blogs out there having to do with the war in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Many people email or comment that the MSM fails to paint an accurate picture of the situations on the ground in both theaters.

Having now served here I can tell you that my operating picture prior to arriving here, generated mostly by the MSM, was significantly skewed.  These guys paint a picture of what it’s like to be a soldier on the ground and they have some great writing.

The first is “The War on Big Tobbaco” www.sargeasmic.com style="">  .  A superb writer with insight into the mundane, neurotic and hilarious that makes the Army the dysfunctional organization that we all know and love.  He’s located in Iraq at an undisclosed location, banished to a circle of Dante’s Inferno.  I say this as he’s an Infantryman sentenced to serve on a FOB, which after reading his posts you’ll understand his frustration and at times often tenuous grip on sanity.

Additionally, he’s nominated for best military blog; so he needs support to win and thus unchain his wit and wisdom on the greater world.  I’ll caution those that are sensitive to language and some humor.  As it says on the sign at the Ranger Training Brigade; “Not for the faint of heart”. Check him out and go vote for him, he’s served his time in hell so we should reward him for his superb writing and insight.  You’ll laugh and cringe, and you won’t be disappointed. 

The second blog is “Free Range International” blog.freerangeinternational.com/ a great blog written by a security contractor with extensive experience here in Afghanistan.  Somebody snaked his body armor so he could use some help getting some more; check his blog and you’ll see what I’m talking about.  He’s got some great insight into the COIN fight and possible solutions.  I’ve enjoyed his take on the issues and he researches much better than me, most of my stuff is just spouting off about my opinions.

Check these two guys out and make sure to vote for Big Tobbaco in the blog awards.  You can vote once every 24 hours.