I fumbled for my cell phone to turn on a flashlight. My phone’s only purpose for many months now was as a radio and a flashlight. I had stored 673 of my favorite songs on that phone. The sand, by this point, made the slider keyboard make the same sound as my childhood key-turned metal roller skates as they ran across cement. Nonetheless, I played those 673 songs over and over and over. Music seemed to be the one touch of my normalcy back home. My radio was always on in my car back home. Heck, I didn’t even know where the power button was on the car stereo that my ex-husband had installed for me. It didn’t matter anyway, I never turned it off. My stereo was always on in my house as well. If ever it were off, someone coming through my front door was asking if I had a headache or who was sick. It was always on. My music served a purpose: to calm me, to pump me up, to drown out annoying people, to pacify me. Music, to me, is a backdrop… a soundtrack… of life. In the ‘Stan, it bonded me with new friends and reminded me of friends back home that used to sing along with me in the made up karaoke night in the front seat of my car driving somewhere in Northwest Ohio. Everyone knew I was the one with the addiction to music, even if it was the same 673 songs. I took that phone with me when we played cards in someone’s AO. I had it with me on every mission, fully charged and ear buds at the ready for flights or convoys. I even took it with me to the showers in the morning. All the females knew if there was music in the shower trailer, the Afghan Battle Fox was in the house.

I navigated the area near my feet with the dim screen lighting to find my shower shoes. Flip-flops I called them when I was younger but Uncle Sam corrected me to call them shower shoes now. I slipped on the thin, foot shaped contraptions, grabbed my towel and personal hygiene kit then slowly leaned forward to stand up and avoid hitting my head on the top bunk. Once stable, I proceeded to fumble my way to the door at the north end of the tent. There was a thin sliver of light streaming from its lowest edge. Although only 0430, the sunlight had already taken over the post. I pushed the bulky door open and squinted to see the next few steps ahead of me. My eyes stung from the light like a criminal’s during an investigation in some old ’30s black and white movie. Slowly I stammered a few steps forward, still squinting, but drudgingly making progress toward the rows of show trailers.

What would it be today: Warm water? Cold water? No water? Locked doors? The simple freedom of going to the bathroom back home had been ripped from me as soon as I joined the service. The days of just walking to the bathroom barefooted in a T-shirt and panties were over. The luxury of setting the water to just that right “Ahhh” temperature to get the muscle knots out was gone. The concept of leaving the water run while I lathered and suds myself up was gone. The steam in the air, the spray of the water, the fragrance of shower gels and shampoo, the feeling of being clean after the shower, the coziness of a warm, fluffy towel… now all memories of a life I seemed to vaguely remember although it had only been a year before. Instead, I wore PT shorts, the previous day’s tan t-shirt and my faded shower shoes. My uncombed hair pulled back into a pony tail and wearing the remnants of yesterday’s eyeliner, I carried my toiletries with me in a semi-water protected bag and stepped up to the locked metal door of the female shower trailer. This particular trailer had a code to get in: 35214. I remember this for two reasons. For one, I spent plenty of time on this particular post. It served as a hub for many of my missions and departures. Therefore, I was very familiar with these showers specifically. The second reason for remembering the shower code on this trailer was because the lock was imprinted with Roman numerals. I had never seen a lock like this before but I can picture in my mind and remember the circular pattern of I, II, III, IV, and V. My fingers methodically knew what buttons to push even without the Roman numerals. III… V… II… I… IV… turn knob. In!!

There were a few mornings, like this one, that I was the only female in the showers and I didn’t mind at all. The transient tents were just that…for transients. These were Soldiers coming and going in and out of the country or in between missions. These tents were not permanent housing for Soldiers who actually lived on the post. Nearly 0445, it was too early for female Soldiers who were going to fly out. They didn’t need to be up and ready for the shuttle until nearly 0630. For those females who came in the middle of the night, it was just plain too damned early. The transient tents were lights out most of the time because someone was always sleeping. (Whether you were respected that you were sleeping and it was quiet is an entirely different situation.)

I hung my towel, set my personal hygiene kit on the counter, put my shampoo, soap, and razor in the shower bay, and let down my hair. Although it was nearly 90 outside already, it was nippy in the trailer. I didn’t want to check to see whether there was hot water or no water yet. I wanted my music on. I had a live version of Thousand Foot Krutch that always echoed in the metal shower can. I loved it and I loved it loud! I had the feeling this day was going to be amazing and I needed prelude music. Shuffle, shuffle, press… YES!! The solo plunking of the piano keys was followed by the grilling of the electric guitar. The crowd roared in the background as one loud wave of voices. Add in a solid bass guitar rhythm and finally a snare drum… oh yes! “Welcome to the Mascarade”

Welcome to the Mascarade! ~Thousand Foot Krutch

The music was rockin’ and my shower necessities were in place. I stripped off the half-assed uniform, turned toward the small white shower stall and took a deep breath. It was now time to play against the water trailer gods. I tilted the metal shower head as far away from me as I could. There is nothing like a shockingly bad jolt of ice cold water on your warm shoulders to get you in a cranky mood for the day. Today was NOT going to be that day. I took another deep breath, reached for cold silver handle, and leaned as far away from the direction of the possible spray of water. Remember that scene in Armageddon where Liv Taylor and Bruce Willis are on the computer monitors speaking their last father/daughter conversation then closing their eyes slowly and dramatically as he presses the button that sets off the nuclear warhead taking his own life to spare the rest of humanity and save Earth? I reenacted that dramatic pause many times when tempting my fate with the shower gods. I braced myself, looked back up at the shower head, and flicked my hand to raise the handle. What I expected to get was no water or a dribble of cold water. What I got instead was a full stream of hot water. Thank you to whoever must have showered and warmed up these pipes or to those who continued to sleep and left me a supply of water. Oh happy day!

I was in such a good mood at this point; I decided to break the rules. There are signs posted everywhere in every shower trailer on every post I have visited. Each sign, same thing: COMBAT SHOWERS. A combat shower is intended to get the major crud off, diminish a few germs, and slightly freshen up your body odor. To do this you turn on the water only when needing to rinse yourself. So, turn it on to get slightly wet, soap yourself, rinse, and get out. This is not how easily it goes. When you slightly dampen yourself in a sprits of water then shut it off, you get very cold standing there in your nothingness. Goosebumps form and these are not good for shaving or your mood. A few droplets of water on skin also do not allow soap or body wash to lather. You essentially smear some type of goo-like substance on your goose bumped body and spend more time standing in the cold water once you’ve turned it back on trying to peel or wipe it off. It’s like degreasing yourself.

Anyways, I broke the rules and really didn’t give much thought. With the traveling I had been doing and the variety of shower trailers or lack thereof, I was going to enjoy this shower. Albeit, it wasn’t going to be a long one because I had a mission to get to but I was going to take in a full shower, lather included.
As the music pumped through the trailer and with my body completely warm and suds up, I began to mentally play out scenarios in my mind of the possible events that could occur that day. Snapshots of history and reality intermingled with daydreams and fantasy. I began to picture my arrival at the truck line, meeting up with friends and fellow Soldiers, and departing on helicopters to a place I had never been. I felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. This anxiety occurred to me at the beginning of every mission. Question after question began to cross my mind: what would the Afghan people be like? Would they be receptive to our presence there? What would the country look like? Would we be in any danger while we were in that area? As every new question permeated my thoughts, my heart began to race.

I had to convince myself to stop thinking about the questions so that I didn’t work myself into a small panic attack. The reality of living and working in a combat zone could drive a person crazy. I had learned by this point in my deployment not to think too much on anything. There was so much out of my control and anything could happen at any moment. Concentrating on the worst case scenario only gave me an anxiety headache and would probably turn me into a mad woman by the time I got to go home. So, I simply touched on the “what ifs” and put them out of my head.

As I shut off the water and began to dry myself off, I began the mental checklist of gear and supplies to take with me. As for camera gear, I learned early on to only take one lens, maybe two, with me. I already had to wear heavy body armor and carry a ruck sack with me so I kept my camera gear simple. Were there times I wish I had other lens with me? Of course, but I learned to adjust to what I had. I had charged an extra battery the night before and had brought an extra memory card with me. All of my camera equipment was in my ruck sack and ready to go.

“Camera gear… check.” I mumbled to myself as I stepped carefully out of the shower stall. The floors in the metal cans were extremely slippery. There was no traction left on the bottom on my worn out shower shoes. Improper balance or lack of caution usually resulted in some awkwardly painful wrenching of a body part into a direction that it was not intended to go. With both hands pressing the inside of the shower stall, I slowly placed my padded foot on the floor and stepped out into the walkway.

My music had now moved on to another song on the Thousand Foot Krutch album. My mood was still energized as I slipped into a clean tan shirt and back into my PT shorts. I rummaged through my personal hygiene kit to look for a pick to comb out my saturated hair. My hair had grown so long over the past year. I hadn’t even trimmed it. There really wasn’t a need. I had to wear my hair up off my collar so it was always in a bun. I combed out sections and began to braid the front left side of my hair then my right. I found that pulling my hair back into braids on both sides seemed to keep the looser strays from popping out. I combed the back and pulled my long hair into a ponytail, pulled the two freshly braided strands from the front to the back of my head and wrapped a band around the gathering. I then sectioned out three more strands from that ponytail and proceeded to braid them together. I wrapped that braid around itself and wrapped it with a second band to secure it. This process happened every time I had loose wet hair. I wanted to look professional and hated having loose hairs blowing against my face.

I continued with my regime of putting on eyeliner and a natural shade of lipstick. Combat zone or not, I want to look like a lady in uniform. I gathered my belongings, shut off my music, and carefully slipped my way past the remaining shower stalls and out the door I went.

The sun was warm but not unbearable and, having just come from a hot shower, I had a little extra pep in my step. I returned to the dome tent and made my way back to my bunk. It squeaked as a plopped myself down and as I moved to put my uniform on: another regime that had also grown methodical. I chose the better and cleaner of two uniforms I had brought with me. I was headed out on a new adventure today and I wanted to feel like a million bucks. A hot shower, a fresh face, or a clean uniform… any combination of these three always seemed to make a difference to my mood. Today I was awarding myself with all three.

I finished dressing, tightened up my boots and began straightening up the blanket on my bed and depositing yesterday’s dirty t-shirt, socks, and underwear into my laundry bag. After giving the once over to my area and double checking the gear in my ruck sack, I took a deep breath. I bent over to get a hold of one straps of my ruck sack and, with a big tugging lift, slung it over my right shoulder. I then bent my knees slightly to bring me down to a level in which I could reach my body armor careful not to allow my ruck sack to slide back off my shoulder. The body armor with plates inside was strapped up as if there were an invisible body wearing it. Its rugged material helped to keep its shape. I slid my left hand through one shoulder area of the vest and out the other. I strained a bit to lift the heavy bullet proof vest onto my left forearm. My left hand, with forearmed draped in body armor, grasped my ACU from my bunk and I confidently walked toward the door ready to go on that day’s mission.

One year ago, on April 4, 2012, I returned to post from a three-hour video and photo shoot out on the landing zone. Immediately after I made my way through the entry control point, I was met by a staff sergeant who looked quite relieved yet quite frustrated to see me.

“Where were you?” he asked. Before he gave me time to respond, he quickly followed with, “Where’s your boss?” I promptly explained to him where I had been and that my officer in charge (OIC) was not too far behind me.

Curious as to why he needed to know by whereabouts, I respectfully asked him what was going on that he needed to know.

There had been an attack near one of our combat outposts in the western end of Regional Command – North and we had Soldiers that were either killed, injured, or missing. The attack had just been reported and details had not come in yet.

I swiftly walked across post to report to my section leader for accountability then headed to my office to meet up with my OIC to begin receiving details of the attack. As public affairs, we acted as part of the team that would need to know names of anyone involved in the attack. My OIC would receive this information and work with RC-N’s public affairs office for the press statement.

A dreaded feeling came over me as the information began trickling in. We had lost three Heroes and there were several injured Soldiers as result of a suicide bomber in the village of Maimaneh, Afghanistan. I knew the men that were killed and several of the injured.

The next three days were rough for many reasons. To start, I had to photograph the Ramp Ceremony and the Memorial Ceremony. I had to watch the faces of the friends, colleagues, and fellow Soldiers as they watched their battle buddies caskets being loaded into a plane in the early morning hours on an eerily quiet tarmac. I had to hear the chilling shots of the 3-volley salute and their first sergeant sounding off the Last Roll Call with no responses from the three Heroes during their Memorial Ceremony. I watched grown men tear up, sob into their hands, and outright cry. One by one they walked up to the makeshift memorial, slowly raised their hands to salute the fallen then slowly allowed their hands to drop back to the position of attention.

Once the ceremonies were over, I spent hours going through the photos and videos, editing and perfecting the productions to build CDs for the Hero’s Families. Over and over I looked at photos of the caskets, weeping men, and the memorial. While part of my mind was wrapping itself around what had happened, the other half of my mind had to drive on and to work. I had a job to do and I didn’t have time to grieve.

To add to the roughness of the situation, we were on blackout with our communication. There was no internet so that meant no way to email or to video chat. The phones were out and the televisions had no signal. There was no way for us to contact our family members to let them know that something had happened but that we were still ok. There was no way to know what had been reported on the news or if our families knew why we weren’t contacting them. There was no way for us to hear their voices or read their messages to calm us while we dealt with the reality of the life we were living over there.

We were 7,000 miles and 4 months away from home. A horrible attack had occurred and, for three days, all communication to the outside world had been cut off.

THE CHALLENGE

Could you do it? No internet? No texting? No emailing? No phone? No TV?

How would you communicate with your friends and family? How would you know what was going on in the world? How would you conduct your everyday business?

What if your friends and family heard that something bad had happened in your life and there was no way to get a hold of you? Can you imagine how they would feel?

Rest in peace, Capt. Nicholas J. Rosanski, Master Sgt. Jeffrey J. Rieck, and Master Sgt. Shawn T. Hannon. Fallen but not forgotten.

Throughout our training, we had been taught to “keep our heads on a swivel” meaning to constantly be aware of our surroundings. As our little group walked through the doorway and back out to the trucks, heads were moving.

The Afghan Border Police followed us through the doorway and congregated in front of a green ABP Ford Ranger that was parked nearly inside the entrance way. I pushed ahead of the group in the direction of our trucks in order to turn around and capture photos of last minute conversations between MSG Mellohn, the general, and the ABP soldiers.

As the convoy commander departed from the group, an ABP soldier with a white shemaugh stood up from the bed of the truck and took his position as the gunner for the Ford Ranger.

The differences in security protocols and travel between the US Forces and the ABP were numerous. The ABP did not drive around in large camouflaged, up-armored vehicles equipped with counter-IED systems, rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) netting, bullet-proof glass and other various safety features. They didn’t drive at convoy speeds that kept distance between vehicles allowing every truck in the convoy to maintain communication. They didn’t use GPS-enabled mapping systems to determine their location or to communicate with other vehicles or an operations center.  They didn’t wear full body armor, helmets, knee pads, or elbow pads. They merely jumped into an average Ford Ranger pickup, stuck an un-vested man with a weapon in the open bed of the truck, and said, “Let’s go!” They didn’t follow speed limits or any rules of the road as we know them. They drove at excessive speeds and held on. As a matter of fact, during MSG Mellohn’s planning of the mission, he had determined the order of march for our convoy vehicles and made sure that his vehicle was first so that the ABP couldn’t drive ahead too fast, get too far ahead, and lose the rest of the convoy.

The men on the trucks had not relaxed while we had been inside speaking with the general. The gunners, with the hot sun beating directly down on them, had been sitting walled behind their metal fortresses, rotating their turrets and scanning the area in defense of our presence in the area. The junior Joint Fires Observer (JFO) had set up shop near my truck and was contending with his radio chatter to higher. The drivers and the medic had also been very vigilant in posting security as they sat in the trucks and kept a watchful eye out through the hazy, sandy windows of our up-armored vehicles.

With our senses on full alert again, we mounted our vehicles and ran through the quick routine of radio checks. SGT Anise took his place again as my gunner. Our Soldiers were harnessed in their seats and the doors were combat locked. It was time to roll out again.

Once our convoy had moved out, it was very difficult to see the road in front of us. The wind had picked up and sand was being kicked up by the vehicles on front of me. My driver kept his foot on the gas pedal despite the limited visibility and we maintained our convoy speed. Although it was dangerous to have trucks too close together in case we got hit, it was equally as dangerous to have the trucks too far apart.

There was no chatter nor any music in the truck as there had been on the journey before. Our truck, engulfed in a large dirt cloud, rumbled loudly along the straight, dirt path. The clicking of the rotating turret above and behind me could be heard over the roar of the engine. The radio was quiet and I could hear the slightest ringing in my ears inside of my headphones.

After about ten minutes of driving, the sand cloud had begun to fade a bit and I could now see a few mud homes near the road in front of us.

I heard the quietness in my headset change to a dull fuzz as if someone had queued their microphone.

“…and on the left, you will see goats on a wall,” MSG Mellohn’s voice rang out through the silence as if he was playing the role of a tour guide. He emphasized ‘goats on a wall’ as though the words were the title of a piece of art or literature or, as it were, an oddity.

The men in my truck snickered half-heartedly as someone in my truck asked, “What did he say?”

I repeated in my best MSG Mellohn impersonation, “He said ‘goats on a wall’.”

At that moment, my truck was in the location that MSG Mellohn’s truck had been in when he offered his tour-guide impression and, indeed, there were goats on a wall. To the left of the road was a mud wall that stood three or four feet tall and, on top of that wall, were maybe eight or ten brown, white, and black goats. They just stood there balancing atop their perch, not moving, not grazing. It was the most peculiar sight I had seen on a convoy yet.

As we drove by, I chuckled to myself about the goats on a wall. MSG Mellohn’s attempt at humoring us with this oddity had helped to take the edge off the tension a bit. Although we continued to stay vigilant and alert, I think everyone’s shoulder muscles loosened up slightly. MSG Mellohn’s comment was just the dose of reality that I needed to put into perspective just how simple the Afghanistan way of life was in comparison to my life as an American. A comment like that would probably never have been said by anyone I know back in the States.

The trucks picked up speed and our vision was once again clouded by the burst of dirt in front of us. Occasionally, through the dirt puff, I would catch a glimpse of a donkey grazing near the road or a farmer in his field. The silence in the truck had also returned and we continued to keep a watchful eye for the remainder of our short jaunt to the district center.

I monitored the Blue Force Tracker, watching the icon that represented my truck move toward a square marking the district center and watching the messenger for any new intel for our area.

Once again the trucks began to slow and MSG Mellohn’s voice came over the radio instructing me that we were at our destination. Like all good Soldiers do, I scouted out my new area. To my left was a thin patch of trees, a couple of fields, and a donkey tied in the tree line. To my right, a Hesco barrier surrounding the district center that we had passed earlier. There were no other buildings in the area, no vehicles on the roads, no children, no homes.

MSG Mellohn had pushed his truck to the far side of the entrance way to the checkpoint with his gunner still pointed down the road in front of us. The ABP pickup, which had been between the convoy commander’s and my truck, disappeared through the gate and into the compound. I instructed my driver to hold back to the near side of the gate and SGT Anise, without hesitation or my command, turned his turret to cover us from the rear.

I waited to hear the go-ahead from the convoy commander before opening my door. I dismounted my vehicle slowly, taking note of as many details of my surroundings as I could. Carefully I stepped down out of my vehicle as I continued to scan the area for threats.

MSG Mellohn was greeted by the ABP Colonel Akhbar and General Wadood near the front gate. The general had ridden in one of the ABP pickups from Qal-e Khowsouddin to the checkpoint.

“Salaam alaikum,” the master sergeant said with a warm smile as he shook the colonel’s hand. The two had been working together over the past few months and had formed not only a working relationship but also a friendship.

“Wa alaikum as salaam,” Colonel Akhbar quickly replied with the same warm smile as our master sergeant.

I watched the three leaders chat briefly with the help of the interpreter. The colonel pointed across the road to the patch of young trees and then the two nodded and walked toward the road followed by a handful of ABP soldiers who had come from within the compound.

MSG Mellohn motioned for me to come over to him and I moved purposefully toward him. He told me that our key leader engagement (KLE) would be taking place across the road under the shade of the trees. It was well after noon and quite hot out so Col. Akhbar felt a breezy outdoor meeting would be nice.

The master sergeant instructed me to tell the remainder of the team and then bring both JFOs to the meeting. I quickly moved back to my truck, donned my headset, and gave the update to our team over the radio. As quickly as I said it, two JFOs – one junior and one senior – were out of their respective trucks and ready to go. I flopped my headset down on my seat, jumped back off the truck, and grabbed my assault pack with one hand and my camera with the other. The three of us walked away from the trucks and across the road.

An ABP soldier had laid a dark, dusty blanket and three black pillows out on the ground for the three leaders to sit on. MSG Mellohn, showing respect to his counterparts, took off his body armor and helmet, setting it in the dirt off the side of the blanket. He rested his sunglasses on the top of his head and sat down on the blanket between the two ABP leaders. The general, keeping his patrol cap on his head, laid comfortably on his side with a pillow under his arm. The master sergeant followed suit and leaned back on his pillow. Completely comfortable in his relaxed position and with his company, he focused on the colonel and began to jot down notes as the colonel spoke.

The interpreter sat in the tall grass beside Colonel Akhbar and one ABP soldier sat on the ground next to him while another ABP soldier stood behind them. The two JFOs and another ABP soldier sat opposite the line of men creating a small walkway between the two rows of men. Behind the JFOs was a tree and on the other side of that, a few feet down an embankment, was a small pool of stagnant, murky green water.

I removed my helmet and clipped it to my assault pack, then wrapped my head with my shemaugh again. Although wrapped in Pashmina, my head seemed to feel cooler than it did when I wore my helmet.

I stood off to the side of the group for a bit in order to take photos then carefully made my way across a narrow footing of dirt to cross the swamp-like creek in order to catch a different angle. I didn’t want to get in the way of the meeting so I hovered around from one side of the group to the other, crossing the creek as I needed to and being careful on the uneven ground so that I would not to fall in.

I glanced back at the trucks once in a while and then up and down the road for any activity. I took turns photographing the KLE and then other things that were around me. The frayed donkey that was tied to the tree line looked miserable in the heat and was doing what he could to nestle himself in the trees and out of the sun. The mountains were hazy from the humidity and, at one point, there was traffic on the road. Albeit, it was a local Afghan man slowly riding by on his donkey, but it was traffic nonetheless.

The Colonel, the General, and the Master Sergeant’s business was nothing that I particularly listened to but I did pay attention enough to them to get the gist of the conversation. My role, at that moment, was to take photos of the KLE in order to document the mission not only for our security force assistance team (SFAT) but also for the ABP. They were not equipped to send a public affairs person of their own out on missions nor did they fully understand the value of having one on the mission.

The 5th Zone ABP were good at documenting the activities of the general commanding the 5th Zone.  Most of the public affairs capability was nested with him and his personal bodyguard.  The 5th Zone did have a Public Affairs Officer who was, to this point, vestigial.  This was the reason that I had been included in this mission; to show the ABP the value of documenting their activities in the field that contributed to security and stability in northern Afghanistan.  We wanted to show them that this could contribute to establishing a positive awareness of the role of the ABP and, through that, to assist in enhancing government legitimacy.

There had been insurgent activity in the area recently and Col. Akhbar was explaining to the commander of the Quick Reaction Force  and to our seasoned master sergeant how the situation was being handled. MSG Mellohn’s working relationship with Col. Akhbar and the ABP was as the Quick Reaction Force (QRF) advisor. In short, although there was nothing short about his advisor duties and responsiblities, he mentored the ABP in regards to how they performed operations, training, and leadership.

At one point during the KLE, Col. Akhbar must have said something to one of the Afghan soldiers because an Afghan soldier had left the blanket session and returned with some delicious, hot tea. Yes, 100 degrees outside and I was offered hot, steaming tea. I was taught not only from the Army but also from my parents to be polite and accept hospitality when it’s offered so I put the camera down for a couple of minutes, sat on a tuft of long grass, and enjoyed a small cup of Chai.

General Wadood remained quiet throughout most of the meeting, as did MSG Mellohn. Col Akhbar would say a few sentences, gesture something with his hands, then pause for the interpreter to repeat the information in English.

The meeting adjourned as Col Akhbar invited the group of us to come inside the compound to see the checkpoint’s operating center. One by one, the group crossed the little dirt paths across the bog and made our way back up to and across the road.

Our gaggle of ABP and American Soldiers walked through the guarded opening in the Hescos that encompassed the compound. A few small trees were planted in the dry dirt in the middle of the compound. Beyond the trees was a one-story unfinished cement building with wood framed holes for windows. Despite being unfinished, the building was being used. Plastic sheeting hung over a few of the window openings and three of the larger entrance ways had been converted to drying racks for brush that was most likely going to be used for roofing. Two rows of five brick walls stood on the roof above the openings. The bricks did not match the cement walls of the building so I don’t know if they were permanently affixed there or not.

Two ABP green pickups were parked at the far end of the building and two additional vehicles were parked in front of me beside a two-story yellow painted building. The truck closest to the building had been parked in the shade. The truck’s tailgate was lowered and two stocking feet hung out the end of the bed on a dingy blue blanket. Clearly an Afghan soldier was napping or, at minimum, resting in the shade. Another ABP soldier laid on his back on the blue sleeping mat stretched out on the cement slab in front of the building. He, too, was in his stocking feet.

Our group stopped outside the door to the yellow building as we heard a “Hey! Hey!” from MSG Mellohn. A tall American Soldier with a tan ball cap and cigar limped toward us. The gentleman was a lieutenant colonel and a friend and fellow combat advisor of our master sergeant. The two had known each other back in the States and both had the role of mentor in Afghanistan. The two exchanged a friendly greeting and a brief but jovial conversation about how they had been on their deployments thus far. Aside from a few informal comments about their respective mentorships, the conversation was a ribbing about the manner in which of how the lieutenant colonel gained his limp. Apparently, the middle aged officer thought he could take on some young bucks on the basketball court. In short, the stogie smoker ended up with a broken leg that slowed his pace but not his spirit.

After a few more moments of joking and chit-chat between the two, MSG Mellohn turned to me and asked if I would take a picture of the two old friends. I took a photo consisting of our smiling master sergeant on the right with his helmet under arm and the lieutenant colonel on the left, cigar still in his mouth.

It was time to move on with the mission so we walked past the yellow building where another unfinished cement building stood. This building was a bit more constructed than the other one as it had glass windows in nearly half of the window openings.

Again, I lagged behind to get photos of the group. Our leader walked across the gravel walkway with the ABP leader ahead of the group, followed by their interpreter, then the two JFOs and myself. As we reached the door to the command building, we walked in front of a few coalition force and Afghan soldiers. The reaction was nearly the same as it had always been on missions like this. These men didn’t anticipate a woman on the trip and I could tell they were watching me. I just continued walking as if I were no different than the other men around me.

We crossed a short corridor and went into a very tall, brightly lit room. Sunlight illuminated the room through the windows that lined the perimeter near the top of the room. With the ceiling painted white and the room painted yellow, the brightness of room was actually very inviting. In the corner was a tall ladder that had been built out of stripped branches of wood.

Three Afghan soldiers sat along one wall behind two tables that were being used as desks. Contrary to the simplistic ruggedness of the compound, on the tables sat pieces of modern radio equipment, a computer, and a printer. Coaxial cables draped out of the equipment onto the floor and climbed up the wall behind the ladder like thick black vines. The vines disappeared out a window at the top of the room.

Col. Akhbar walked MSG Mellohn past a wooden divider in the middle of the room to the far end of the square command room. On the other side of the divider, that was made of sheets of particle board, hung three large maps of the area and a few sheets of paper with Dari or Farsi words written on them. The far wall of the room was decorated with more Dari-covered sheets of paper.

The two leaders migrated toward one of the maps and the Afghan colonel began showing MSG Mellohn where insurgent presence had been in the Chemtal area. There had been an ongoing joint effort, Ebtikar 4, between the Afghan Uniformed Police, the Afghan National Army, and the ABP to counter insurgent activity. The maps were just a visual affirmation of the information that Col Akhbar had shared earlier in the meeting across the road outside under the trees. By the look on MSG Mellohn’s face, one could infer that he was pleased with Col Akhbar’s handling of the situation.

A few more moments of conversation between our master sergeant and the colonel then is was time to step back outside and wrap up the day’s business.

MSG Mellohn asked me if I could get a photo of him with Col. Akhbar before we left. After seeing the bond that the two of them had, both as friends and working together toward a better Afghanistan, I was more than happy to oblige. The two stood side by side in the sunlight and I believe I caught the most genuine smiles the two of them could have had. Theirs were looks of kinship, assurance, and pride.

This moment was exactly what our presence in Afghanistan was about: helping them to help themselves – training them, supporting them, encouraging them, and reassuring them. I was there to witness it, to capture it, and to document it. I had taken photos of leaders who were making progress, one step at a time, against the war on terror.

We returned to our home post unscathed. Although ready for the fight, we never took any contact that day.

SGT Anise, despite his attempts to sabotage my position as the truck commander, did respect me throughout the day and did not cross me. He did what was expected of him and acted responsibly as the gunner of my truck. He did not, however, speak to me in a casual manner that day or any other day we were on mission together for the rest of my deployment.

My photos were sent upward to my command and distributed to many news outlets, both civilian and military. I also sent a copy to the ABP public affairs officer whom I ended up mentoring by the end of my deployment. Those photos helped to solidify the reason why public affairs was so important on those types of missions. MSG Mellohn and his Afghan counterpart were in sync in their efforts that day and I held the proof that Afghanistan was transforming and was working against the insurgency.

Hanging on the wall to my left was a weapon and nothing else. It hung from a spike that had been jammed into a crack in the wall. Below it, in the corner, sat a cardboard box with a tray of eggs on top of it…unrefrigerated, room temperature white eggs.

To my right was a small metal bed with a mattress wrapped loosely in a white sheet.  A couple of pieces of colorful clothing hung from the two bed posts.  A large sheet of white paper, serving as a calendar of the patrol schedule for the joint Afghan National Security Force (ANSF) patrols that were being conducted in the area, hung on the dirt wall.  On the floor were two thin sleeping mats on opposite walls, with a narrow piece of dark-red cloth between them.  A blue blanket on one sleeping mat was neatly folded and laid on top of the pillow. The blanket on the other mat was folded in half and laid out over the mat. On the red cloth between the two mats were three stacks of nan (Afghan bread), a bowl of yogurt, two short glasses of water, and another white container with plastic and a rubber band over it to make a lid. Lunch was the first order of business.

The ABP general had followed us into the room and immediately began to speak to his soldiers. Without hesitation, two men began to move the sleeping mats out of the way and another disappeared back out the door. The general motioned for us to sit and we each glanced at each other to figure out who was going to sit where.

The general, then another soldier moved to one side of the makeshift table and SGT Hanover followed behind. MSG Mellohn motioned for me to go ahead of him so that I sat next to the general beside the metal bed. He sat to my left and his interpreter sat to his left.  SGT Anise positioned himself at the end of the mat.

It wasn’t nervousness that I felt at that moment but I did feel an odd sense of awkwardness… for two reasons.  For one, I needed to take photos of the key leader engagement but was in a corner that wouldn’t necessarily give me the best camera angles. I was sitting on the floor between the leader of our group and the leader of their group. As a photographer, I was positioned in the wrong corner and should have been where SGT Anise was sitting. Secondly, I still wasn’t sure how my presence, as a female, was being perceived.

I don’t feel that MSG Mellohn’s reason for putting me first on that side of the mat was solely a chivalrous gesture. I believe that as a leader and a senior enlisted NCO, he was looking out for me as a Soldier with added emphasis because of my gender in this situation. Additionally, he and I had become friends on our past few missions so, perhaps, there was a bit of big brother efforts at play.

Nonetheless, I sat between the general and the master sergeant and waited for their conversation to begin. Honestly, during most of
the key leader engagements (KLEs) I had attended, I really didn’t pay much attention to the conversations that took place. My job as a public affairs specialist did not include the task of playing secretary and note taking on behalf of the key leaders. I paid attention to the entire situation in order to document the engagement as a whole: who attended the KLE, where and when the KLE take place, and what was the main purpose for the KLE. The Army had me write objective stories that gave that a general overview of the mission but there was not a need to include specific details of the meeting, mostly for operational security purposes.

I took out my camera began to take pictures of the group as we sat around the mat. Awkwardly, I arched my back over the bed so that I could get away from the group a bit more in order to get as many of them in the shot as possible. Most of my photos were of three of the guys on the left or the other three on the right but I could never get the entire group from my seated position.

The soldier who had previously left the room upon the general’s command returned with another soldier, both carrying plates of pilau. Unlike the American way of eating, each person at the table did not get a plate for themselves. Pilau was a tasty rice dish that usually had a chunk or two of meat in it and a handful of juicy, red raisins. It wasn’t sticky rice so each grain fell loose on the plate… and between your fingers. Yes, fingers. Afghans usually ate these meals with their fingers and only with their right hand.  Muslim religion dictates that the left hand is used for personal hygiene and, therefore, it would never touch the food in a communal dish.

A soft, flatbread, known as nan, was passed out to each of us around the table. A staple to every Afghan meal I had, this bread was imprinted with a design and then baked on the roof of a kiln-like oven.

The men tore bite-sized pieces of their nan and dipped it into the bowl of room-temperature yogurt. Afghan yogurt, usually made of goat’s or cow’s milk, was not like the American or Greek yogurt that I was accustomed to. This Afghan yogurt was warm and sour, like curdled milk. I had tried it once before and didn’t like it so my nan was always eaten without the yogurt dip.

I put my camera down so that I could partake in the meal. The general did not seem bothered that I was a female at his table but I treaded lightly and waited for the men to begin eating first. MSG Mellohn and I had a plate of pilau to share between the two of us. He started on one end and I started on the other. I was only a small fingers-scoop of pilau into my meal when the general stopped me. He had decided that I needed to eat with a spoon. His kind gesture was atypical of an Afghan man toward a woman. He had apparently had lunch with one of our lieutenant colonels not too long before and the LTC had made a mess of himself with rice everywhere. The general was sparing me the indignity.

He handed me a large serving spoon to use and I thanked him, “Tashakur.”

I wasn’t particularly hungry so I slowly took a few bites and watched the guys with their Army-rugged hands attempt to delicately eat the small morsels of rice. There were minor pleasantries of conversation amongst the men in between bites, some in Dari, and some in English. There was also a bit of laughter, even from the always-stern SGT Anise.

I had resolved that I was finished with my meal and turned back to working on documenting the mission. I rolled myself from sitting cross-legged to a kneeling position. From my new angle, I could encompass the entire group in the camera’s viewer. In the background, three Afghan soldiers stood quietly. They did not eat but just stood there ready to get the general whatever he asked of them.

My movement had sparked the general’s attention. He spoke to our language assistant and asked him to ask me how old I was. A little unsure of whether to answer, I glanced quickly at MSG Mellohn who showed no signs of stopping the questioning, then looked at the general and said, “38” which was then promptly translated back to him. He nodded.

A new feeling of awkwardness came over me. Obviously, the general was comfortable with me being there on this mission, eating at his table, and taking pictures but now he was speaking to me directly and asking me personal questions. He hadn’t even spoken to SGTs Hanover or Anise, the other men at the table.

He asked me another simple, general question which I don’t recall now but then the general asked a third question that, in my mind, overshadowed the second question completely: “Are you married?”

I didn’t want to be disrespectful and I was in a slight bit of shock so I answered him softly with a “No.”

MSG Mellohn quickly intervened in the conversation at that moment. Sensing that I was slightly uncomfortable and knowing that an Afghan man would not have asked the same question to an Afghan woman, my big brother decided it was time to start in the business side of our trip.

As he began, the general signaled for the three soldiers that stood at the other end of the room. One came over to us carrying a metal bucket and a plastic blue watering can. He stood on the mat still covered in food and dishes. Beginning with the MSG Mellohn, then SGT Anise, then SGT Hanover, then me, the soldier poured water over our hands and into the bucket. One by one, we quickly washed our hands in the thin water stream then dried them on a pink hand towel.

The other two soldiers found this to be amusing for some reason. One pulled out a small digital camera and the other sat posed on the floor behind SGT Anise to have his picture taken with the hand washing activity in the background.

Having washed our hands, the soldier put his bucket and water can back on the other end of the room. He then proceeded to clear our table of the food and dishes. The general spoke to him and then the interpreter leaned toward MSG Mellohn to quietly tell him that the general had told the soldier to take food out to the remaining men at our trucks. MSG Mellohn nodded to the general to express his thanks for the general’s generosity and then leaned to me to explain what had been said. He had asked the general in an earlier conversation to send food out to our convoy if there was enough. Apparently, the general felt there was enough.

Everyone settled back into their positions within the circles.

The master sergeant, through his interpreter, began to discuss with the ABP general about current operations in the Chemtal District area. He would ask a question then wait while his interpreter would translate the English words to Dari as he asked the general the same question MSG Mellohn had just asked him. The seasoned combat veteran sat patiently with his pen and notebook at the ready for the general’s response. The sequence of events during translation was nothing new for either of these two leaders so the conversation amongst the three men seemed to be flowing smoothly.

SGT Anise, SGT Hanover and I remained quiet and observant. Occasionally, I would capture a photo of one of the men speaking but I felt it was slightly rude and intrusive of their conversation so I kept the photography to a minimum.

The conversation between the two leaders didn’t last for more than ten or fifteen minutes. The two had discussed matters to a point where both were comfortable so it was time to convene and head out to our next destination, the Chemtal District Center for another key leader engagement.

Each of us stretched a bit as we got up off the floor. We headed out the door and back into the sunlight.

There were a handful of ABP soldiers standing in the courtyard just outside the door. The general was followed by the soldiers that were in the room with us. SGT Anise and SGT Hanover began putting on their body armor. I wandered further into the courtyard and began to take pictures of the men as they gaggled in the shade having their various dialogues. MSG Mellohn, who had been speaking to another soldier through his interpreter, asked me if I would take a picture of the three of them. I was happy to oblige.

As the men said their goodbyes, I hurriedly put on my body armor and got ready to head out to the trucks.

Our day was not over. We had one more stop to make and, with only one road to the checkpoint, we were about to head back along the same route we had taken to get there. Intel had told us that there were known insurgents in the area and, had they got wind that we had traveled on that road and we were at the checkpoint, they had more than enough time to have set up improvised explosive devices (IEDs) on the road they knew we had to take to get back out of the area.

Still curious about those “goats on a wall” mentioned at the ends of parts one and two? Check back soon for more of ‘In the Truck Commander’s Seat to Chemtal’.

Gazing out the up-armored vehicle windows, we attentively focused on the details of the people we were passing, the roof tops of buildings, and the leaves in the trees. The busyness of the city began to lessen as we rode away from the packed paved city streets.  The cramped side by side buildings of the city dwindled to only an occasional mud home alongside our route. The masses of people diminished to a few children playing here and there in the dirt and fields near their homes. We traveled out of the streets of Mazar-e-Sharif into the country in the direction of Chemtal.

The sun was warm and directly overhead as I followed the ABP truck in front of me.  The sky was clear and blue. There was a beautiful range of mountains to the south of our route and the land nearest us was patched with plush green fields and arid, dry lots of dirt.  Small rows of thin trees lined an occasional creek bed.  For a brief moment and aside from the plated body armor and the massive vehicle, one could think we were on a Sunday outing.

The guys in my vehicle had decided that the low dull roar of the engine was too mundane for them so they asked to plug-in an iPod.  I, being a music lover, agreed that our journey needed a soundtrack.  SGT Anise, despite his earlier demeanor, quickly offered up his music repertoire and, with a couple of quick plug-ins, we were rumbling along to the sounds of Breaking Benjamin and Limp Bizkit.

I had not been to the Chemtal District before so I was excited to be in a new area, although much of it looked like other areas of Afghanistan I had already been in.  Something new in my sights, though, was camels.  I had only see camels in pictures and at the zoo until now.  Never had I seen them free roaming or carrying people and their belongings.  Seeing them was just enough of a reminder that I wasn’t home.

We had traveled nearly 45 minutes away from Mazar-e-Sharif when MSG Mellohn came across the radio indicating he was turning.  The turn was a sharp hair-pin to the right and then an immediate left.  I saw his truck make the turn and then disappear behind a building.  The ABP pickup in front of me followed suit.  My driver slowed and maneuvered our vehicle along the same path as I called up our completion of the turn.

We were now on a smaller paved road in a small village with mud homes to both my left and right.  Not that we hadn’t been continuously scanning for threats, but once again we were on a slightly more heightened alert as we rolled through the village.  There was simply more to scan than in the country.

As he continued to scan for threats, my gunner radioed to me that, as we had passed a group of three Afghan men, all three began to dial on their cell phones.  Although it could honestly be coincidence that all three chose to dial their phones in the same time, my training it taught me this action was a possible indicator of a threat.  I asked SGT Anise to clarify what he had seen in terms of description and direction.  He reiterated exactly what he told me before and, upon this clarification, I proceeded to radio up the information to the convoy commander.  The information I spoke of was now being broadcast through the headset of every Soldier on that convoy.

The seasoned convoy commander calmly acknowledged my transmission.  The best we could do was to continue to be vigilant and aware of our surroundings.  The reality was this: if something was going to happen, it was going to happen.  There was going to be only so much we could do to prevent something negative from happening.  Unless we actually saw a weapon or an improvised explosive device (IED) before we got hit with it, we were stuck in a wait-and-see game. My pulse raced as I continued to look out the windows and we continued on our way out of the small village area.

The music continued to play although none of us was really listening to it anymore.  Occasionally, MSG Mellohn would radio back to my truck to check in to make sure everything was OK and, of course, it was.

We drove for a little while longer and passed a large cement building that had been painted a light color yellow. Around the building were rows of Hescos serving as a security border. White box-shaped buildings stood as towers high above the Concertina wire-lined Hesco wall. I was unsure of what the building was but it looked to be important at the time.

Once past the building, the paved road ended abruptly and we found ourselves continuing on a dirt road.

A dozen kilometers or so later, we rolled to a halt, positioning ourselves tactically to be looking up and down the road we were just on. The area was bare with the exception of a compound that stood next to the dirt road. The mud walls were probably twelve or so feet high and the entrance way was nothing more than an opening… no gate, no door.

I took off my headset, gathered my gear, and checked with the men in my truck to ensure they were ready to exit. We waited for the signal from the master sergeant to dismount our vehicles. Seeing him climb out of his truck, I looked out the window so see what was around me. Seeing no immediate threat, I gripped the inside handle of my large, heavy door and forcefully shoved the door open. I looked directly down at the ground below me and continued to sweep my gaze outward to the left and right of my next step. Too many times I had seen videos of Soldiers blown up as they stepped out of their vehicles. I slowly lowered myself down the metal steps and stepped down on the firm dirt. I grabbed my assault pack and camera then turned around to look at the vast, flat area beside me.

The moment was brief and I walked out from behind my truck headed toward MSG Mellohn’s truck. He had already walked with his interpreter to link up with the ABP and had a brief discussion about the events that were about to ensue. As I turned the corner of my vehicle, I looked at the small group that had gathered between our trucks and the doorway. The master sergeant, his security force (SECFOR), and his interpreter had their backs to me but the eyes of other men standing there took turns looking over at me. What was their fascination? I wondered.

The brief meeting concluded and the trio walked toward me. MSG Mellohn explained to me that the ABP wanted to extend an invitation of lunch to some of the members of our group. His decision was that SGT Anise might benefit from some Afghan hospitality to counter his negative personality of late. SGT Anise would therefore relinquish his gunner’s position for our brief stop at the post and would work as SECFOR for our team. Additionally, MSG Mellohn felt that a JFO should go in the compound as well so he chose for SGT Hanover to go in with us. The remainder of the group would stay with the truck but food would be brought out to them.

MSG Mellohn and I moved back to our trucks to get the proper personnel in the correct position then our little group of five moved toward the doorway. As I neared the doorway, I removed my helmet and wrapped my head with a shamaugh. I had learned from dealing with the ABP on other missions that I was respected and taken more seriously when I wore a head scarf instead of my helmet. It was seen as a sigh of respect for their culture.

We were greeted by ABP soldiers and led inside through the arch into the compound’s main area. The compound area was slightly cluttered with trash, housing a couple of broken down vehicles and some rusted equipment. The dirt was uneven and a few clumps of dried out weeds sprang up here and there. There was also a rusted water pump close to the front door. There were no tents, no trash receptacle, no storage facilities.

ABP soldiers milled around near the door inquisitive of their new-arrived guests. The ABP general, walking out of the doorway to the left of us, reached for MSG Mellohn’s hand and gave it a solid handshake. The pleasantries of a welcome were shared between the two. The master sergeant knew enough Dari to carry on small conversations with his Afghan counterparts. The general motioned for us to come in to a room that we could sit down for lunch. As we each walked past the general and into the room, MSG Mellohn introduced each of us to him. SGT Anise and SGT Hanover each shook his hand and gave the quick greeting, “Salaam” meaning hello. When my introduction came, I simply nodded in acknowledgement and avoided looking him in the eyes then moved into the room.

Traditional Afghan culture dictates that Afghan men do not speak to women and Afghan women do not speak to men aside from their husband and family. The same culture lends that women do not look men directly in the eyes nor do they shake hands with them. Women and men are not seen as equal.

Very few Afghans have worked closely with U.S. Soldiers and even fewer have interacted with a female Soldier. The ABP there knew MSG Mellohn’s team was coming but they were not aware that a photojournalist was coming nor did they know that there was a female on the mission. Those looks I was getting earlier? Those were because those ABP soldiers had never seen a female American Soldier… and I got out of the truck commander’s (TC’s) seat. That meant I had some rank and some authority on this mission. Simply put: they didn’t know what to think of me or how to, if they even should, interact with me.

Check back soon for more of ‘In the Truck Commander’s Seat to Chemtal’ to hear about the rest of my exciting trip, an explanation of “goats on a wall”, and why eating with a spoon was such a big deal. You’ll see more pictures like these:

The first picture I took when I returned to the United States was of the plush, green grass in Mississippi. It was comforting to see those long blades of grass under the large shade tree outside of my barracks. I knew I was back on American soil.

The cooling shade of a tree, the feeling of soft grass under my feet, and the sweet smell of flora had escaped me many months before. The hard ground under my feet for the past six months had been nothing but rocks, gravel, sand, and dry, cracked Earth. There were very few trees on the posts and in the villages I had visited. The few trees that I did see were small and offered little to shade. The Afghanistan air was hot and dry and, after Spring had ended, it hardly ever rained. The arid conditions were not optimal for plant growth so areas not near rivers or streams were fairly barren. With even the slightest of breezes, sand blew through the air. It coated everything and hid in the tiniest of crevices. The stronger the wind, the hazier the view. Blue skies often turn beige due to the blowing sand.

On occasion, however, I would encounter a minute splash of brilliant color in my mostly washed-out world.

I happened upon a few flowers in my travels, some wild and some groomed by Afghans, blooming in places that I wouldn’t have expected them. Most of them looked oddly placed… a single shrub in the middle of a compound, a row of five single flowers growing up through the rocks, and a solitary rose-bush in the tall grass behind a barn where no other flowers grew. On one multi-national post, an atrium held six grande flower pots full of beautifully colored roses and then there were the naturally growing clusters of poppies that grew briefly in the Spring behind my tent. The array of hues were a wonderfully heart-warming contrast to my Army-green, sand-filled, and monochromatic world.

On the Afghan Border Police post in Haritan

In the village of Kwahan, Badakhshan Province

In the atrium on Camp Marmal, near Mazar-e-Sharif

Behind my tent near Mazar-e-Sharif

In the 5th Zone Afghan Border Police compound

Master Sergeant Mellohn, on his third deployment in five years to Afghanistan and our convoy commander (CC) that day, began by sounding off the roll call.

Based on where your name fell in order for each truck called, determined your role within that truck. He started with his own truck… himself, his driver, his gunner, a young joint fires observer (JFO), and his Afghan interpreter.

The list for the second truck began with my name, then our driver, our gunner, our medic, and an E-5 JFO. The JFO in the first truck was a young one who had no real-time experience and had never been outside the wire so the E-5 JFO in my truck, who had gone on a couple of missions previously, was working in a mentoring capacity to the junior JFO.

My name had been called first for the second truck meaning that I was the truck commander (TC). The order of march would be the convoy commander’s truck, an Afghan Border Police (ABP) pick-up truck, my truck, and then another ABP pick-up.

He followed the roll call with the intelligence report that had been gathered for us. To begin, the area we were headed to had an incident just four days before. A Norwegian unit’s convoy had hit an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) and one of their troops was critically injured and had lost his leg. Additionally, there were known enemy still in the area. Also, in the city of Mazar-e-Sharif, a large city that we had to venture though to get to Chemtal, there had been reports of IEDs placed in trees aimed at our gunners.

The briefing continued as more details of the mission were heard for the next several minutes.

“Any questions?” he asked. No one said a word. “On the trucks, rolling in 15.”

I grabbed my assault pack and body armor and headed to where my truck was parked. All four heavy doors of the up-armored vehicle were open and my team was diligently getting their gear up in the truck and moving things around in order to leave. I stepped up on the metal side rail,  threw my assault pack on the floor in the TC’s seat and jumped back down from the truck. The medic was securing his gear behind the driver’s seat and the senior ranked JFO was messing with his gadgets in attempts to “talk to higher” on his radio to confirm our coordinates. My gunner, Sergeant Anise, a buck sergeant with a Special Forces (SF) wanna-be mentality, a bad attitude and the thought that he was the ultimate, superior being of Soldiers, was working on getting his weapon mounted in the turret. He was a unique character who had actually been removed from the Q-course (SF school) because of disciplinary reasons so I think hanging onto the SF look made him feel better about himself. He had let his hair grow out to the point where it probably pushed the limits of regulations and, because of a supposed shaving profile (a temporary medical excuse for why he didn’t have to shave… dermatology issues or whatever), had more than just overnight scruff on his face. He was the tall, skinny type that worked out daily yet still had the scrawniest of chicken legs to support his upper torso. That didn’t stop him from puffing out his chest, though, adding to his arrogant behavior.

I stepped slightly away from my truck and began to put on my plated body armor. I could hear a muffled conversation but it wasn’t directed at me so I didn’t pay it much attention. Because I was fairly ready to go but couldn’t mount the truck (TC’s ground guided the trucks off post), I spoke to a couple of other guys on the mission as they were ready to go as well.

After just a minute or two of idle chitter-chatter, I walked back over to my truck to ensure that my team was “up”. On the way to my truck, however, my gunner approached me and asked if I knew anything about the blue force tracker (BFT). I, not knowing the magnitude of problem this statement would cause, jovially and slightly sarcastically spouted off something along the lines of, “enough to be dangerous”… a statement that this Soldier did not see as funny or sarcastic and took to heart. He looked blankly at me, said nothing, turned and walked away.

Returning to my truck, I jumped back on the side rail and leaned over my seat to check my radio and the BFT. My JFO, SGT Hanover, a sergeant whom I had known from going through the Warrior Leader Course (non-commissioned officer training) together the previous summer, was standing next to my door in attempts to talk to me.

Climbing back down from the truck, I asked him what was up. He told me that my gunner had told him that he was TC-ing, not me. He seemed as perplexed about that information as I was, so I told him I’d check into it. As he went back to getting ready, I made my way over to the convoy commander to explain what had just been told to me.

I approached MSG Mellohn and asked if there had been any last-minute changes to assignments, explaining to him that SGT Anise had just told SGT Hanover that he was the TC. Without hesitation, MSG Mellohn crossed in front of me and walked to the door of my truck. I promptly followed him. He stood with SGT Anise to his left and me to his right as if he was a boxing referee about to lay out the “have a clean fight” rules.

“You are the TC,” he stated firmly as he looked to his right at me. Without moving his feet, he shifted to his left and said, “SGT Anise, I expect you to be helpful.”

“Rrrrroger that,” I slowly replied in a slightly confused tone with the thought of ‘Why was there some confusion?’ but I said nothing else. The master sergeant turned swiftly and footed his way back to where he had stood before our dialogue. I didn’t dwell on my thought for long. I gave myself a mental shoulder shrug then climbed back up on the truck to see where the rest of my crew was.

I knew MSG Mellohn from previous trainings back home and other missions in Afghanistan. He had thirty-one years in the military, taught counterinsurgency in Afghanistan for fifteen months, and had an impeccable reputation. I had no reason to question what was going on. He outranked me and told me what to do. Enough said.

Moments later, MSG Mellohn gave the command that we were ready so I grabbed my helmet and shut my door. With all the men in their respective positions, I put on my helmet, goggles, and gloves, and walked to the front of my truck so the driver could see me. As I turned my body toward the gate, I gave an overhand signal letting my driver know to move out. Slowly, we followed the lead truck to the gate where we paused so both TCs, the master sergeant and I, could get in and get strapped into our harnesses.

We began the routine radio calls to and from members in the truck and then back and forth from one truck to the other. We were “REDCON 1″ and rolling out.

Now, I had not ever TC’d in Afghanistan before but I had TC’d in training back in the U.S. and I had been on dozens of convoys before going on this one, especially with this team. Through my headset, I had listened to every word said by every Soldier in my truck as well as the chatter between the convoy TCs before. I knew the commands and when to call things up. Through my training, I knew what I needed to be looking out for and what to do if something bad, heaven forbid, should actually happen. I just had not yet been a truck commander while in country.

MSG Mellohn’s decision to put me in the TC seat was fairly straightforward. A medic should not be a TC because if all s*** hits the fan, you’re going to need him to patch people up. The JFO, if the same problem occurs, is going to be busy on the radios calling up for air support. The second JFO with us had never been on a convoy nor had he ever worked with this team so he wasn’t a good choice. Obviously, the drivers were no-gos. The gunners, though it can be done, are not usually best used as a TC and a gunner at the same time. True, they have great eye advantage but they are going to be the busiest guys around if we take contact. They won’t be able to call up the reports or tell their teams what to do because, obviously, they will be shooting back. My gunner had experience in both seats. I had not been in either seat overseas thus far but, apparently, my demeanor under pressure also played into MSG Mellohn’s decision (he told me this later). So, given the choice based on who was on this mission in whatever assignment, I was going to either TC or gun the truck.

The master sergeant had made his decision and had pre-briefed his command the night before and they concurred that I would be in the TC seat for this mission.

So there we were, rolling along dirty, dusty roads headed out to the 5th Zone, the Afghan Border Police post, to link up with the ABP that were going on this mission with us. The little bit of chatter in my truck was between the medic and driver who were good friends. I called up turns and checkpoints to the CC as I needed to and, occasionally, I could hear the JFO checking in with ’higher’ and the other JFO from the seat behind me. The gunner quietly listened in on his headset and scanned the area for potential threats.

Once we arrived at the 5th Zone, MSG Mellohn left me with the trucks and the men and headed off to meet up with our joint-adventuring ABP soldiers. The sun was bright and it was probably around 85° F (30°C) already. The young Soldiers stood around in a semi-circle near truck one as it sat parked in the dirt and stone parking lot. The loud dull hum of the trucks made it hard to hear anything more than just that. Unlike what my gunner misunderstood about my earlier comment, I was busy working with the BFT. We realized en route that the convoy commander had not been receiving all of the incoming messages so I was forwarding those messages them. The BFT messages were about current intel that had been received about the area we were headed into… very pertinent information.

It wasn’t long before MSG Mellohn reappeared and signaled for us to rally up. We were heading out!

As we made our way through the city of Mazar-e-Sharif, I continued to call up checkpoints. Every Soldier in the truck was looking out a window in case they saw indicators of trouble. We passed down one road and on to the next. I had taken these roads many times before but, because of the intel we received and the level of responsibility for the position I was in, I was on even higher alert.

The view out the window of my truck on the way to Chemtal

Check back soon for more of ‘In the Truck Commander’s Seat to Chemtal’ to hear about more of my exciting trip, an explanation of “goats on a wall”, and why eating with a spoon was such a big deal. You’ll see more pictures like these:

An Afghan weapon hanging on a wall at the checkpoint in Chemtal

The ABP soldiers getting ready to roll back out with us to another checkpoint

My stomach nervously churned  every time I climbed up in my truck to go out on those first few missions. Feeling conflicted, I would toss my assault pack into the truck, climb the metal stairs of the back gate of the uparmored vehicle, fasten my seatbelts, and wait helplessly to arrive at a destination. Unlike the hum of a car engine when I was a young child, the loud low hum of the vehicles engines did not comfort me. With every bump in the road, I bounced around, held only slightly in place by the harness that held me strapped me to my seat. I feared that one of the bumps in the road may hold an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) and that a blast was imminent. I would create panic within myself to the point of a cold sweat.

I fought with myself. In part, I was excited and eager to see new places and to photograph this new country that surrounded me but the pit feeling I had in my stomach often made it hard to be optimistic of each day’s journey.

When we rode through the city, I would look out the side window of my uparmored vehicle and watch Afghan women in blue burqas walking along the dirt road beside us headed toward a market. I would gaze at young Afghan school boys donned in their blue shirts and Afghan girls in their white shamaughs on their way to school. I observed older Afghan men working in their road-side shops and younger Afghan men driving carloads of people up and down the paved roads of the city.

Like a lightbulb on a dimmer switch, two things slowly began to occur to me. First, these people were going to the market, to school, and to work… just like I did back home! I was watching people who were, in these respects, no different from me, my friends, and my family.

Secondly, I realized that nothing hazardous was happening when I went out on my missions. The Afghans were going about their business and I wasn’t even a concern to them. Heck, most of them didn’t even look up at the convoy when we past them and the ones that did were waving at us like we were a parade. Waving… and smiling! Threatening people don’t do that!

I hadn’t lost my sense of awareness but I started to feel less and less uptight with each mission. The fog created by my fear was beginning to lift and my new clarity was now seeing people… not threats.

I grew tired of feeling a constantly exhausting state of nervousness and I knew that I had several months in Afghanistan ahead of me so I decided that I had to let go of some of my fears. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen… with or without my worrying about it. I wasn’t going to be able to anticipate a negative event so why stress myself out over it?

It took me nearly a month of missions to begin to ease up on my tension to where the nervousness didn’t exist. As a Soldier,  I continued to be apprehensive and cautious. Whether inside or outside the wire, I just didn’t trust anyone… save a couple of close American friends there. I wasn’t like that before I joined the Army. I don’t like that I had changed to become who I was at the beginning of my deployment. I’m actually shameful of the misconceived thoughts I had about the Afghans.

Threats of violence do not come from an entire population, I told myself. One bad person in a photo or on a video is not indicative of an entire country of threatening people.

As a Soldier preparing to become a non-commissioned officer, I attended the Warrior Leader Course (WLC). I learned concepts such as composite risk assessment and leadership skills needed in garrison and tactical situations.

As a Soldier getting ready to deploy to Afghanistan, I endured hours of slide-show classes on Afghanistan… everything from cultural sensitivity to terrain. I practiced again with grenades and re-qualified with my rifle, even qualifying additionally on a 9mm hand gun. I practiced detainee operations, scouring over inches of my battle buddy’s body looking for pre-placed weapons. I practiced roll-over drills in up-armored vehicles and had my reactions to simulated Improvised Explosive Devices tested.

I role-played with actors during exercises at the National Training Center. My mock-Afghanistan came equipped with the desert features of hot days, cold nights, and sand storms. The actors, some of who were actually Afghan-born, ran me through near-real scenarios that I could potentially encounter in country.

I was encouraged to read books on Afghanistan and the war on terror. While still in the United States, I emailed my public affairs counterpart in the ‘Stan to talk to him about life on deployment and his surroundings there. I searched the internet… I Googled images… I read news stories… I watched videos… I talked with Soldiers who had deployed there before… I did everything I could to be immersed in “the war in Afghanistan” in preparation for my upcoming deployment.

All of this learning, training, and interaction had now, so I thought, prepared me to go on my first deployment. I was headed to northern Afghanistan on a mission to help the Afghans help themselves before American troops would have to withdraw from their country. I was anxious to get there and to put all of my training to work.

I recall having an immediate and high sense of awareness when I finally got to Afghanistan in January 2012. On the first night I arrived on my post, I gave myself a headache as my mind slowly gripped the reality of where I was and the possibilities of things that could go wrong. It was like I had hit my head on a brick wall and I grew a level of nervousness that didn’t leave, despite what efforts I attempted to make it subside.

My new-found baseline of nervousness was proven on my first walk to the outer Entry Control Point (ECP). It was not a casual stroll to the gate. I shook like a wet, cold cat emerging from an accidental fall in an icy lake. My eyes darted from point to point trying to take in absolutely every bit of detail. The Afghan soldiers near me, standing in their dark green uniforms and holding their rifles, unknowingly and unintentionally injected a unique anxiety into me. I had no personal reason to distrust or fear them but I kept flashing back to the vivid images of ECP bombings I had burned in my mind from the hours of photos and videos I had watched during training. The figures that I had seen in those pictures and videos were now real, not photographed, and stood just a mere few feet away from me. The Army had filled me with conflicting thoughts of these soldiers… these men. I had grown an apprehension of them… yet we were there to work with them, to train them, to better their country.

On my early missions, I literally had to stop myself from thinking in order to focus on the tasks I had before me. I would scare myself sick just with the thought of a possible suicide vest under a woman’s burqa or that any random Afghan could just start firing at my convoy at any moment. It was a possibility and there was no way to truly measure the likelihood of an event either.

People were no longer people to me… they were threats and potential targets if the circumstances materialized.

Legitimately, there is certain threat level to being an American Soldier in a country torn as to whether our presence there is a hindrance or an impetus. That threat level is exactly why the Army trained me the way they did.  With every piece of training, a drill sergeant, team leader or someone with experience was telling me why I had to learn that particular bit of information or skill. I was told I had to learn it in case I ”ever deployed”, in case I “had to defend” myself, or in case I “had to kill someone”.

I had been told those reasons repeatedly throughout my training yet, now that I was away from my home and miles across the sea, it was really settling in and I was scaring myself. My mind, out of fear, had conjured up the thought that these people were all like those I had seen in the photos and videos. In my mind, they were all capable of pulling the trigger or pushing the button… and were just waiting their turn.

Ignorantly, I viewed these innocent, hard-working Afghan people as vicious predators… and without real cause. I had created an uneasiness in myself against an entire culture of people who I really didn’t know.

Who had I become? Where was this bitterness coming from? Had the Army made me into this? How dare I judge these people and mistakenly categorized them into something they weren’t?!

Fear had distorted the logic of my psyche as to whom the actual enemy was… and, at that moment, ironically, my fear was admittedly the most dangerous enemy I truly had.