thedrifter
08-25-08, 11:12 AM
It's a convoy
Published: Saturday, August 23, 2008 4:01 PM EDT
My first armored convoy through the desert—I almost passed out from the heat waiting the 30 minutes for it to get armed, watered and briefed by the commanding lieutenant. Body armor and helmet can be such a ***** at 4 p.m. in the afternoon sun of the Afghan desert. I didn’t whine out loud—I just sort of softly moaned inside.
I watched as huge, young Marines, seemingly impervious to the heat (many had served in Iraq, remember) hauled their machine guns to their turrets, installed them, stretched out and dusted long belts of ammunition and then positioned themselves in their turrets.
Watching them work in the ferocious temperature made me think they should all be awarded some sort of heat medal—maybe a thermometer coming out of a camel’s ass with “Afghanistan” written on the its humps.
This was a fortunate Marine convoy. Each of the six humvees got chests of iced water and soft drinks and I was a fortunate rock critic on his idiot dream vacation: they sat me right next to one. Ah, come here Taliban boy, recycle our empties.
The young master sergeant first gave us our instructions: what to do if a vic (vehicle) is disabled by IED, who is allowed to get out and help, what to do if one loses the column, the basic rules of engagement and so forth.
I did not raise my hand to ask what the in-flight movie was.
Mission details had us going to Camp Delhi, which started out life as home to the vastly outnumbered British and Scottish troops for the last many months but now included a force of U.S. Marines. From there we’d resupply and reinforce a string of forward operating bases as part of what was called “the snake’s head”, because of its shape on the map.
So, there I was, in body armor, helmet, desert combat boots, army camo pants and jacket and with a black piece of luggage and an over-the-shoulder bag and a heart palpitating like a rabbit’s
I was assigned the second humwee with four other men—a driver, a radio man, a rifleman, and the huge machine-gunner who I swear I hadn’t seen breaking a sweat though it was easily 110 degrees at 4 p.m.
Even though there is nominal air conditioning in the ‘vee, the gunner standing in his turret is actually standing in the middle of the vehicle with his upper body in the turret. We’re open to the elements, in other words. And the elements came in—dust by the baggy-full. Going mobile in the desert is to eat a **** sandwich of dust.
We exited the fort and entered the red desert. I was awestruck by how small we were compared to its vastness, six humvees with maybe 25 men, like rowboats on the ocean.
And, to my mind, an enemy who knew everything about the neighborhood, including what we were thinking. Hey, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean it ain’t true. These Afghans have been kicking foreigner’s asses for centuries.
We stopped after a quarter of a mile. An order was given. Though I didn’t hear it, I figured it out as six turrets swung to the right, the guns leveled. In a moment, everyone fired into the desert.
The desert had done nothing to deserve being shot at. We needed to make sure our weapons worked. I’m sure there’s some liberal writing a People For Ethical Treatment of Deserts right now.
If you’ve never heard a .50-caliber machine gun fire, then you probably can’t imagine what three firing at once sound like. But try. And while you’re at it, add the stuttering chatter of three lighter machine guns.
I’ll try to help: Imagine a cannon—POM! POM! POM! and the smaller .240’s doing a more static rat-a-tat, tututututututututut. Kind of like Public Enemy’s “Fear of A Black Planet” meets an avant garde free jazz band in a bad mood. The .50s were the hip-hop backbone, the .240s were the turntable scratches and the cacophony in between was Eric Dolphy auditioning for the Art Ensemble of Chicago.
Watching it was beautiful, like Red, White & Boom at ground level. Some rounds turned orange floating out into the desert. Some rounds seemed to explode on contact with the ground or rocks. Others shot up dirt fountains, like in the movies. Many looked like a series of sparks.
“****ing **** up” as the Marines like to say. It’s what the recruiting posters ought to say: “Wanna **** **** up? Join the Marines and you too can feel like a god with a trigger.”
After barely a minute, the seriousness of the firepower soaked in. We were lethal. We were ready to roll.
Driving in the desert is like a monster truck champ’s nightmare, like if you don’t keep moving, you’ll sink into the bowels of the earth. I was stunned how many times the humvee felt like that. But it never happened.
The lead vehicle almost immediately disappeared into its own dust. You simply couldn’t see it, and there were turns to be made along the rugged tracks (no way you could call it a road). Each radio man had to shout to the humvee behind him when to turn left. We kept formation in spite of it. Nothing about Afghanistan is easy, baby. Nothing.
After a few miles—pardon me, a handful of klicks—I saw the day’s most amazing sight: two Afghans standing on a plateau, just standing there watching us. VERY suspicious. Then, to their right at the bottom of the plateau, a score of camels were lounging. We kept moving. I wondered what the gunners thought. Hell, I wondered what the Afghans thought.
And how much water do THEY need to drink?
The desert receded as we came closer to the Helmand River. With water came life: Afghan houses, made of mud, as is virtually every dwelling and tiny building in the area. Mud this, mud that. Mud, mud, mud.
The desert track became slightly harder, too. Yet we drove slower, watching the road for fresh signs of churned earth, indicating buried artillery shells waiting to be detonated by pressure.
The living standard is so low in this part of Afghanistan, a few pieces of lumber to reinforce your mud house sets you apart. The people are everywhere and, as usual, the adults only look at us out of the corners of their eyes, while the children give us their full attention, waving, making eating gestures for food, or the universal sign of disapproval, a slow thumbs down.
I got a kick out of that.
Finally, after an unrelaxing hour-ride through desert, past ****ty villages that didn’t start or end, we started to wind our way through a maze of concrete bomb-blast barriers with a British flag at the end of. We made it to Delhi. It felt more like arriving at something with the same karma as the Alamo.
Later that night, we’d practically be under siege.
Ellie
Published: Saturday, August 23, 2008 4:01 PM EDT
My first armored convoy through the desert—I almost passed out from the heat waiting the 30 minutes for it to get armed, watered and briefed by the commanding lieutenant. Body armor and helmet can be such a ***** at 4 p.m. in the afternoon sun of the Afghan desert. I didn’t whine out loud—I just sort of softly moaned inside.
I watched as huge, young Marines, seemingly impervious to the heat (many had served in Iraq, remember) hauled their machine guns to their turrets, installed them, stretched out and dusted long belts of ammunition and then positioned themselves in their turrets.
Watching them work in the ferocious temperature made me think they should all be awarded some sort of heat medal—maybe a thermometer coming out of a camel’s ass with “Afghanistan” written on the its humps.
This was a fortunate Marine convoy. Each of the six humvees got chests of iced water and soft drinks and I was a fortunate rock critic on his idiot dream vacation: they sat me right next to one. Ah, come here Taliban boy, recycle our empties.
The young master sergeant first gave us our instructions: what to do if a vic (vehicle) is disabled by IED, who is allowed to get out and help, what to do if one loses the column, the basic rules of engagement and so forth.
I did not raise my hand to ask what the in-flight movie was.
Mission details had us going to Camp Delhi, which started out life as home to the vastly outnumbered British and Scottish troops for the last many months but now included a force of U.S. Marines. From there we’d resupply and reinforce a string of forward operating bases as part of what was called “the snake’s head”, because of its shape on the map.
So, there I was, in body armor, helmet, desert combat boots, army camo pants and jacket and with a black piece of luggage and an over-the-shoulder bag and a heart palpitating like a rabbit’s
I was assigned the second humwee with four other men—a driver, a radio man, a rifleman, and the huge machine-gunner who I swear I hadn’t seen breaking a sweat though it was easily 110 degrees at 4 p.m.
Even though there is nominal air conditioning in the ‘vee, the gunner standing in his turret is actually standing in the middle of the vehicle with his upper body in the turret. We’re open to the elements, in other words. And the elements came in—dust by the baggy-full. Going mobile in the desert is to eat a **** sandwich of dust.
We exited the fort and entered the red desert. I was awestruck by how small we were compared to its vastness, six humvees with maybe 25 men, like rowboats on the ocean.
And, to my mind, an enemy who knew everything about the neighborhood, including what we were thinking. Hey, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean it ain’t true. These Afghans have been kicking foreigner’s asses for centuries.
We stopped after a quarter of a mile. An order was given. Though I didn’t hear it, I figured it out as six turrets swung to the right, the guns leveled. In a moment, everyone fired into the desert.
The desert had done nothing to deserve being shot at. We needed to make sure our weapons worked. I’m sure there’s some liberal writing a People For Ethical Treatment of Deserts right now.
If you’ve never heard a .50-caliber machine gun fire, then you probably can’t imagine what three firing at once sound like. But try. And while you’re at it, add the stuttering chatter of three lighter machine guns.
I’ll try to help: Imagine a cannon—POM! POM! POM! and the smaller .240’s doing a more static rat-a-tat, tututututututututut. Kind of like Public Enemy’s “Fear of A Black Planet” meets an avant garde free jazz band in a bad mood. The .50s were the hip-hop backbone, the .240s were the turntable scratches and the cacophony in between was Eric Dolphy auditioning for the Art Ensemble of Chicago.
Watching it was beautiful, like Red, White & Boom at ground level. Some rounds turned orange floating out into the desert. Some rounds seemed to explode on contact with the ground or rocks. Others shot up dirt fountains, like in the movies. Many looked like a series of sparks.
“****ing **** up” as the Marines like to say. It’s what the recruiting posters ought to say: “Wanna **** **** up? Join the Marines and you too can feel like a god with a trigger.”
After barely a minute, the seriousness of the firepower soaked in. We were lethal. We were ready to roll.
Driving in the desert is like a monster truck champ’s nightmare, like if you don’t keep moving, you’ll sink into the bowels of the earth. I was stunned how many times the humvee felt like that. But it never happened.
The lead vehicle almost immediately disappeared into its own dust. You simply couldn’t see it, and there were turns to be made along the rugged tracks (no way you could call it a road). Each radio man had to shout to the humvee behind him when to turn left. We kept formation in spite of it. Nothing about Afghanistan is easy, baby. Nothing.
After a few miles—pardon me, a handful of klicks—I saw the day’s most amazing sight: two Afghans standing on a plateau, just standing there watching us. VERY suspicious. Then, to their right at the bottom of the plateau, a score of camels were lounging. We kept moving. I wondered what the gunners thought. Hell, I wondered what the Afghans thought.
And how much water do THEY need to drink?
The desert receded as we came closer to the Helmand River. With water came life: Afghan houses, made of mud, as is virtually every dwelling and tiny building in the area. Mud this, mud that. Mud, mud, mud.
The desert track became slightly harder, too. Yet we drove slower, watching the road for fresh signs of churned earth, indicating buried artillery shells waiting to be detonated by pressure.
The living standard is so low in this part of Afghanistan, a few pieces of lumber to reinforce your mud house sets you apart. The people are everywhere and, as usual, the adults only look at us out of the corners of their eyes, while the children give us their full attention, waving, making eating gestures for food, or the universal sign of disapproval, a slow thumbs down.
I got a kick out of that.
Finally, after an unrelaxing hour-ride through desert, past ****ty villages that didn’t start or end, we started to wind our way through a maze of concrete bomb-blast barriers with a British flag at the end of. We made it to Delhi. It felt more like arriving at something with the same karma as the Alamo.
Later that night, we’d practically be under siege.
Ellie