Journal Entry Sun 6 Feb 2011
It’s official…RCT-8 is in the driver’s seat. As of 0001 (one minute past midnight) we own battlespace in Northern Helmand and Nimroz provinces. This morning we were part of an official ceremony that gave us that authority. It’s more symbolic than anything else. High ranking officials from the coalition forces and the Afghan National Army watched as Marines representing both RCT-8 and RCT-2 stood in formation. They watched as the Commanding Officer of RCT-2 furled and cased RCT-2’s guidon and battle streamers. This simple act closed another historical chapter in this war on terrorism. RCT-2 had completed a successful tour of duty in Afghanistan. They deployed over a year ago on only a few week’s notice. They partnered with an Afghan brigade that didn’t even exist before their arrival. They built FOB Delaram II from nothing. They constructed an airstrip capable of landing cargo planes. Most importantly they took the fight to the enemy. They hunted down the Taliban and struck fear in the heart of the insurgency. All the while, they won the trust of their ANA brothers and endeared themselves to the population. They did everything a unit has to do when fighting a counter insurgency.
Now, they’ll dust each other off, heal their wounds, put on their best smiles, and head home to their loved ones. They will do so proudly for their job is done here. Back home their families will hang banners, fly flags, and wait with open arms. The band will greet them as they step off the busses and finally they will be reunited. Sadly, there will be some there who will not have a Marine to welcome home. For some there will only be the memories of the person they said goodbye to. For them, the unit’s homecoming is a means of closure, an opportunity to meet Marines who fought with their son, husband, or father, and held their hand as they breathed their last breath.
The homecoming is a time of celebration and healing. Families and individuals are made whole again. It is a time to look back on accomplishments, a time to catch up on all the milestones, a time to hold the ones you love. It’s hard to explain it to someone who has never sent a loved one off to war or never said goodbye to their family not knowing if it would be the last. It is a wonderful feeling. RCT-2 will know that feeling. Relish in it my brothers, you deserve it.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Happy Birthday, Cami Girl!
Journal Entry Wednesday 2 Feb 2011
Today is my princess’ birthday. She turned seven today and unfortunately, I couldn’t celebrate it with her. She was six years old when I left on this deployment and there’s a good chance that she will be eight by the time I return. That kind of puts the whole timeline in perspective. A year plus is a really long time. I called her this morning, her time, and sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She sounded so happy to hear from me that it just melted my heart. She has had a way of doing that to me since she was born. Teresa will tell you that she has me wrapped around her tiny little finger and it is absolutely true. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her happy. I think a lot of that stems from the fact that I was gone for most of the first two years of her life. Camilla Marie was born on 2 February 2004 at the Naval Hospital aboard Camp Lejeune, NC. At the time I was the Company Commander, Weapons Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. The Battalion had been on air alert since December. Air alert normally does not amount to much more than being restricted to base so that the unit can be ready to respond to world crisis within a matter of hours.
The last three months of Teresa’s pregnancy were for the most part not unlike the three previous ones. She had morning sickness pretty bad for most of it just as she had with the others. The singular difference with this one was that we found out we were having a baby girl. Teresa so wanted a girl and admittedly so did I. Not that we don’t love our three boys just as much, but it’s just that Teresa wanted someone she could dress up, take shopping, and share girl time with. Let’s face it, none of my boys would look good in a dress. Of course when Teresa found out she was pregnant back in June of 2003, she thought for sure she’d be having another boy. That’s just the way the odds were leaning. We found out via home pregnancy test right before I deployed to South Korea. Needless to say I was ecstatic and I thought maybe just maybe we would get our girl.
So as I mentioned, Cami came into our lives in early February 2004. She was a perfect little angel and she was ours. All I wanted to do was hold her and let her know how much I loved her. I looked forward to watching her discover this world she had just come into over the next few months. Unfortunately, I would not get the opportunity. Three weeks after she was born I was on a plane bound for Haiti. The night that I packed my things and left for the airfield at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, I gave Teresa a hug and kiss and told her I would be back in two weeks. Two weeks slowly turned into five months. By the time I saw Cami girl again she was six months old, bright eyed and babbling already. Five months after coming home from Haiti, I left for Iraq and was gone for eight more months. I guess you could say I’m still trying to make up for lost time. Happy Birthday, Princess.
Today is my princess’ birthday. She turned seven today and unfortunately, I couldn’t celebrate it with her. She was six years old when I left on this deployment and there’s a good chance that she will be eight by the time I return. That kind of puts the whole timeline in perspective. A year plus is a really long time. I called her this morning, her time, and sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She sounded so happy to hear from me that it just melted my heart. She has had a way of doing that to me since she was born. Teresa will tell you that she has me wrapped around her tiny little finger and it is absolutely true. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her happy. I think a lot of that stems from the fact that I was gone for most of the first two years of her life. Camilla Marie was born on 2 February 2004 at the Naval Hospital aboard Camp Lejeune, NC. At the time I was the Company Commander, Weapons Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. The Battalion had been on air alert since December. Air alert normally does not amount to much more than being restricted to base so that the unit can be ready to respond to world crisis within a matter of hours.
The last three months of Teresa’s pregnancy were for the most part not unlike the three previous ones. She had morning sickness pretty bad for most of it just as she had with the others. The singular difference with this one was that we found out we were having a baby girl. Teresa so wanted a girl and admittedly so did I. Not that we don’t love our three boys just as much, but it’s just that Teresa wanted someone she could dress up, take shopping, and share girl time with. Let’s face it, none of my boys would look good in a dress. Of course when Teresa found out she was pregnant back in June of 2003, she thought for sure she’d be having another boy. That’s just the way the odds were leaning. We found out via home pregnancy test right before I deployed to South Korea. Needless to say I was ecstatic and I thought maybe just maybe we would get our girl.
So as I mentioned, Cami came into our lives in early February 2004. She was a perfect little angel and she was ours. All I wanted to do was hold her and let her know how much I loved her. I looked forward to watching her discover this world she had just come into over the next few months. Unfortunately, I would not get the opportunity. Three weeks after she was born I was on a plane bound for Haiti. The night that I packed my things and left for the airfield at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, I gave Teresa a hug and kiss and told her I would be back in two weeks. Two weeks slowly turned into five months. By the time I saw Cami girl again she was six months old, bright eyed and babbling already. Five months after coming home from Haiti, I left for Iraq and was gone for eight more months. I guess you could say I’m still trying to make up for lost time. Happy Birthday, Princess.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
Journal Entry Sun 30 Jan 2011
Teresa started a blog when I left for much the same reason as I’ve been keeping this journal. It’s a means for her to reconcile her feelings and share her thoughts on this deployment. She’s not looking for pity, encouragement, or debate; she’s merely putting herself out there on the web for people to follow and enjoy. I have to admit that she is pretty damn witty at times. For the most part, her blogs are pretty light hearted and funny, not the somber, depressing entries you see in similar blogs. In one of her recent blogs she included her thoughts on deployment countdowns. I myself try not countdown; A) I’m too busy to keep track of the days, and B) it’s just too depressing, particularly when you’re still in the 300’s. But, when I was reading this particular blog, I looked up at her countdown and thought, “Holy crap! It’s been 20 days already!”
Admittedly, I have found myself counting Sundays. I look forward to Sundays for a couple of reasons, most importantly because I know I will be Skyping with my family the next day. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this previously, but I cherish my weekly Skyping sessions with Teresa and the kids. Because the internet café is only open from 8am-8pm, we’ve figured out that the best time for us to get together over the web is in the morning (their time) while the kids are getting ready for school. I get to catch up on the previous week’s activities as well as see all their smiling faces. So while none of that occurs on Sunday, it gives me something to think about all day.
Another thing I enjoy about Sunday is that we don’t have to be in to work until noon or so. I have the whole morning to myself, to sleep in a little bit, get some PT in, do some laundry, and get a haircut. Finally Sunday is my day to indulge myself at the chow hall. We call it “Fatterday.” All week long I am careful about what I eat. The food here is such abundance and good quality that you could literally eat yourself onto the reality show, “Biggest Loser.” So after a week of skimping and watching fat grams, I treat myself to biscuits and gravy, hamburgers and fries, and a nice big bowl of ice cream (sometimes two).
This is how we mark the passing of a week in Afghanistan. Outside of Sundays every day is just like the last. We have nothing to differentiate one day from the next. I get up at 6 am, do some form of PT, eat chow, work all morning, eat noon chow, work all afternoon, go to evening chow, work until 11 pm or so, go to bed, get up at 6am and do it all over again. Some days are better than others. Some days the enemy makes Marines into heroes; some days the Marines make the enemy into martyrs. Either way, and not to sound callous, my days are pretty much the same. The monotony of it all is broken up by brief periods of joy when I am able to hear Teresa’s voice or see her pretty face, when I can talk to the kiddos and find out how their week went. Those moments help get me through the rest of the week. Each day I wake up is one more day closer to getting home to them. That’s my countdown.
Teresa started a blog when I left for much the same reason as I’ve been keeping this journal. It’s a means for her to reconcile her feelings and share her thoughts on this deployment. She’s not looking for pity, encouragement, or debate; she’s merely putting herself out there on the web for people to follow and enjoy. I have to admit that she is pretty damn witty at times. For the most part, her blogs are pretty light hearted and funny, not the somber, depressing entries you see in similar blogs. In one of her recent blogs she included her thoughts on deployment countdowns. I myself try not countdown; A) I’m too busy to keep track of the days, and B) it’s just too depressing, particularly when you’re still in the 300’s. But, when I was reading this particular blog, I looked up at her countdown and thought, “Holy crap! It’s been 20 days already!”
Admittedly, I have found myself counting Sundays. I look forward to Sundays for a couple of reasons, most importantly because I know I will be Skyping with my family the next day. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this previously, but I cherish my weekly Skyping sessions with Teresa and the kids. Because the internet café is only open from 8am-8pm, we’ve figured out that the best time for us to get together over the web is in the morning (their time) while the kids are getting ready for school. I get to catch up on the previous week’s activities as well as see all their smiling faces. So while none of that occurs on Sunday, it gives me something to think about all day.
Another thing I enjoy about Sunday is that we don’t have to be in to work until noon or so. I have the whole morning to myself, to sleep in a little bit, get some PT in, do some laundry, and get a haircut. Finally Sunday is my day to indulge myself at the chow hall. We call it “Fatterday.” All week long I am careful about what I eat. The food here is such abundance and good quality that you could literally eat yourself onto the reality show, “Biggest Loser.” So after a week of skimping and watching fat grams, I treat myself to biscuits and gravy, hamburgers and fries, and a nice big bowl of ice cream (sometimes two).
This is how we mark the passing of a week in Afghanistan. Outside of Sundays every day is just like the last. We have nothing to differentiate one day from the next. I get up at 6 am, do some form of PT, eat chow, work all morning, eat noon chow, work all afternoon, go to evening chow, work until 11 pm or so, go to bed, get up at 6am and do it all over again. Some days are better than others. Some days the enemy makes Marines into heroes; some days the Marines make the enemy into martyrs. Either way, and not to sound callous, my days are pretty much the same. The monotony of it all is broken up by brief periods of joy when I am able to hear Teresa’s voice or see her pretty face, when I can talk to the kiddos and find out how their week went. Those moments help get me through the rest of the week. Each day I wake up is one more day closer to getting home to them. That’s my countdown.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Don't take the small things for granted.
Journal Entry Thu 27 Jan 2011
Well, I hit two major milestones during this deployment: 1) I went an entire night without having to get up to go to the bathroom, and 2) I had my first morning constitutional since arriving in Afghanistan. Now, to the average reader those two things may seem insignificant when taken out of context, but in this environment, in combat, those two things are very important.
Let’s take the first milestone for instance. I live in a tent with nine other guys. It’s not bad living and it’s actually pretty comfortable. That is to say that we have heat and comfortable beds to sleep on. Keep in mind that these are strictly sleeping quarters. Our bathrooms consist of two sets of trailers. One set of (3) trailers comes equipped with six toilets and three sinks each. The other set of (3) trailers contain eight shower stalls and three sinks each. These trailers are located several yards away from the sleeping tents across a bed of river rocks. If you’re lucky like I am, your tent is only thirty yards away it’s not too bad; if you’re further than that, it sucks. Now, about the river rocks…these aren’t nice little river rocks that you line your flower bed with, these river rocks are really small boulders. This brings me back to the issue of getting up in the night to go to the bathroom; I’ll get come back to the river rocks in a bit. I work 17-18 hour days, so I value every minute of sleep I can get. The last thing I want to do is get up three hours into some much needed sleep so that I can go to the bathroom. Of course, I have no choice, although, one of my tent mates did offer the idea of using a “thunder bottle.” Thunder bottles have extra large openings and are typically used to store water in extremely cold temperatures. Some people use them as urinals so that they don’t have to get up in the middle of the night. Needless to say, we banned the use of “thunder bottles” in OUR tent.
So, thunder bottle aside, the only option of relieving your bladder is to make the trek to the trailers. First of all, it’s freezing outside at night. Temps have been in the 20’s here in the early morning hours, cold enough that even a short jaunt to the toilet requires at least a pair of sweats. Secondly, there’s the small boulders I mentioned earlier. Now, you can sacrifice safety for speed and go with flip flops or you can risk pissing yourself in the time it takes to don tennis shoes for the trip to the head. I for one have been tempting fate and going with the second option. I found that doing the “pee-pee” dance for a few seconds buys you enough time to put your shoes on. Besides, if you do go in your pants a little bit, it’ll be dry by morning. The alternative is risking your life, tripping over the small boulders in your shower shoes, and hurting yourself or your ego.
This brings me to the second milestone, having a bowel movement first thing in the morning. Remember the trailers I was talking about? That’s the only place on this camp with real toilets. If you are anywhere else on the camp your only option is a port-a-jon. For my more affluent readers who have never seen a port-a-jon, let me take a moment to describe this modern marvel. A port-a-jon is about the size of the old telephone booths we had before the age of cell phones. When you walk into one you are facing a toilet which is essentially a large plastic base with a hole cut into it. To your left is a urinal and to the right is the toilet paper dispenser. The smell is intolerable, which makes sense considering the plastic bin that you have to sit on is full of a couple days worth of human waste. With that picture in mind, imagine that the nice toilets are too far to walk to and you are forced to use a port-a-jon. Once you walk in and shut the door, you are now the star of your own magic show. You have to set your weapon in the corner, remove your jacket, spin around carefully, drop your trousers, sit down slowly…wait, now you discover that there’s no toilet paper. Now, you have to get dressed, grab your weapon, find a port-a-jon with toilet paper and start the whole process again. Once you’re seated and answering natures call you have the pleasure of enjoying the smell of everyone else’s waste for the next few minutes.
So now you know why such little things can be considered significant milestones. And just think, the Marines operating out in the villages are living much more Spartan.
Well, I hit two major milestones during this deployment: 1) I went an entire night without having to get up to go to the bathroom, and 2) I had my first morning constitutional since arriving in Afghanistan. Now, to the average reader those two things may seem insignificant when taken out of context, but in this environment, in combat, those two things are very important.
Let’s take the first milestone for instance. I live in a tent with nine other guys. It’s not bad living and it’s actually pretty comfortable. That is to say that we have heat and comfortable beds to sleep on. Keep in mind that these are strictly sleeping quarters. Our bathrooms consist of two sets of trailers. One set of (3) trailers comes equipped with six toilets and three sinks each. The other set of (3) trailers contain eight shower stalls and three sinks each. These trailers are located several yards away from the sleeping tents across a bed of river rocks. If you’re lucky like I am, your tent is only thirty yards away it’s not too bad; if you’re further than that, it sucks. Now, about the river rocks…these aren’t nice little river rocks that you line your flower bed with, these river rocks are really small boulders. This brings me back to the issue of getting up in the night to go to the bathroom; I’ll get come back to the river rocks in a bit. I work 17-18 hour days, so I value every minute of sleep I can get. The last thing I want to do is get up three hours into some much needed sleep so that I can go to the bathroom. Of course, I have no choice, although, one of my tent mates did offer the idea of using a “thunder bottle.” Thunder bottles have extra large openings and are typically used to store water in extremely cold temperatures. Some people use them as urinals so that they don’t have to get up in the middle of the night. Needless to say, we banned the use of “thunder bottles” in OUR tent.
So, thunder bottle aside, the only option of relieving your bladder is to make the trek to the trailers. First of all, it’s freezing outside at night. Temps have been in the 20’s here in the early morning hours, cold enough that even a short jaunt to the toilet requires at least a pair of sweats. Secondly, there’s the small boulders I mentioned earlier. Now, you can sacrifice safety for speed and go with flip flops or you can risk pissing yourself in the time it takes to don tennis shoes for the trip to the head. I for one have been tempting fate and going with the second option. I found that doing the “pee-pee” dance for a few seconds buys you enough time to put your shoes on. Besides, if you do go in your pants a little bit, it’ll be dry by morning. The alternative is risking your life, tripping over the small boulders in your shower shoes, and hurting yourself or your ego.
This brings me to the second milestone, having a bowel movement first thing in the morning. Remember the trailers I was talking about? That’s the only place on this camp with real toilets. If you are anywhere else on the camp your only option is a port-a-jon. For my more affluent readers who have never seen a port-a-jon, let me take a moment to describe this modern marvel. A port-a-jon is about the size of the old telephone booths we had before the age of cell phones. When you walk into one you are facing a toilet which is essentially a large plastic base with a hole cut into it. To your left is a urinal and to the right is the toilet paper dispenser. The smell is intolerable, which makes sense considering the plastic bin that you have to sit on is full of a couple days worth of human waste. With that picture in mind, imagine that the nice toilets are too far to walk to and you are forced to use a port-a-jon. Once you walk in and shut the door, you are now the star of your own magic show. You have to set your weapon in the corner, remove your jacket, spin around carefully, drop your trousers, sit down slowly…wait, now you discover that there’s no toilet paper. Now, you have to get dressed, grab your weapon, find a port-a-jon with toilet paper and start the whole process again. Once you’re seated and answering natures call you have the pleasure of enjoying the smell of everyone else’s waste for the next few minutes.
So now you know why such little things can be considered significant milestones. And just think, the Marines operating out in the villages are living much more Spartan.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Thanks to my Missouri family!!
Just wanted to take a break from my normal journal entries to send my warmest thanks to the Fulks and the Highs back in Raymore, MO. Got your package today guys and was pleasantly surprised by the contents. I am particularly enjoying the pistachios, as Dan well knows, and the chocolates. I love chocolate candy and we don't have any of that here. Now I'll have stuff to snack on while I watch Season 1 of Battlestar Galactica. I've already had several guys on the staff come by and tell me that I'm going to get hooked. Of course, the MIZZOU mug will get much use. So, Dan and Ronny, I thank you and your families for your contributions to the fight and thanks to JD for the little plastic "Marine" dudes. Hope ya'll are well!
A Love Story on Valentine's Day!
Journal Entry Tue 25 Jan 2011
Yesterday was a great day. Since I’ve been here at Delaram I’ve been so busy with turnover that I haven’t had much time to think much less anything else. Add to that the continuous fighting going on in the battle space and it can make for some long, arduous days around here. But, today was a great day. After more than a week, I was able to chat with Teresa again via Skype. Sure a week doesn’t seem like a long time, but when you’re separated by thousands of miles it can seem like an eternity. When I got a hold of her, she was sitting there in the kitchen back home, eating breakfast in her PJs and sharing with me the events of the previous week. She was absolutely beautiful. Of course she’ll be the first to argue against that, but she is.
I sat listening to her, grinning from ear to ear, not because anything she said was necessarily funny, but the fact that the sight of her face and sound of her voice just warmed my heart. In an instant I forgot where I was and completely immersed in her world. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch her face, to lean over and smell her hair, to pull her close and kiss her lips. She made my heart whole again. She’s always been able to do that, melt my heart that is. Teresa’s been my best friend for more than 23 years now. I can’t help but smile when she walks into the room or when I hear her voice on the phone. We always know what the other is thinking and we pine when we can’t be together. We’ve always said that we were “split aparts”, two people that at one time in the distant past used to be one, torn apart and destined to find each other and become whole again.
We found each other in the summer of 1987. We actually had a chance encounter prior to that, but it was so fleeting that it appeared insignificant. In July, I was working as a cook at Golden Coral, the premiere steakhouse in Belton, MO at the time. Teresa will tell you that I was a horrible cook, but actually I was somewhat of a grilling savant. She came in on that summer day with a friend of hers looking for a job waiting tables. Some people say there’s no such thing as love at first sight, but I knew my heart belonged to her the minute she walked in the door. She was a thing of beauty, big brown eyes, long dark hair, and soft tan skin. I knew at that moment that I had to be with her.
I pleaded with my boss to hire her on, and though we were fully staffed with waitresses, he gave her the job. After a few weeks of my constant badgering and cheesy advances, she finally caved into the idea of going on a date with me. Yes, in today’s workplace that would be considered sexual harassment, but she thought I was cute. Actually, I think the phrase she used was “big dork.” Our kids think that is so funny. So, on August 13, 1987 we went on our first official date, a pool party at a friend’s house. It was chilly for an August afternoon and her and I were the only ones that ventured into the pool that day. We didn’t care about the cold water; all we knew was that we were having a ball.
I could tell there was a chemistry between us, but as much I wanted to be with her I must admit that I was a little intimidated by her beauty. She hates hearing that because she can’t see how guys can be intimidated by her, but it’s true. Anyhow, that night after the party we shared our first intimate moment, a stolen kiss in the front seat of her car. Okay, I fully admit that she made the first move. Remember, I was intimidated. It was August 1987, and I didn’t know it at that exact moment, but I was in love.
Yesterday was a great day. Since I’ve been here at Delaram I’ve been so busy with turnover that I haven’t had much time to think much less anything else. Add to that the continuous fighting going on in the battle space and it can make for some long, arduous days around here. But, today was a great day. After more than a week, I was able to chat with Teresa again via Skype. Sure a week doesn’t seem like a long time, but when you’re separated by thousands of miles it can seem like an eternity. When I got a hold of her, she was sitting there in the kitchen back home, eating breakfast in her PJs and sharing with me the events of the previous week. She was absolutely beautiful. Of course she’ll be the first to argue against that, but she is.
I sat listening to her, grinning from ear to ear, not because anything she said was necessarily funny, but the fact that the sight of her face and sound of her voice just warmed my heart. In an instant I forgot where I was and completely immersed in her world. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch her face, to lean over and smell her hair, to pull her close and kiss her lips. She made my heart whole again. She’s always been able to do that, melt my heart that is. Teresa’s been my best friend for more than 23 years now. I can’t help but smile when she walks into the room or when I hear her voice on the phone. We always know what the other is thinking and we pine when we can’t be together. We’ve always said that we were “split aparts”, two people that at one time in the distant past used to be one, torn apart and destined to find each other and become whole again.
We found each other in the summer of 1987. We actually had a chance encounter prior to that, but it was so fleeting that it appeared insignificant. In July, I was working as a cook at Golden Coral, the premiere steakhouse in Belton, MO at the time. Teresa will tell you that I was a horrible cook, but actually I was somewhat of a grilling savant. She came in on that summer day with a friend of hers looking for a job waiting tables. Some people say there’s no such thing as love at first sight, but I knew my heart belonged to her the minute she walked in the door. She was a thing of beauty, big brown eyes, long dark hair, and soft tan skin. I knew at that moment that I had to be with her.
I pleaded with my boss to hire her on, and though we were fully staffed with waitresses, he gave her the job. After a few weeks of my constant badgering and cheesy advances, she finally caved into the idea of going on a date with me. Yes, in today’s workplace that would be considered sexual harassment, but she thought I was cute. Actually, I think the phrase she used was “big dork.” Our kids think that is so funny. So, on August 13, 1987 we went on our first official date, a pool party at a friend’s house. It was chilly for an August afternoon and her and I were the only ones that ventured into the pool that day. We didn’t care about the cold water; all we knew was that we were having a ball.
I could tell there was a chemistry between us, but as much I wanted to be with her I must admit that I was a little intimidated by her beauty. She hates hearing that because she can’t see how guys can be intimidated by her, but it’s true. Anyhow, that night after the party we shared our first intimate moment, a stolen kiss in the front seat of her car. Okay, I fully admit that she made the first move. Remember, I was intimidated. It was August 1987, and I didn’t know it at that exact moment, but I was in love.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Settling in for the long haul
Journal Entry Friday 21 Jan
I came into work this morning at 0500 hoping that I would get the chance to call my bride, to hear her voice before she goes to sleep and to wish her sweet dreams. Unfortunately, we’re still in “River City Condition 1.” No phone calls or emails can go out. Yesterday was a pretty rough day for Regimental Combat Team 2. Several units operating throughout the battle space struck IEDs and encountered small arms fire. Two of the IED strikes resulted in multiple amputees, one double and one triple. The triple amputee was evacuated to Camp Bastion where he promptly died from his wounds. It’s probably better that way. At least now he won’t have to live the rest of his life with horrifying reminders of this place. After all the activity yesterday the RCT’s area of operations was quiet throughout the late night and early morning hours. Then at about 0330, a Marine stepped on a mine as his team was being inserted prior to the beginning of an operation. In an instant his life was changed. Needless to say, “River City” continues.
We’ve been here at Forward Operating Base Delaram II, the farthest northwestern point of the Regional Command Southwest battle space. It’s been four days, but it may as well have been four months. At least that’s what it feels like. Thos e of us from RCT-8 have been turning over with our counter parts from RCT-2. These guys look tired; it’s been a long year and they are more than happy to see us. Our arrival signals the end of their long brutal year of living dangerously in Afghanistan. Obviously, it’s not the same as being down at one of the battalions. I’ve been there before. Down there, seven or eight months feels like an eternity. I’m sure it feels even longer for the kids down at the platoon and squad level. Those guys are slugging it out with enemy on a daily basis. They know deep down inside that their next patrol could very well be their last. Living with that stress, making life and death decisions day in and day out has a way of sapping the life out of a person. Seven months is the most you can ask these guys to do this kind of work. It’s probably more than the average human being can handle. Now as far as being at higher headquarters is concerned, it’s a different kind of stress and different kind of work load up here. At the RCT and above the decisions we make don’t normally have immediate impact, but there is still and element of stress. The days are long, 16-18 hours, and there is no break; but still, it is manageable for a year.
The camp (Delaram) itself is pretty nice for an expeditionary camp. A jaunt around the perimeter will take you about 6-7 miles depending on your route. It has all the creature comforts of a Camp Leatherneck without the unwieldy population. It’s got a barber shop, PX, laundry service, post office, large dining facility, and an internet café. Best of all…it’s got hot water. We’ve slowly been getting settled in over the past few days, learning the lay of the land, getting our tents set up with bunks and our gear, and trying to establish our individual battle rhythms. The toughest part has been sttling into an established sleep scheduele. Normally it doesn’t take long to reset my internal clock, but in the six days it took to get here, we were jerked around during all hours of the day and night. I started running in the mornings; then it’s off to morning chow and turnover with my counterpart in the afternoon. Work continues until 10 or 11 o’clock at night with a chow break taken somewhere along the way. Thrown into the schedule throughout the week are moments stolen away to call my family, or to write in this journal. It’s important to establish as healthy a routine as possible, especially during a year long combat deployment. It’s really the only way to maintain your sanity.
I came into work this morning at 0500 hoping that I would get the chance to call my bride, to hear her voice before she goes to sleep and to wish her sweet dreams. Unfortunately, we’re still in “River City Condition 1.” No phone calls or emails can go out. Yesterday was a pretty rough day for Regimental Combat Team 2. Several units operating throughout the battle space struck IEDs and encountered small arms fire. Two of the IED strikes resulted in multiple amputees, one double and one triple. The triple amputee was evacuated to Camp Bastion where he promptly died from his wounds. It’s probably better that way. At least now he won’t have to live the rest of his life with horrifying reminders of this place. After all the activity yesterday the RCT’s area of operations was quiet throughout the late night and early morning hours. Then at about 0330, a Marine stepped on a mine as his team was being inserted prior to the beginning of an operation. In an instant his life was changed. Needless to say, “River City” continues.
We’ve been here at Forward Operating Base Delaram II, the farthest northwestern point of the Regional Command Southwest battle space. It’s been four days, but it may as well have been four months. At least that’s what it feels like. Thos e of us from RCT-8 have been turning over with our counter parts from RCT-2. These guys look tired; it’s been a long year and they are more than happy to see us. Our arrival signals the end of their long brutal year of living dangerously in Afghanistan. Obviously, it’s not the same as being down at one of the battalions. I’ve been there before. Down there, seven or eight months feels like an eternity. I’m sure it feels even longer for the kids down at the platoon and squad level. Those guys are slugging it out with enemy on a daily basis. They know deep down inside that their next patrol could very well be their last. Living with that stress, making life and death decisions day in and day out has a way of sapping the life out of a person. Seven months is the most you can ask these guys to do this kind of work. It’s probably more than the average human being can handle. Now as far as being at higher headquarters is concerned, it’s a different kind of stress and different kind of work load up here. At the RCT and above the decisions we make don’t normally have immediate impact, but there is still and element of stress. The days are long, 16-18 hours, and there is no break; but still, it is manageable for a year.
The camp (Delaram) itself is pretty nice for an expeditionary camp. A jaunt around the perimeter will take you about 6-7 miles depending on your route. It has all the creature comforts of a Camp Leatherneck without the unwieldy population. It’s got a barber shop, PX, laundry service, post office, large dining facility, and an internet café. Best of all…it’s got hot water. We’ve slowly been getting settled in over the past few days, learning the lay of the land, getting our tents set up with bunks and our gear, and trying to establish our individual battle rhythms. The toughest part has been sttling into an established sleep scheduele. Normally it doesn’t take long to reset my internal clock, but in the six days it took to get here, we were jerked around during all hours of the day and night. I started running in the mornings; then it’s off to morning chow and turnover with my counterpart in the afternoon. Work continues until 10 or 11 o’clock at night with a chow break taken somewhere along the way. Thrown into the schedule throughout the week are moments stolen away to call my family, or to write in this journal. It’s important to establish as healthy a routine as possible, especially during a year long combat deployment. It’s really the only way to maintain your sanity.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The Meat Grinder
Journal Entry Wednesday 19 January 2011
If you have a bubble that you wish to remain intact, you may want to skip today's entry.
Journal Entry Wed 19 January
It’s been a couple of days since my previous entry . No real reason for the lapse other than that I’ve simply succumbed to exhaustion laced with a touch of laziness. Monday was our last day at Camp Leatherneck. A handful of us spent the better part of the morning looking for a free haircut and a bazaar that would be willing to haggle. We ventured off to Camp Bastion, a camp teaming with foreigners. Each time we stopped to ask directions the lieutenant in the back seat would inquire as to the whereabouts of the barber shop in his best, not to mention loudly spoken English. If the person he was talking to did not understand him, would only speak louder and slower. Funny thing is that all the guys we spoke to were British.
That evening, I went back to the division headquarters at Leatherneck to say one last goodbye to some old friends. We took photos, exchanged pleasantries, and promised to link up in the very near future. The promises are always well intended, but inevitably, life gets in the way. The sad thing is that in this line of work, you never know when a goodbye will be the last. I’ve had several friends that have sacrificed their lives in the name of freedom over the last few years. Gunnery Sergeant Terry Ball was one of my Platoon Sergeants when I was a Lieutenant. He was the kind of leader that could dress down a Marine in one moment and build him right back up the next. We were in 3/8 together for the second time when he was killed. I saw him when he came through the battalion command post; he had that grin on his face like always did. I told him I’d come out to his company to see him the next day. The next day he was gone, killed by an Improvised Explosive Device (IED). Captain James Edge was one of those guys that everyone liked. We were at The Basic School at around the same time, but our paths didn’t cross until we were at the Expeditionary Warfare School together. He talked his wife into giving him a pass to come have dinner with me when I was out in California for a visit. We had a couple of beers and played catch-up before parting ways. Jamie was killed by a sniper in Iraq just a few months later. Alan Rowe, Doug Zembiec, and Ray Mendoza were guys I had known since we were lieutenants. Alan was killed in an IED strike on September 3, 2004. Ray Mendoza stepped on a mine on November 14, 2005 while on a combat mission with his Marines. Doug was killed trying to rescue someone during a firefight May 11, 2007. These guys were true warriors in every sense of the word. Their Marines would follow them to hell and back without hesitation. When I picture them in my minds eye, I can still see their smiles.
The last person I saw at Leatherneck was my buddy, Ed Garland. Although I’d made the trek to see him several times without success, I had to make one last attempt before leaving Leatherneck for good. As luck would have it, he was in a meeting when I showed up. I passed the time by calling my sweetheart to check in on her and the kiddos. I’m glad I called when I did for all communications would be shut down for most of that night. I finally made link up with Ed and we got to talk for some time, then things got fairly hectic in his office. One of his Marines began tracking and reporting three very serious casualties. The base went into a communications blackout known as “River City”. During “River City” all communication links to the outside world are shut down. This is done to allow time for formal notification to be made to a spouse back home that his or her loved one has passed. The look on Ed’s face when he read the initial reports said it all. The night’s events were catastrophic. An IED blast resulted in one Marine receiving multiple shrapnel wounds, one double lower extremity amputee, and one “hero”. Not that there’s any good way to die, but here in Afghanistan your departure from this earth can be exceptionally horrific. This place is truly a meat grinder in every sense of the phrase. The enemy here builds these weapons for the sole purpose of killing you or making you wish you were dead. Those who survive the deadly blasts go home with missing limbs or eyes, severe burns, and/or traumatic brain injuries (TBI) so severe that they are never the same again.
It’s sad. You see them all over Camp Lejeune; Marines with hideous burns, shrapnel and bullet wounds, and missing body parts. Those are just the visible scars. Countless others suffer silently from post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or TBI. One friend of mine suffers from TBI so bad that he’s not sure where he’ll wake up from one day to the next. For the country, this war may be over in the next couple of years, but many Marines will continue to fight in their dreams, in their nightmares.
This hymn is for them:
Eternal Father, Strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid'st the mighty Ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to thee,
for those in peril on the sea.
Eternal Father, grant, we pray
To all Marines, both night and day,
The courage, honor, stregnth, and skill
Their land to serve, thy law fulfill;
Be thou the shield forevermore
From every peril to the Corps.
Amen.
If you have a bubble that you wish to remain intact, you may want to skip today's entry.
Journal Entry Wed 19 January
It’s been a couple of days since my previous entry . No real reason for the lapse other than that I’ve simply succumbed to exhaustion laced with a touch of laziness. Monday was our last day at Camp Leatherneck. A handful of us spent the better part of the morning looking for a free haircut and a bazaar that would be willing to haggle. We ventured off to Camp Bastion, a camp teaming with foreigners. Each time we stopped to ask directions the lieutenant in the back seat would inquire as to the whereabouts of the barber shop in his best, not to mention loudly spoken English. If the person he was talking to did not understand him, would only speak louder and slower. Funny thing is that all the guys we spoke to were British.
That evening, I went back to the division headquarters at Leatherneck to say one last goodbye to some old friends. We took photos, exchanged pleasantries, and promised to link up in the very near future. The promises are always well intended, but inevitably, life gets in the way. The sad thing is that in this line of work, you never know when a goodbye will be the last. I’ve had several friends that have sacrificed their lives in the name of freedom over the last few years. Gunnery Sergeant Terry Ball was one of my Platoon Sergeants when I was a Lieutenant. He was the kind of leader that could dress down a Marine in one moment and build him right back up the next. We were in 3/8 together for the second time when he was killed. I saw him when he came through the battalion command post; he had that grin on his face like always did. I told him I’d come out to his company to see him the next day. The next day he was gone, killed by an Improvised Explosive Device (IED). Captain James Edge was one of those guys that everyone liked. We were at The Basic School at around the same time, but our paths didn’t cross until we were at the Expeditionary Warfare School together. He talked his wife into giving him a pass to come have dinner with me when I was out in California for a visit. We had a couple of beers and played catch-up before parting ways. Jamie was killed by a sniper in Iraq just a few months later. Alan Rowe, Doug Zembiec, and Ray Mendoza were guys I had known since we were lieutenants. Alan was killed in an IED strike on September 3, 2004. Ray Mendoza stepped on a mine on November 14, 2005 while on a combat mission with his Marines. Doug was killed trying to rescue someone during a firefight May 11, 2007. These guys were true warriors in every sense of the word. Their Marines would follow them to hell and back without hesitation. When I picture them in my minds eye, I can still see their smiles.
The last person I saw at Leatherneck was my buddy, Ed Garland. Although I’d made the trek to see him several times without success, I had to make one last attempt before leaving Leatherneck for good. As luck would have it, he was in a meeting when I showed up. I passed the time by calling my sweetheart to check in on her and the kiddos. I’m glad I called when I did for all communications would be shut down for most of that night. I finally made link up with Ed and we got to talk for some time, then things got fairly hectic in his office. One of his Marines began tracking and reporting three very serious casualties. The base went into a communications blackout known as “River City”. During “River City” all communication links to the outside world are shut down. This is done to allow time for formal notification to be made to a spouse back home that his or her loved one has passed. The look on Ed’s face when he read the initial reports said it all. The night’s events were catastrophic. An IED blast resulted in one Marine receiving multiple shrapnel wounds, one double lower extremity amputee, and one “hero”. Not that there’s any good way to die, but here in Afghanistan your departure from this earth can be exceptionally horrific. This place is truly a meat grinder in every sense of the phrase. The enemy here builds these weapons for the sole purpose of killing you or making you wish you were dead. Those who survive the deadly blasts go home with missing limbs or eyes, severe burns, and/or traumatic brain injuries (TBI) so severe that they are never the same again.
It’s sad. You see them all over Camp Lejeune; Marines with hideous burns, shrapnel and bullet wounds, and missing body parts. Those are just the visible scars. Countless others suffer silently from post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or TBI. One friend of mine suffers from TBI so bad that he’s not sure where he’ll wake up from one day to the next. For the country, this war may be over in the next couple of years, but many Marines will continue to fight in their dreams, in their nightmares.
This hymn is for them:
Eternal Father, Strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid'st the mighty Ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to thee,
for those in peril on the sea.
Eternal Father, grant, we pray
To all Marines, both night and day,
The courage, honor, stregnth, and skill
Their land to serve, thy law fulfill;
Be thou the shield forevermore
From every peril to the Corps.
Amen.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Made it to the Sandbox
Journal Entry 14 Jan 2011
Finally made it to Afghanistan today; it only took 3 days from the time we left Camp Lejeune, NC. We arrived at Camp Bastion via C-17 cargo plane, one step closer to what will eventually be our home for the next year. Camp Bastion, a British enclave adjacent to the Marine Base at Camp Leatherneck, is aptly named as it is the last bastion of western civilization you’ll see before heading out into the vastness that is Afghanistan. We stepped off the C-17 and into prehistory. The bitter cold air pierced my skin and the scent of burning refuse filled my nostrils. Fine, powdery moon dust swirled about my feet as I looked around and surveyed the expansiveness of Camp Bastion/Leatherneck. These two camps formed a vast metropolis where once there was nothing but dirt and rocks. What we have built here in the past year is nothing short of an amazing feat.
Day one at Leatherneck was nothing more than an adjustment period. Marines had an opportunity to round up their baggage for what seemed like the hundredth time, in order to re-pack for our short stay at Leatherneck and follow on movement to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Delaram II. This should be the last time we have to do the seabag drag. I spent the better part of the afternoon taking key folks around the Division Headquarters to meet their counterparts. It turned out to be an opportunity to reunite with some fellow Marines that I hadn’t seen in very long time. Marines say that Quantico, VA is the crossroads of the Marine Corps, but just about every Marine in the Corps today has passed through this place at some point in the last few years.
One of the first guys I ran into was Ed Garland, yet another example of how the latter part of my life has revolved around and been shaped by the wars in Southwest/Southcentral Asia. Ed and I have been friends and brothers-in-arms for over 20 years now. We were both part of the first of what has become three campaigns in this part of the world, Operation DESERT SHIELD/STORM. Ed was a Corporal in Regimental TOW Platoon, 24th Marine Regiment when I showed up to the unit in the summer of 1990. He was a warrior who loved nothing more than to “tie one on” and engage in the time honored warrior tradition of bar fighting. He was also a guy you wanted in the fighting position with you when the balloon went up. We fought in Desert Storm together and were commissioned as Second Lieutenants some years later, Ed a couple of years ahead of me. Although we never stationed in the same places together, we managed to stay in touch over the years. Even though we would go months, sometimes years without talking, when he did get hold of me it was like we had just spoken the day before.
Ed looked exactly the same as I remembered, maybe a few more wrinkles and a little less hair, but more or less the same. He took me around his shop at the Regional Command (Southwest) headquarters and introduced me to every one of his Marines. He couldn’t help but brag about each and every one of them. That’s the kind of leader he is and always has been. His Marines would follow him anywhere, to hell and back if he asked.
While I was at the Division I also ran into Ray Gerber and Mark Thieme. Ray and I served together in 3d Battalion, 8th Marines during a tour in Al Anbar Province, Iraq in 2005. He was the Intelligence Officer when I was the Battalion Operations Officer. Mark and I attended the Expeditionary Warfare School together in 2002-2003 and ended up working together at the School of Infantry, East in 2006-2007. Both of them are on the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit staff and were at Leatherneck planning upcoming operations involving their Battalion Landing Team. Both are great Marine Officers who will bear mentioning later in this treatise. The last guy I ran into was Doug Downey. He and I were classmates at The Basic School and Infantry Officers Course in 1995-1996. He was also one of the thirteen Lieutenants that came out to my wedding when Teresa and I were married in April 1995. It was great to see Doug. Although we’d spoken and exchanged emails a few times over the last 15 years, I hadn’t seen him since the wedding. I was saddened to hear that he and his wife of five years were getting divorced. On a good note, they have no children together and still remain good friends. Teresa and I have seen several marriages end up that way during my career. The Marine Corps is hard on marriage and relationships in general. I’m just glad I found the right partner in Teresa.
Finally made it to Afghanistan today; it only took 3 days from the time we left Camp Lejeune, NC. We arrived at Camp Bastion via C-17 cargo plane, one step closer to what will eventually be our home for the next year. Camp Bastion, a British enclave adjacent to the Marine Base at Camp Leatherneck, is aptly named as it is the last bastion of western civilization you’ll see before heading out into the vastness that is Afghanistan. We stepped off the C-17 and into prehistory. The bitter cold air pierced my skin and the scent of burning refuse filled my nostrils. Fine, powdery moon dust swirled about my feet as I looked around and surveyed the expansiveness of Camp Bastion/Leatherneck. These two camps formed a vast metropolis where once there was nothing but dirt and rocks. What we have built here in the past year is nothing short of an amazing feat.
Day one at Leatherneck was nothing more than an adjustment period. Marines had an opportunity to round up their baggage for what seemed like the hundredth time, in order to re-pack for our short stay at Leatherneck and follow on movement to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Delaram II. This should be the last time we have to do the seabag drag. I spent the better part of the afternoon taking key folks around the Division Headquarters to meet their counterparts. It turned out to be an opportunity to reunite with some fellow Marines that I hadn’t seen in very long time. Marines say that Quantico, VA is the crossroads of the Marine Corps, but just about every Marine in the Corps today has passed through this place at some point in the last few years.
One of the first guys I ran into was Ed Garland, yet another example of how the latter part of my life has revolved around and been shaped by the wars in Southwest/Southcentral Asia. Ed and I have been friends and brothers-in-arms for over 20 years now. We were both part of the first of what has become three campaigns in this part of the world, Operation DESERT SHIELD/STORM. Ed was a Corporal in Regimental TOW Platoon, 24th Marine Regiment when I showed up to the unit in the summer of 1990. He was a warrior who loved nothing more than to “tie one on” and engage in the time honored warrior tradition of bar fighting. He was also a guy you wanted in the fighting position with you when the balloon went up. We fought in Desert Storm together and were commissioned as Second Lieutenants some years later, Ed a couple of years ahead of me. Although we never stationed in the same places together, we managed to stay in touch over the years. Even though we would go months, sometimes years without talking, when he did get hold of me it was like we had just spoken the day before.
Ed looked exactly the same as I remembered, maybe a few more wrinkles and a little less hair, but more or less the same. He took me around his shop at the Regional Command (Southwest) headquarters and introduced me to every one of his Marines. He couldn’t help but brag about each and every one of them. That’s the kind of leader he is and always has been. His Marines would follow him anywhere, to hell and back if he asked.
While I was at the Division I also ran into Ray Gerber and Mark Thieme. Ray and I served together in 3d Battalion, 8th Marines during a tour in Al Anbar Province, Iraq in 2005. He was the Intelligence Officer when I was the Battalion Operations Officer. Mark and I attended the Expeditionary Warfare School together in 2002-2003 and ended up working together at the School of Infantry, East in 2006-2007. Both of them are on the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit staff and were at Leatherneck planning upcoming operations involving their Battalion Landing Team. Both are great Marine Officers who will bear mentioning later in this treatise. The last guy I ran into was Doug Downey. He and I were classmates at The Basic School and Infantry Officers Course in 1995-1996. He was also one of the thirteen Lieutenants that came out to my wedding when Teresa and I were married in April 1995. It was great to see Doug. Although we’d spoken and exchanged emails a few times over the last 15 years, I hadn’t seen him since the wedding. I was saddened to hear that he and his wife of five years were getting divorced. On a good note, they have no children together and still remain good friends. Teresa and I have seen several marriages end up that way during my career. The Marine Corps is hard on marriage and relationships in general. I’m just glad I found the right partner in Teresa.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Gotta Love Technology!
Journal Entry Thu 13 Jan 2011 (continued)
So in true form, we landed in Manas at 11pm in below freezing temperatures and proceeded with the “harassment package.” Things settled down by the early morning hours and I was able to get in a couple of hours rest in a real bed. Of course, as luck would have it, I drew a top bunk. For those of you that know me, you know that I’m somewhat vertically challenged. Being on the top rack SUCKS for me, but what do you do. On top of that, the heat in our tent went out at 4 am. Did I mention the below freezing temps? At any rate, it was all made worthwhile when I was able to reach my girl on Skype. You’ve got to love how far we’ve come technologically. Earlier this morning I overheard a Marine complaining that during the course of a twenty minute Skype conversation with his wife, his call was dropped three times. I shared with him this tidbit: twenty years ago today I was driving around the Saudi Arabian desert in a Humvee, waiting for Operation DESERT STORM to kick off. There was no internet, no cell phones, and it took the better part of a month to get a response to a letter you sent home. Depending on where you were in the desert, you could wait 6-8 weeks for mail. He looked at me momentarily in disbelief, the same look my nine year old gave me when I told him phones used to have cords when I was growing up. That Marine then looked back at his friend and remarked that he was “tired of this crap” and that he was getting out as soon as he got back. I’m assuming the poor internet connectivity was the last straw. My, how times have changed.
Now, back to my conversation with my bride; somehow with both of us as technologically challenged as we are, we managed to connect via Skype. Picture two virgins trying to “do it” on their wedding night. Where is it? What are you doing? Stop doing that. Is that supposed to happen? Are you on? That’s funny, right? But, we did get to chat and see each others faces while we did so. It was comforting to say the least, to be able to hear her voice and know that she is ok. This evening we got back so that I could see the kids off to school. I almost felt like I was part of the morning mayhem at the Sablan household. When things calmed down, it was just her and I again. It was as if I was sitting across the kitchen counter from her, like I could reach out and hold her hand. I think I’m going to like Skype. Thank God for technology.
So in true form, we landed in Manas at 11pm in below freezing temperatures and proceeded with the “harassment package.” Things settled down by the early morning hours and I was able to get in a couple of hours rest in a real bed. Of course, as luck would have it, I drew a top bunk. For those of you that know me, you know that I’m somewhat vertically challenged. Being on the top rack SUCKS for me, but what do you do. On top of that, the heat in our tent went out at 4 am. Did I mention the below freezing temps? At any rate, it was all made worthwhile when I was able to reach my girl on Skype. You’ve got to love how far we’ve come technologically. Earlier this morning I overheard a Marine complaining that during the course of a twenty minute Skype conversation with his wife, his call was dropped three times. I shared with him this tidbit: twenty years ago today I was driving around the Saudi Arabian desert in a Humvee, waiting for Operation DESERT STORM to kick off. There was no internet, no cell phones, and it took the better part of a month to get a response to a letter you sent home. Depending on where you were in the desert, you could wait 6-8 weeks for mail. He looked at me momentarily in disbelief, the same look my nine year old gave me when I told him phones used to have cords when I was growing up. That Marine then looked back at his friend and remarked that he was “tired of this crap” and that he was getting out as soon as he got back. I’m assuming the poor internet connectivity was the last straw. My, how times have changed.
Now, back to my conversation with my bride; somehow with both of us as technologically challenged as we are, we managed to connect via Skype. Picture two virgins trying to “do it” on their wedding night. Where is it? What are you doing? Stop doing that. Is that supposed to happen? Are you on? That’s funny, right? But, we did get to chat and see each others faces while we did so. It was comforting to say the least, to be able to hear her voice and know that she is ok. This evening we got back so that I could see the kids off to school. I almost felt like I was part of the morning mayhem at the Sablan household. When things calmed down, it was just her and I again. It was as if I was sitting across the kitchen counter from her, like I could reach out and hold her hand. I think I’m going to like Skype. Thank God for technology.
The "Harassment Package"
Journal Entry Thur 13 Jan 2011 (continued)
After a brief layover in Leipzig, Germany we continued on to Manas. That’s when the “harassment package” kicked into full swing. Yes, it is just what it sounds like…pure harassment suffered by the masses. Don’t get me wrong , it’s not like we ever intend to put people through it; the harassment package just happens. So what is the “harassment package?” Simply put, it’s a well intentioned plan that is not well executed and definitely not well received.
The “harassment package” is almost always carried out at night and/or in the worst weather conditions. This way, you are required to dig for a flashlight at the bottom of your pack and your stuff can get wet as it sits out in the elements. Inevitably the package requires that roll call be taken numerous times…”Albertson…Ames…Ashley…Atterbury.” By the time they get to “Sablan” I’m usually daydreaming about something else. Then there’s “that guy”, the guy that has to hear his full name twice before he realizes it’s him they’re calling. Seriously? Did you think there was another Wardinsky, Thomas R.? The roll call thing is actually not that bad, but can be exacerbated when accompanied by a sight count of serialized gear; a whole other aspect of harassment that I won’t even go into. Anther aspect of the “package” includes finding your three pieces of baggage amongst hundreds of others that look exactly the same. Good luck with that. And by the way, when you do find your bags, you’ll be instructed to drag them to another location only to throw them into yet another pile so they can be mixed up again.
After a brief layover in Leipzig, Germany we continued on to Manas. That’s when the “harassment package” kicked into full swing. Yes, it is just what it sounds like…pure harassment suffered by the masses. Don’t get me wrong , it’s not like we ever intend to put people through it; the harassment package just happens. So what is the “harassment package?” Simply put, it’s a well intentioned plan that is not well executed and definitely not well received.
The “harassment package” is almost always carried out at night and/or in the worst weather conditions. This way, you are required to dig for a flashlight at the bottom of your pack and your stuff can get wet as it sits out in the elements. Inevitably the package requires that roll call be taken numerous times…”Albertson…Ames…Ashley…Atterbury.” By the time they get to “Sablan” I’m usually daydreaming about something else. Then there’s “that guy”, the guy that has to hear his full name twice before he realizes it’s him they’re calling. Seriously? Did you think there was another Wardinsky, Thomas R.? The roll call thing is actually not that bad, but can be exacerbated when accompanied by a sight count of serialized gear; a whole other aspect of harassment that I won’t even go into. Anther aspect of the “package” includes finding your three pieces of baggage amongst hundreds of others that look exactly the same. Good luck with that. And by the way, when you do find your bags, you’ll be instructed to drag them to another location only to throw them into yet another pile so they can be mixed up again.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
God Bless America
Journal Entry Thur 13 January 2011
Facebook status today: “Finally made it to Manas, Kyrgykstan –20 hours, 5 naps, 6 meals, and 7 in-flight movies later!” It’s been a long trip thus far, but the journey continues. Tomorrow morning we’ll hop a C-17 transport into Camp Leatherneck, Afghanistan and few days later we’ll make our way probably by ground convoy to Delaram. The trip to Manas was pretty uneventful. Most notable was our layover in Bangor, ME. If you’re looking for some great Americans and true patriots I highly recommend you begin your search there.
We arrived in Bangor at around six in the evening to pick up a new pit crew and to top off on fuel. We deplaned numbering somewhere near 280 passengers, and began making our way through the jet way maze toward the terminal. As I neared the end of the jet way, the line suddenly stopped, bottle necked right at the terminal entrance. Being a person of little patience, I began to become a bit agitated. That was until a buddy of mine pointed out the “veteran and volunteer” welcoming committee that awaited us ahead. Sure enough, as I peered around the crowd in front of me, I could see dozens of civilians lining the corridor on either side of us. They greeted us with the warmest of smiles, shaking the hand of each and every Marine and Sailor coming off the plane. They thanked us for our service, gave us their blessings and hope for a safe return. There was no question of what we were doing or why we were doing it. There was simply unconditional thanks and recognition for doing what our country asked us to do. For the next hour and a half they gave us free phone calls home, took our pictures, and told us sea stories about their time in the service or about a loved one who was serving. When it was time to board our aircraft they lined up once again and bid us farewell on the way out. It was a humbling experience to say the least.
It’s nice to see that in a time and place where Americans bad mouth our own country and our government, and where terrorist and illegal immigrants have more rights than hard working U.S. citizens, that there is this sanctuary tucked away in a small corner of the U.S. where people still believe in the bright, hopeful dream that we once knew as “America”.
Facebook status today: “Finally made it to Manas, Kyrgykstan –20 hours, 5 naps, 6 meals, and 7 in-flight movies later!” It’s been a long trip thus far, but the journey continues. Tomorrow morning we’ll hop a C-17 transport into Camp Leatherneck, Afghanistan and few days later we’ll make our way probably by ground convoy to Delaram. The trip to Manas was pretty uneventful. Most notable was our layover in Bangor, ME. If you’re looking for some great Americans and true patriots I highly recommend you begin your search there.
We arrived in Bangor at around six in the evening to pick up a new pit crew and to top off on fuel. We deplaned numbering somewhere near 280 passengers, and began making our way through the jet way maze toward the terminal. As I neared the end of the jet way, the line suddenly stopped, bottle necked right at the terminal entrance. Being a person of little patience, I began to become a bit agitated. That was until a buddy of mine pointed out the “veteran and volunteer” welcoming committee that awaited us ahead. Sure enough, as I peered around the crowd in front of me, I could see dozens of civilians lining the corridor on either side of us. They greeted us with the warmest of smiles, shaking the hand of each and every Marine and Sailor coming off the plane. They thanked us for our service, gave us their blessings and hope for a safe return. There was no question of what we were doing or why we were doing it. There was simply unconditional thanks and recognition for doing what our country asked us to do. For the next hour and a half they gave us free phone calls home, took our pictures, and told us sea stories about their time in the service or about a loved one who was serving. When it was time to board our aircraft they lined up once again and bid us farewell on the way out. It was a humbling experience to say the least.
It’s nice to see that in a time and place where Americans bad mouth our own country and our government, and where terrorist and illegal immigrants have more rights than hard working U.S. citizens, that there is this sanctuary tucked away in a small corner of the U.S. where people still believe in the bright, hopeful dream that we once knew as “America”.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
So hard to say "farewell"
Journal Entry 12 January 2011
Forgive me in advance for the randomness of my thoughts, but my intent is to capture as best as I can the daily occurrences over the coming months. I am currently mid-flight somewhere over the British Isles, enroute to Manas, Kyrgyzstan by way of Leipzig, Germany. The thought is just beginning to take hold in my mind, the thought that I am about to spend a year of my life fighting in Afghanistan. I use the term “fighting” rather loosely as I will spend the majority of my time planning operations and supervising their execution from the comfort of the Combat Operations Center. That said, I’ve got a rifle and pistol handy for those times when I do find myself out in “Indian” country.
The more looming idea that I struggle with is the thought that I am about to spend a year or more away from my family. The thought doesn’t just loom, it sits in the pit of my stomach like a rock. It has made me nautious the last few days, the thought that is. Don’t get me wrong, this is by no means our first rodeo. Over the course of my 21 year career, my bride and I have endured six deployments (now seven) and numerous other separations. For some reason this departure seemed harder to prepare for, mentally and emotionally. Maybe it’s because we’ve grown much closer over the last five years; maybe it’s the volatile nature of the situation in Afghanistan; or maybe it’s simply that a year is such a long freaking time.
What I do know is that Teresa will be our rock through this deployment, just as she’s always been. My bride has always been the glue that holds the Sablan clan together during these long separations. I was so proud of her yesterday when we said our farewells back at Camp Lejeune. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was fighting back the tears. It was a gut wrenching moment for both of us, but we managed to hold it together. I know she would have lost it otherwise, and I’m sure the kids would have too at that point. I think Teresa knew that; I think she knew her moment would have to wait.
We managed to keep our last few hours together pretty light hearted. Cami, our six year old princess, and Tony, our nine year old, were running around playing with each other. Our eleven year old, Sam, questioned the practicality of standing out in the bitter cold temperatures just to see me get on the bus. And Sal, the oldest of the bunch, remarked at how easy it was to recognize those families who had become accustomed to goodbyes and those who were new to this way of life. Our kids our funny that way. They’ve learned that life just happens, that sometimes it is what it is.
I think Teresa and I have done well by them in that regard. We’ve taught them that although they control much of their own destiny through their decisions and actions, there are some things that will happen as a function of living life. Hopefully they learn by our example. There are so many people around us who internalize every little thing or who thrive on having drama in their lives. We don’t do drama in our house, not in the Sablan family.
At any rate, the last few weeks leading up to this deployment, the quality time I was able to spend with Teresa and the kids was much needed. We took them on a six-day cruise out of Miami that ported in Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica. It was our fourth family cruise in the last five years. The kids really enjoy the whole cruise experience, but not nearly as much as we enjoy watching them. They get to play all day, eat great food, and just enjoy being kids….End journal entry.
Forgive me in advance for the randomness of my thoughts, but my intent is to capture as best as I can the daily occurrences over the coming months. I am currently mid-flight somewhere over the British Isles, enroute to Manas, Kyrgyzstan by way of Leipzig, Germany. The thought is just beginning to take hold in my mind, the thought that I am about to spend a year of my life fighting in Afghanistan. I use the term “fighting” rather loosely as I will spend the majority of my time planning operations and supervising their execution from the comfort of the Combat Operations Center. That said, I’ve got a rifle and pistol handy for those times when I do find myself out in “Indian” country.
The more looming idea that I struggle with is the thought that I am about to spend a year or more away from my family. The thought doesn’t just loom, it sits in the pit of my stomach like a rock. It has made me nautious the last few days, the thought that is. Don’t get me wrong, this is by no means our first rodeo. Over the course of my 21 year career, my bride and I have endured six deployments (now seven) and numerous other separations. For some reason this departure seemed harder to prepare for, mentally and emotionally. Maybe it’s because we’ve grown much closer over the last five years; maybe it’s the volatile nature of the situation in Afghanistan; or maybe it’s simply that a year is such a long freaking time.
What I do know is that Teresa will be our rock through this deployment, just as she’s always been. My bride has always been the glue that holds the Sablan clan together during these long separations. I was so proud of her yesterday when we said our farewells back at Camp Lejeune. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was fighting back the tears. It was a gut wrenching moment for both of us, but we managed to hold it together. I know she would have lost it otherwise, and I’m sure the kids would have too at that point. I think Teresa knew that; I think she knew her moment would have to wait.
We managed to keep our last few hours together pretty light hearted. Cami, our six year old princess, and Tony, our nine year old, were running around playing with each other. Our eleven year old, Sam, questioned the practicality of standing out in the bitter cold temperatures just to see me get on the bus. And Sal, the oldest of the bunch, remarked at how easy it was to recognize those families who had become accustomed to goodbyes and those who were new to this way of life. Our kids our funny that way. They’ve learned that life just happens, that sometimes it is what it is.
I think Teresa and I have done well by them in that regard. We’ve taught them that although they control much of their own destiny through their decisions and actions, there are some things that will happen as a function of living life. Hopefully they learn by our example. There are so many people around us who internalize every little thing or who thrive on having drama in their lives. We don’t do drama in our house, not in the Sablan family.
At any rate, the last few weeks leading up to this deployment, the quality time I was able to spend with Teresa and the kids was much needed. We took them on a six-day cruise out of Miami that ported in Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica. It was our fourth family cruise in the last five years. The kids really enjoy the whole cruise experience, but not nearly as much as we enjoy watching them. They get to play all day, eat great food, and just enjoy being kids….End journal entry.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
And so it begins...
So here it goes, to my followers, though few you may be. I made a promise to myself that before I left on this deployment that I would not let it pass without documenting my thoughts over the next year. I'm not sure if this is the most appropriate means to do that, but it seems like a good way to share what I'm thinking with my family and friends back home. I'll leave it open to the public for the simple reason that it's easier than trying to figure out who exactly I need to share this with. Here's the ground rule for all those who may stumble upon this blog: if you don't like it or agree with it, feel free to navigate away. I promise I won't be offended...really. However, if you want to come along for the ride for the shear entertainment, you are more than welcome. Please feel free to comment. I may not engage in extensive dialogue or debate, but I am interested in what you have to say.
What you'll see in these first few blogs are flashbacks to the beginning of this journey. I started a journal during the trip over so my initial entries will come directly from those written pages. Enjoy!
What you'll see in these first few blogs are flashbacks to the beginning of this journey. I started a journal during the trip over so my initial entries will come directly from those written pages. Enjoy!
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