10 rocket attacks, 1 day

This morning you probably heard your alarm, pressed snooze and then eventually crawled out of bed and began your morning.

This morning I awoke to the jarring sound of a rocket attack alarm, jumped to lay flat on the floor with my hands over my head and stayed there for my 2 minute snooze until I could get up to hurriedly make my way to the bunker.  After the 6 alarms went off, I stood there for about an hour.  Then we got the "all clear," and I made my way back inside to start my morning and get ready for work.

Tonight after work you maybe worked out, grabbed a bite to eat, and watched some tv. 

Tonight after work on my way to the gym, a rocket attack alarm blared as we heard the impact of it hit base somewhere very nearby, my coworker slammed on our van brakes and flew in reverse to “park” our van in the middle of the road as we jumped out to race to the bunker at the corner we heard another explosion.  Upon entering the bunker I reacted with a, “Holy sh*t” as yet another explosion pierced through the sky and shook the ground below us making the rocket feel closer than I’ve ever experienced in a year, and then there was one more thud to follow. 

10 rocket attacks, 1 day.

Obviously, I am safe and sound and so are all my friends out here, and this is not a "usual" day.  Also, I am fully aware I knew where I signed up to work and I don't want you to think I'm complaining; I wanted to rather explain.  With the end of Ramadan, the Taliban now have full bellies to complement their full souls of hatred making this week thus far particularly violent.  

I still went and did my job after the morning attacks.  I still got smoothies with my friends after the night ones.  That’s life out here.  You adapt to a “new normal.”  We’re the USO.  Their terror has no home here.

And we make each other laugh, because if you didn’t, you might just cry.

Judging by Facebook status updates and news stories in the past few weeks people in the states were scared...as they should be.  Mother Nature was attacking them with earthquakes, hurricanes and floods.    I watched interviews where residents said they were terrified thinking that a decision made in just one moment could make them lose it all.  I couldn't help but think that's horrible... but try feeling that for 365 days. 

That’s how long a soldier is fighting a fight out here, so you will hopefully never have to feel that kind of manmade terror back home ever again.

Living dreams

I believe youth is the chance to forget the rest of the world and just focus on your own little one so one day you can figure out your place in it. 

In high school I wanted to be a forensic scientist (because I loved CSI), date the class clown, and be a super popular wise cracking couple.  In college I fell in love with writing and yearned to move to North Carolina (partly due to Nicholas’ Sparks portrayal of its beauty in every novel) and marry a reporter to become this journalism power couple of the south.  Now I’m not claiming these are big dreams, but I worked my ass off for them.  My senior year of high school I took Anatomy 2, Chemistry 2 and Physics.  I even drove to the crush’s house and put a can of chicken noodle soup on his porch when he was sick because I was a hopeless romantic.  In college I stayed up late, skipped some (not all) partying and worked my butt off to get good grades in journalism, then I moved to NC with a nanny gig just to get there and left one of the reporter boys in the dust hoping for him to pull through with a big romantic gesture. 

Obviously none of my youthful dreams panned out.  I’m not combing through DNA, married to my high school sweetheart, living in NC or part of the noon news power couple.  But that’s okay because new dreams replace the old ones and you realize that the old ones sufficed at the time but just like old shoes, don’t really quite fit right now, so you feel a little fit of glee as you toss them in the trash and know you will never wear them again.

Well a year and a half ago I didn’t have a dream, big or small.  I racked my brain trying to think of what I wanted to do.  I remembered my college professor, Neff saying at graduation that I wanted to travel internationally and work for a non-profit.  I realized I had not taken a single step in the direction of that dream.  So, I started working toward it.  Now I’m here working for the USO in Afghanistan and I love it, but like the dreams in the past one day I will eventually out grow it, and scour for another that fits better.

Throughout all of these fleeting dreams of my youth, there has always been one thing that has brought me pleasure that I haven’t had to force and hasn’t disappointed me in any way like all the dreams before. 

Since as young as I can remember our family dinner time was wrought with my sisters interjecting in the middle of one of my wretchedly long drawn out dream sequence stories that “nobody cares, Sarah” or “get to the point already, snotface!”  Yet my parents would always hush the table and encourage me to finish as I would meander my way through the riveting climax of the nightmare I had with some big scary animal that was doing something horrible at some point in some kind of woodland scene that was somewhere.  In high school I would make up stories my friends and I called “scenarios” about sweeping romantic gestures our crushes would make (not a single one happened, they were more the fodder for Dawson Creek scripts than how a real live high school boy would ever act).  In college I wrote stories in my journalism classes and for the school newspaper, The Parthenon.  For the past two years I told the story of my college experience to prospective students every day. 

Now, I tell my story here.  I tell soldiers’ stories here.  I tell the stories of my family, friends, roommates, coworkers, vacations, tragedies, triumphs, and training. 

This is how I live a dream I never knew I always had.

Do I need to assign you a battle buddy?! - The Joys of Mil Air

To fly military air there is no ticket purchasing for a particular date or time, instead I must sign up 10 days ahead of when I actually want to leave the country and hope there is space on a flight.  I cross my fingers and hope for the best as my name starts out at 76 on the list.  As flights leave spaces get taken, and my name keeps moving toward the top.  My coworkers said you usually want your number to be in the teens to get on a flight.  The day before I want to make a flight I am at 36.  Not a good sign.

The day of my hopeful flight I borrow my coworker Scott’s huge hiking backpack, place it on my back (almost tip over), and then go to the PAX (passenger terminal).  I am a nervous wreck.  What if I don’t understand one of the abbreviations?  What if there isn’t room for me on the flight, and I get bumped to the next day?  What if I sit in the wrong seat, or follow the wrong procedure? 

The huge backpack, dwarfed only by the huge pig

I sit on the backpack while in line outside and a lady takes our CACs (military ID cards).  As I wait I eat a chicken sandwich.  I had been warned that it can take about 4 hours to physically get on the flight, and you can’t leave the building so fueling beforehand is imperative.  The woman comes back out and calls for a particular unit that was going on leave, and they file past us.  Then we get the call to get in the security line.  Ummm, guess this means I got on the flight?

I then enter a hard structure that literally the ceiling and parts of doorways and walls are crumbling, not exactly JFK or London Heathrow.  I hear though that KAF is the busiest single runway in the world.  At security there is no need to separate your liquids or take your laptop out of its bag.  Just throw your guns, knives, body armor and helmet on the belt, walk on through, ignore the metal detector going off, and pick up all your weapons on the other side.  My sister got her nail scissors confiscated at an airport, and the guy in front of me just picked up his 9mm gun.  This flight is going to be a little different.

I walk upstairs and hang out in one of the waiting areas.  There are a few tvs and some port-o-johns outside, no Starbucks, airport shops, or free wifi.  I wait around then they start calling out last fours (the last four of your social security number) and return our CACs.  I spot a soldier who frequents our center, and immediately I decompress.  It is as if his mere presence will ensure my safe travel to Kuwait.  Next thing I know they do an all call (basically scream get in line and on the plane).  We all suit up with our IBA (individualized body armor aka flak jacket aka bullet proof vest) and helmet, and stand in line.  I am sporting some jeans, a tshirt, camo ballet flats, a massive flak jacket with a colorful African purse strewn across it, and I’m holding my helmet.  I can just see the stares of the military on my flight thinking, what in the hell is she doing here?

While we are standing on the flight line the sound of airplanes roaring past is absolutely deafening.  We literally have to stop walking at one point to let an airplane taxi by us.  I could have run out and licked it.  The back of our plane is opened up like a toddler sticking its tongue out.  We walk single file up the ramp, and I sit in a jump seat.  In the plane the jump seats are on the side.  They have sort of a seatbelt-like bottom, and the back is simply a pad attached to the side of the plane.  These are surprisingly more comfortable than the traditional airplane seats that are shoved incredibly close together on palettes in the middle of the aircraft.  In the jump seats you get as much leg room as you could possibly want.  Behind the traditional airplane seats are pallets with all our luggage Saran wrapped on top of them.  On my way back there were Conex boxes (the big containers trains pull) in the middle of the plane instead of airplane seats.  An airman walks by and passes out ear plugs and mumbles some safety features as I intently gaze at all the exposed wiring above my head.  Then, we’re off!  There are no windows inside, so you can’t judge the progress but we accelerate extremely fast and break into the air.  I try to push out of my head the reasoning for the incredibly sudden ascent.  I just hold on so I don’t smash into the soldier to my right.  On most commercial flights I can’t sleep, but with the loud humming of the engine and seeing all the soldiers relax and drift to sleep, I fall asleep as well.  Four hours later I’m in Kuwait.

After following instruction for civilians and having two soldiers help me back into my over-sized backpack, I was on my way to the USO at Kuwait.  I stayed for a day and then hopped onto my commercial flight to Africa.

Now being a veteran mil air-er, I thought I had it down pat for my way back.  I got a whopping 3 hours of sleep after my flight from Africa, and then I grabbed some coffee and walked to the PAX on base in Kuwait.  Once I got there I realized I had completely forgotten my IBA.  You can’t fly without it, not to mention I can’t lose it in Kuwait.  What if I need it back in Afghanistan? (Let’s all hope not!)  I check in at the front desk and tell the guy I forgot my IBA back at the USO.  He tells me that after you check in for your showtime you are on lock-down and aren’t allowed to leave.  Well crap, my showtime is in 10 minutes.  He tells me I can throw my bag on these wooden shelves and go get my IBA.  Apparently the military does not have the ‘don’t leave your luggage unattended’ rule.  I rush back to the USO, and we try to get into the Conex box where my IBA is stored.  The lock is jammed.  I tell Randy, fellow USO-er in Kuwait, to just ask a soldier in the center to bring it to me at the PAX when she gets the lock figured out.  I then take off back to the PAX.  I make it just in time and find out I’m on the flight.  Phew.  It’s all good.

A couple minutes later Randy shows up with my IBA, and we chat it up.  Then I sit down on some chairs next to about 50 or 60 soldiers and start to enjoy my now lukewarm coffee when a Sergeant Major yells out, “SARAH KEMP, SARAH KEMP!”  I meekly raise my hand.  Everyone is now staring.  He comes over to me, “Do you have a bag to palletize?”  “Yes sir.”  “Well show me to it.”  We grab my bag and while walking he says, “Did you not hear me when I called for everyone on Moose 83 to come palletize their bags?”  (Every flight has a call sign, ours was Moose 83).  I reply, no sir.  He says, “Yep, I figured you were too busy chatting with your little friend, but I thought I’d let you make your own mistake.”

We walk out and I throw my bag on the pallet while a contractor asks if I am Sarah Kemp.  I say yes.  He then verbally assaults me/explains to me that I need to listen to all instruction.  I'm brusquely informed that our next call time is noon, but it might be before that so I need to pay attention.  Then as we’re walking back the Sergeant Major (SGM) says, “We need to know where you are at all times, so even if you need to take a piss you need to let someone know you’re going to the latrine.”  Wow, got it.  I haven’t had to report my bathroom breaks since getting a hall pass in high school. 

We’re back in the terminal hanging around and I realize, I’m nervous.  I have to pee.  Maybe I can hold it…or maybe not, it is a 4 hour flight.  I walk over to the SGM and tap him on the shoulder.  He angrily turns around, then sees it me and smiles and says, “yessssss?”  I ask him may I please use the restroom?  And his quick and loud response is, “SARAH KEMP DO I NEED TO ASSIGN YOU A BATTLE BUDDY?!?!”  “NO SIR!”  I reply.  He tells me where the bathroom is, and I scurry off.  While outside in route to the bathroom two soldiers who apparently had witnessed the earlier incidents yell after me, “Did you tell someone you were taking a piss?”  and start busting out in laughter.  Yep, that’s me; I provide entertainment for the troops wherever I go. 

I return to the terminal, tell the SGM I’m back, and patiently wait.  An airman gets up and announces something like BEAR63, flight to Bagram, is now leaving.  I shrug it off knowing that it is not my intended destination nor my call sign when I hear SGM yell, “SARAH KEMP, THAT IS NOT YOUR FLIGHT.”  I break out in laughter along with about 20 soldiers who are within earshot, and I yell loudly back, “YES SIR, UNDERSTOOD SIR.” 

Eventually they call out my flight’s call sign, and we file on the plane.  I look down my row and see the SGM.  I give a huge thumbs up and scream, “I’m on the plane, sir!”  He just shakes his head and laughs.  It was an uneventful flight back, until we landed.  They don’t let us off the flight, so we sit on the airplane for approximately 45 minutes.  Then they open the back of the plane, and we can see the rain pouring down.  I don’t have a hood on.  We are told to exit the plane.  We walk through the rain to a school bus that is parked in the middle of the flight line.  The bus is already packed with soldiers who are going to get on our plane to fly back to Kuwait.  Everyone has their IBA on, and most soldiers have backpacks.  The bus is stuffed, to put it lightly.  This is where being a girl comes in handy, I get offered a seat, and collapse.  It is now 2000 and my last meal was a coffee and half a muffin at 1000.  This makes for a not very pleasant Sarah.  I distract myself by asking the soldier next to me about the reasons of his numerous tattoos (most explanations of course involved copious amounts of alcohol and friends with tattoo guns, or women’s names who he never wanted to speak of again, yet they are forever engraved on his neck).

We sit on the bus for no joke, 2 hours.  Finally they let the soldiers who are getting on our flight off.  They file out then we make way for the PAX.  Once at the PAX we get off the bus and sort through the pallets in the rain looking for our luggage.  Inside we give our CACs to the airmen to make sure we belong there, and finally are released.

I make eye contact with the SGM in the holding area and he says, “Do you have a ride SARAH KEMP?”  Oh how nice, I’m touched by his concern.  I answer, “Yes sir, but thank you.” 

“Thank you for what?  I wasn’t offering you a ride.  I was just asking if you had one.” 

Oh the joys of mil air.

Hope

Every Saturday on KAF (Kandahar Air Field) there is the bazaar.  Local Afghanis set up booths and sell everything from belly dancing outfits to burkas.  The bazaar begins at noon and before then the young boys can attend a school.  A friend of mine actually helped out with it once and loved every second of it!  I originally wanted to help with it but found out that it takes a crazy amount of training, and I’m pretty sure they don’t allow females.  After school, the children then help their fathers run the booths.

A couple weekends ago I arrived just as the bazaar was beginning.  As I was wandering through the booths, I saw an older Afghani man bending down seemingly enraptured by something his son was saying and gesturing him to continue.  I blocked out the rest of the bazaar that was shouting bargaining prices, and I heard the little boy in his tiny child voice with a thick Middle Eastern accent continue, “G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P.” 

It would be such a common scene in an American household at about 5:30 p.m.  Dad returning from work and his son rushing to proudly recite the alphabet he learned in school that day…only,  I was in Afghanistan, in the middle of a warzone, where just a few days prior people there had shot a rocket onto the very base I was standing on to try to hurt us.

So many people question why we are in Afghanistan, and if it will be worth it, and don’t they hate us, but for that one moment the rest of the doubting world was silenced and I was filled with a sense of hope.  Hope that this boy instead of growing up in a culture that breeds distrust and hatred of Americans, he would feel comfort and strength from our presence and come to crave freedom and work for it.  That’s why I believe education is the most powerful tool we possess.  I hope that we use it more.