Sister Chaplain Husband Hunter One of the Boys Friend

In my 17 months in Afghanistan I have been called a lot of things.

In this land instead of wearing your heart on your sleeve you wear your rank on your blouse and immediately this signifies which box you belong in.  The box is your stereotype that you fit neatly in and there is no use on trying to punch your way out because this is no hypothetical cardboard box, this is more a gorilla box with a padlock that you got no chance escaping from.

1. Sister

I started with this one, because it is one of my favorites.  I am one of three daughters, and one of 11 female cousins on my mom’s side, so I never had any brother types growing up.  Now, I have plenty of people to give me a hard time, punch me, teach me how to do a choke hold properly, make fun of my girly attire, tell me I look tired, and threaten to tattle on me to my boss, or to my own mother via Facebook.  I jokingly say that being out here with about 20,000 men is God’s way of punishing me for never having brothers.

2. Chaplain

Men, especially those paid to carry weapons around all day, are macho.  They are taught to be strong and overcome weakness.  To show other men your worries, hopes, dreams, nightmares and fears seems to be admitting you are weak.  (I do not believe this, but I’ve had this told to me and shown to me numerous times).  They need someone to tell, and sometimes that someone is me.  I have heard in graphically horrifying detail about numerous IED explosions, gunfights, and tragically, deaths.  They usually start by saying it’s things they can’t tell their loved ones back home, because they don’t want them to have to know how bad it is.  It’s a picture you can’t un-see in your head, it’s stories you can’t un-hear.  But, I came here to support our troops.  That is my mission, and if what they need is for me to listen to them, then I’ll do it.  They made their sacrifice, one I’ll never have to make, so I can take the tiny moment of time to listen to their story.

3. Husband Hunter

This is about the nicest term to label this category.  I’ve heard many other versions.  Let’s just put it this way, if my choices are old maid: living my life tending to my ever increasing population of cats, while hoarding Rubbermaid containers that have lost their lids, and using a broom to the ceiling because I’m trying to watch my game shows OR husband hunter: working in an active warzone with incoming mortar rounds averaging twice a week, with disgusting food, no privacy, and separation from every family member and friend I have ever known for 17 months because those are my only two options as a woman in this world, well then yeah I’m gonna start deciding if Pat Sajack or Alex Trebek is hotter now.

4. One of the Boys

The insight into a military man’s psyche can be interesting, humorous, disgusting, perverted, and shocking, but mostly just disgusting.  After watching one of my female coworkers walk by one soldier elbows his buddy, “Dammmmmmmn Dude, my team.”  “No man!  I saw her first, I came to the USO 2 days ago and dibbed that shit.”  “You can’t dibs with no witnesses!  It’s like padiddle you gotta have the car in sight first.”   I’ve been told stories that I have repeated to grown men of other military branches that have made them gag.  That’s me one of the boys in my camo ballet flats.

5. Friend

This one’s my favorite.  This is the one where I get to embrace a soldier I haven’t seen in 3 months since he went on leave.  This is the part where I get to race to Role 3 to see a soldier who has just been blown up get awarded his purple heart by a 2 star general.  This is when I laugh so hard I double over and begin snorting on nearly a daily basis.  This is how I get through every day thousands of miles from home… because they are my home.

Perfect choke hold

Time for the Big Girl Pants

It feels like it is time to move on…but moving on is such a scary thing.  In a world where death can come at an instant, to you, your friends, your friends’ friends, life is in some ways easier.  Events aren’t overwrought with “he said/she said” discussions, work is work, food is food, and working out is my way to sweat out the toxins that want to scream I hate you Taliban!  Every aspect of life from what we wear to what we eat, watch, and do, has restrictions.  Life is simple.  When you are living on a military base in a war zone it seems that the rule of thumb is don’t color outside the lines, and you’ll be fine. 

When the biggest decision of my day currently is – which one of the 6 DFACs do I want to eat dinner in, how do I go from that to – what country, state, city do I want to live in, what industry do I want to work for, and what goals do I need to work hard at to achieve what I want for the rest of my life?

It’s daunting.  Although no one has placed it on me, I feel a pressure that I have to live up to my experience in Afghanistan.  I can’t go from living in a war zone for 16 months to filing paperwork for the corporate offices of a paper supply company.  What if I get bored?  What if I get restless?  What if I become one of those SUPER annoying people who constantly says, “Well when I was in Afghanistan blahblahblahblah.” 

This job has ruined me, in the absolute best sense of the term.  Every single day I get instantaneous feedback and satisfaction from the work I do.  I don’t have to work on a project for months pounding away at excels to maybe get a pat on the back, I get to hand a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to the troops who work at mortuary affairs and see how excited they get and give them a hard time for not liking strawberry jelly.  They are the ones who no one wants to remember they are there.  They are the ones who do what no one else wants to do.  They are the ones who I made a PB&J for to say thank you from every mother, brother, wife, friend, and loved one of every fallen hero who they served with dignity.  All of that from a PB&J!

When I have something this good, I’d be a fool to leave.  To borrow from Carrie in every episode of Sex and the City, “I couldn’t help but wonder…” what more is there out there for me?  I can’t live in a war zone forever (well hopefully that’s not possible).  It’s time to put on my big girl pants and figure it out.

The Sweater That Saved Christmas

It seems every Christmas story involves the following ingredients:

- 1 widow/widower

- 1 child who has lost belief in Santa

- 1 very superficial businessman/woman

-  1 reason for them to be stuck together over the holidays – usually involving weather

Mix it together and the end product is they fall in love and realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Well our Christmas here in Kandahar had none of the above.  But we did have a sweater that saved Christmas!

It all began on a rainy day in November while I was on vacation visiting home and running a marathon.  In Kandahar, the USO center was ravaged by a flash flood.  I was busy sipping margaritas by the pool with my Grams while our center was about 6 inches under muddy water that to put nicely was not hygienic.  The floors floated up, and washed away, and the connexes that had all of our decorations flooded as well.  While the quick thinking staff managed to save most of the furniture and spent countless hours mopping up and cleaning up the entire center, it still didn’t quite have that “home away from home” feeling when I returned. 

Erin, my roomie/friend/coworker has the most unbreakable, relentless spirit I have ever met.  She immediately had her parents send her Christmas decorations and she transformed our center into a Winter Wonderland.  Randy, my other roomie/friend/coworker took something as simple as empty priority mail boxes and began wrapping them to assemble a HUGE present tree.  Now our center had the look of Christmas, but still not the feel.

I felt the Christmas spirit for about 15 minutes every day when we would pile up the car with stockings stuffed with goodies and knock on MRAP and Stryker doors giving out the stockings to soldiers preparing for convoys.  They were always so appreciative – I’m not sure if was actually for goods in the stockings, for the sight of the first females in months, or that someone remembered them on Christmas.  They would grin from ear to ear and then immediately begin trading candy like it was 2^nd grade lunch.  I loved that when we looked at the boxes that some of the stockings came in, they were from Boatsies Boxes operating out of Wheeling, WV!  My hometown made Christmas possible out here.  But besides those few moments, Christmas was largely absent from our lives.  Even a Christmas party for Role 3 that promised to be fun, was interrupted by a rocket attack.  Who invited the Taliban to Christmas anyway?!

With convoys going out every day to take Christmas to the troops at forward operating bases the back of our center became a storage facility of large cardboard boxes and endless care packages.  Upstairs was a virtual Santa’s workshop with boxes everywhere that were sorted with care package items in them, and an never ending stack that needed to be sorted.  It was a good problem to have though, because the amazingly generous people back home sent $83,445 worth of goods!  Although we were super excited about all the goodies coming in, the work involved to organize and pack the items was stressful and time consuming.  Christmas was slipping through our fingertips and it seemed no one cared to mind.

Months before Christmas our boss came up with the idea to have an Ugly Christmas Sweater party, and had USO Fort Riley back in the states send some.  We put them out on Christmas eve thinking oh haha it’d be funny.  After some gentle encouragement from the USO gals soldiers began donning the hideously tacky sweaters.  It looked like Bill Cosby’s closet from 1985 was on the back of every soldier.  They were wearing sweaters that were 2 sizes too big, or 2 sizes too small, sweaters that were obviously made for females, sweaters that had color combinations straight from the 80s…and they were rocking it out.  What began as us begging one soldier to put on a sweater spread into every soldier in the center searching the table for just the right one. 

Our winner for his sweet moves

Justin, my coworker came up with the idea to have a fashion show.  We scrounged up some gift cards and announced the competition.  What unfurled was the single most hilarious event I have ever seen.  Randy, Erin, Jillian and I sat up stools at the end of the catwalk to judge our competitors.  The Airforce band that came to play a live set later in the night immediately took their places and began playing songs like “Walk This Way” and “Dude Looks Like a Lady.”  The first soldier “model” set the stage by doing what can only be explained as sashaying down the catwalk and striking a fierce pose.  What followed included the moonwalk, soldiers blowing us kisses, giving us presents, skipping hand in hand, shaking their bootys, and breakdancing.  Everyone was doubled over laughing.  We crowned two winners, one for his smooth moves, and one for how awesomely hideous his sweater was.  After the competition, they didn’t take them off.  They continued to wear the sweaters as the Role 3 (the trauma hospital on base) choir sang, one of our amazing volunteers JD spread Christmas cheer as Santa, desserts were eaten, garland relays were conducted and Christmas movies were played.  When a troop walked in the front door their face would instantly light up as you saw them trying to figure out why everyone had hideous sweaters on over their camis.  Christmas Day was delightfully awesome too with us handing out gifts to every troop that walked through our doors.  We also stalked the boardwalk and gave out stockings to everyone there.  It concluded with a Skype session with my parents and sister to open up the presents they sent, and the ones I sent them.

The soldier far right won for picking the most hideous sweater

My new recipe for a Christmas story:

-       1 team of dedicated morale boosters

-       Countless people back home who love and care about us enough to send numerous care packages

-       Hundreds of funny troops

-       Some ugly sweaters

-       1 reason for them to be stuck together over the holidays - war

Mix it together and the end product is they have a good time and realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Santa making them earn their presents

Home.

As with most homes, the heart of our house is the kitchen.  On the single most high traffic area of the house, the fridge, smack dab in the middle, my mom has placed this quote, 

When I speak of home, I speak of the place where – in default of a better – those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it but the same good name notwithstanding. – Charles Dickens

I am currently 7,180 miles, 1 ocean, a couple continents, and 8 ½ hours of time zones away from home.  Most days I don’t dwell on that fact or even give it more than a moment’s reflection, but during the holidays that distance because a nagging throb in the forefront of my head that chants, “You’re missing out on everything. You miss home.  Your family misses you.  What are you doing?”

Last Christmas I considered trying to forget it was an event all together.  I thought if I skipped Christmas I could skip the homesickness.  Well, life doesn’t work like that.  (You can read the full story of how that worked out here.) As I tried to conjure up ways to make myself feel better it finally hit me that the other 25,000 people on this base are feeling the exact same way.  There’s no excuse of ‘no one understands me,’ because get this, every one does.  We are all missing our family traditions: Midnight Mass, getting to search through our stockings but nothing else until our parents wake up on Christmas morning, Dad always joking that we have to eat breakfast first before present opening and us kids begging him no, Christmas day gift exchange with the cousins, watching White Christmas and singing the ‘Sisters, Sisters’ song with my sister, and the sight, smell, and silence of a perfect winter snow.

The thought that got me through it all was simple, my family supports me so I can support them.  From the outpouring of love in e-mails, cards, care packages, phone calls, Skype dates and more I have my spirit renewed and my hope strengthened. 

Last year we asked friends, families, churches, community organizations and anyone else we could think of to send care package items to us so we could make gifts for our troops.  We received enough to give a present to every Soldier, Sailor, Marine and Airman that walked through our center doors on Christmas Day.

My own parish sent numerous boxes of items including a homemade fruit cake!  My aunt sent packages with a note that said she always donates to a charity instead of giving her adult daughters Christmas presents, and this year she was sending care packages to our troops.  I couldn’t help but swell with pride knowing that my family and friends made Christmas happen out here.

No experience can match the feeling I had after handing a troop a bag and watching their face light up and, “For reals?  This is for me?!” come out of their mouth.  It meant so much to them to receive the gift not just from USO Kandahar, but from the American people.  It might have been just a small gesture, but it sent a huge comforting message to the troops that they weren’t forgotten.  People still care.  Just like school children at lunch, most of them sat down and immediately began trading Slim Jims for candy canes and hand sanitizer for razors.

This year we want to do the same, only better!  This is where we need help.  We need gifts from people back home to fill the bags.  I have posted the flyer below with our mailing address and wish list.

This Christmas I will again be thousands of miles from the place I call home.  I will be in a large tent, in the middle of a desert, surrounding by dirt, dust and the constant threat of violence.  But it is there that people will be gathered, they might not be my loved ones, but they are somebody's.  So here we will gather in our home away from home, “Until Every One Comes Home.”

My One Year Anniversary

September 11, 2011 marked my one year anniversary working for the USO. 

10 years ago changed my life in ways I never saw possible.  I was a scared shitless 16 year old who thought the world was crashing down around me.  Now here I am 10 years later, 26 years old, confident in a world that literally is crashing down around me.

The horrendous acts on September 11^th sent my generation, some my friends, to war.  In a roundabout way September 11^th also sent me to a warzone.

My coworker Sarah York set up a table in our center with a board for anyone to write a message to remember the lives lost on September 11^th and in OIF and OEF.  She set out tea lights so they could light a candle in memoriam.  It touched my heart as I watched a Marine pilot walk over and look at the lit table with curiosity, then realize it’s purpose, and take the few moments to light a candle and then bow his head for a couple precious seconds afterward in prayer.

Also on September 11^th Outback Steakhouse came to Kandahar and cooked their food in the DFACs.  It was AMAZING!  We had the most delicious steak I have had in a year, spinach artichoke dip with FRESH bread, and cheesecake that I almost had to fight a dude over to get the last piece.  Randy, York and I all agreed that Outback made the meal especially for our anniversary dinner. 

Upon returning to the center, Randy, York and I wanted to get a picture to commemorate our year, no sooner had Richard our boss taken the snapshot than the rocket alarm siren blared.  We fell to the floor and laid flat on our bellies.  I guess the Taliban wanted to celebrate our anniversary as well.

When we cleared the center, York and I blew out all the memorial candles because we had no idea how long we would be in the bunker. After the “all clear” siren, we re-entered the center and began tidying up.  I started to throw away the old candles, and York said, “Stop, each of those were a prayer too.”  So in complete silence York and soon Erin joined to relight every candle.  We filled the table with candles all suddenly much more aware that even though September 11^th was 10 years ago and we’ll never forget that date, every single day lives are still being sacrificed.

The tealight memorial with lit and burnt out candles

Googling

Googling has a perverse power over me.  Out here I have a lot of free time without all the distractions of “normal” life.  So when most people in casual conversation say, hmmm I wonder if we had a Quaker president, they then let the thought quickly pass.  Instead, I catalog these moments to later google.  Today I spent a good half an hour researching the religion of each president.  Dwight D Eisenhower was raised a Jehovah Witness!  Who would’ve thought.  Instead of leading NATO in WWII, he could’ve been at your grandma's front door telling her why birthdays are evil.

I also like using google after I have any type of military conversation.  I need to look up all the acronyms of what they just said that I nodded my head in agreement to when really I’m thinking are 40 Mike Mikes like 34 DDs?  Are they bigger than say, 40 Mikes?  Are there 40 Mikes? 

So I google it.  I want to understand when someone tells me that they are 13Bravo and their PL was yelling at them when their MRAP narrowly missed an IED 2 clicks outside the COP then they got hit with RPGs and the ANA didn't do anything, but it’s all good because they now just went to DFAC and the MWR and can enjoy some R&R after taking off their ACUs and putting on PTs while hanging out in their RLB with their NCO.  Roger that?

The other night I awoke from a horrible nightmare that the marathon I am running in November was tomorrow and I was completely unprepared for it.  Now marathon training in a warzone is just about as much fun as it sounds.  There is a lot of dust and the constant stench of the poo pond.  It is also still really hot (about 93 right now mid-day), and I can’t do any training at night because it is not safe.  I’m not allowed to wear a tank top, but I have to wear a reflective belt.  Sexy!  Also it is hard to work out at the gym because it is always packed with guys wanting to get their deployment shred on by drinking muscle milk and doing mad reps in their ranger panties so they can go home ripped.  (Ranger panties are incredibly short shorts that are approximately two inches of material larger than your average speedo).  In spite of these disadvantages I have still somehow managed to run up to 16 miles in a stretch, which is right on track for the training schedule I had googled.  Yet, I still needed something to make me feel better, so  I googled.  Turns out Kandahar sits at 3,337 feet above sea level, and Ft Benning is at 310.  Instant smile!  That’s bound to give me some sort of advantage!

Google pulls through again!  Now on to google how to prevent losing your toenails while running 26.2 miles.  I heard it could happen!

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.

One smoothie at a time

30 Americans Killed in Afghanistan.  My mind immediately starts racing, who do I know in that province?  What was that SEALs name that did a United Through Reading a couple weeks ago?  Where there any MarSOCs or any other Special Forces in the crash?  What about our volunteer who is a Chinook pilot, I haven’t seen him a while?  I’m searching news websites for pictures, e-mailing friends and asking coworkers. 

Just a year ago these were just stories, this year this is my life. 

Every day I get a chance to help troops, and in this situation I feel absolutely helpless.  I can’t do anything to make it better.  I can’t take away the pain those families are feeling.  My heart aches for them.

I don’t think I knew any of the troops killed that day; I’m honestly still not 100% sure, but even if not, it does not make it any better.  There are still 30 families hearing the worst news of their lives wondering how they’ll make it through.  I read in an article that they interviewed a widow on the Today show and it was heartbreaking to listen to her as she had to correct herself from describing her husband as “is” to “was.”  Then there’s the 10 year old boy who lost his father and posted a picture to CNN because he didn’t want anyone to forget his daddy.

I just finished reading a moving book last week written by a Navy SEAL called, “The Heart and The Fist” by Eric Greitens.  He was a humanitarian volunteering in Rwanda and Croatia, then realized he wanted to do more and became a Navy SEAL.  He explains his reason for joining the SEALs:

We can certainly donate money and clothing, and we can volunteer in the refugee camps.  But in the end these acts of kindness are done after the fact.  They are done after people have been killed, their homes burned, their lives destroyed.  Yes, the clothing, the bread, the school; they are all good and they are all much appreciated.  But I suppose we have to behave the same way we would if any person – our kids, our sisters, brothers, parents – were threatened.  If we really care about these people, we have to be willing to protect them from harm.

These fallen heroes did just that.  They tried to make the world a better place for all of us.

 And a good life, a meaningful life, a life in which we can enjoy the world and live with purpose, can only be built if we do more than live for ourselves. – Greitens

This all still left me with a hollow feeling of what can I do to somehow make sense of this.  I can remember on September 11^th when the world was crashing down around us and no one had any idea what was going on, I came home from high school and my mom simply said, “these chairs need painted for Angela (my sister).”  We spent the afternoon not talking about the fear or uncertainty, but painting chairs.  The horrific acts of September 11th were beyond our control, we couldn’t change the outcome, so we did something productive for someone else.  We found silence in our minds and some comfort in our hearts by working with our hands for others.

Today was my first day back from vacation and I had the honor of visiting the Wounded Warriors' housing and making them smoothies with my coworkers.  For 2 hours even though I was surrounded by literally suffering - these men have been blown up and have holes shot in them, I had a non-stop smile on my face.  At first they were a bit timid and shy, but even while limping they offered to help us carry boxes.  Then once the blenders got whirring, they came out of the woodwork!  I loved putting a smile on their face, and letting them crack me up too!  We were waiting on some of the other soldiers to show up and one of the Wounded Warriors said yeah they’re all the guys with concussions to which another soldier quickly responded, “Yeah they probably forgot how to get here.”  :D

I worked at a smoothie shop for 6 months during my senior year of college, but I don't remember a single customer.  Today's smoothies made in the middle of a warzone, in the middle of summer, in the middle of a room filled with wounded soldiers, I'll never forget.  It wasn’t much what we did, but damn it felt good.

Across the globe, even in the world’s ‘worst places,’ people found ways to turn pain into wisdom and suffering into strength.  They made their own actions, their very lives, into a memorial that honored the people they had lost. - Greitens

The Beginning and the End

I originally wrote this post on 28JUN11.

Working for the USO and being one of those rare breeds on base we like to call females, I get to see some cool things.  I’ve flown on a Marine logistics flight to other FOBs, I’ve ridden in an MRAP and I’ve taken a tour with the PJs.

PJs are Pararescue Jumpers.  These men are in the US Airforce Special Operations, and they are responsible for the recovery and medical treatment of the wounded in a combat environment. (I knew all that but wikipedia just said it more concisely).  These are called MEDEVAC missions (medical evacuation).  They have to go to a specialized school for 2 years.  They must complete airborne school, survival school, underwater training, free fall parachutist school, and paramedic training among others.  Their motto is, “That Others May Live.”  They are basically badasses who save lives on a regular basis.

A couple months ago my coworker Duane and I got to tour their Black Hawks.  A PJ named Daniel gave us the tour and showed us all the equipment they use (I was shocked at how little there was, I remember even saying, “This is all it takes to save a life?  Any problem you have these few machines can fix?”  He said, “yes.” )  I put on his “kit” (bulletproof vest with attachments) on.  I nearly fell over from the weight and Daniel responded, “you don’t even have the ruck on yet.”  So then I put the ruck sack on.  It was so heavy, and he puts all this on and then squats or bends over to work on a patient.  They literally slide down a rope out of a chopper to get on the ground and save a troops life who has just been shot or blown up.  Then they throw them in the chopper and go.  Daniel had a large saw, I asked him what it was for, he said British “litters” (cots they put patients on) are longer than American litters and don’t fit on the plane, so they have to cut them down to size.  Of course since we’re in a warzone there is a 50 caliber gun and a Airman’s job who is to be the “gunner.”  Daniel told us a story of once the pilot was shot in the leg and he had to take his ruck and kit off and maneuver himself to slide up and over through to the cockpit to work on the pilot’s leg while they were flying back to KAF. 

I was so grateful for the tour and for what they do.  As we were walking back to get a bottle of water after the tour all of their pagers went off and they took off sprinting toward the choppers.  We got to see them all suit up efficiently and quickly and take off within 2 minutes to go save another life.  It was AMAZING.

Last night, my running coach, Capt. Simmons gave my coworker Randy and I a tour of CASF.  This is the area where they hold the wounded warriors near the flight line until a flight is ready for them to get on to be transported to a more equipped hospital in Bagram (Kabul, Afghanistan) or Landstuhl hospital in Germany.  After taking a tour, Simmons talked his way into letting us up in the control tower on the flight line.  We could see all of KAF.  It was breathtaking.  It is HUGE.  It is a city.  We watched C130s, and Chinooks fly by.  They say Kandahar Air Field has the busiest runway in the world.  It was crazy to be that close to airplanes that were constantly taking off and landing. 

While we were standing on the catwalk outside the tower, two Black Hawks approached.  Simmons told us they were a MEDEVAC mission coming in.  We watched two ambulances wait on the flightline while the two choppers landed.  PJs jumped out and carried the litters to the people waiting on the ground who put the wounded warriors in the ambulance (glorified humvee) and drove them the few feet to Role 3.  Role 3 is the emergency and critical care hospital.  Role 2 would be where you go for a sinus infection or the flu.  They didn’t seem very hurried so we took that as a good sign that the troops weren’t hurt too badly.  Simmons found out today they were Bravo, Alpha is the most critical that’s gun shot wounds or IEDs, Bravo is not as hurt.  As we watched the PJs jump back in and the choppers slicing through the air I thought of how I saw them at the beginning and the end.  The thing is I never want to see the middle.  I thought of my friends who have been MEDEVACd the ones who have died and the one who have lived.  How terrifying of a flight that must be.

Randy and I both said we could stand on that catwalk for hours and watch all the planes fly by.  We started to make our way around the catwalk and back indoors when Simmons pointed out Mortuary Affairs to us.  It is situated right behind the Role 3.  He pointed to the connexes where they keep the heroes (that is what they refer to the deceased as).  Simmons told us how sometimes mortuary affairs will go greet the PJs instead of Role 3.  That broke my heart.  Simmons even talked about how a few times he has volunteered over there to iron flags.  Just thinking about the incredible strength it would take to fill a metal box with ice to place a killed troop in, to iron the flag that will cover his final resting place, to say goodbye to a face that his own mother probably doesn’t even know is dead yet.  I took it all in.

Tonight Randy and I attended a ramp ceremony for 3 Marine heroes and 1 Army hero.  Before when I attended ramps I just felt a numbing sorrow.  This time I could picture it every step of the way, from the PJs getting the call, to the flight in, and the Role 3 and mortuary affairs.  It gave me some small sense of comfort to know that every single step of the way there were people trying with every last millimeter of their bodies’ limits to honor that troop.  The pilot of the chopper was racing to get to him, the medic on the ground was racing to keep him alive, the PJs were desperately trying to keep him going on the flight to Role 3, the doctors there tried their hardest too, and then mortuary affairs tried their best to prepare the body.  And me, well I’m a part of it too, because I’m trying my hardest with every ounce in my body to stand tall, place my hand over my heart while Amazing Grace plays, and honor that hero. 

Tomorrow I will write 4 new names on my hand when I run.  That’s one way I have found to honor them.  I encourage you to find a way.  When you send cookies to the troops deployed, adopt a soldier through Soldiers' Angels, make cards for our troops to send home through Operation Write Home, write a sister’s boyfriend’s best friend’s cousin who is deployed, donate to an organization that supports Wounded Warriors, thank any troop you see anywhere for their service, that’s how you can honor them.

I’ve seen the beginning and I’ve seen the ending, and I think both are in God’s hands.  It’s the middle, what you do with it, that’s what counts.  

I ran.

Armed with an iPod full of GirlTalk (thanks everyone for the playlist suggestions, keep them coming!), and motivation on my hand I hit the treadmill.  I went to the NATO gym (also known as 2 Shoes, because you have to bring a second non-dusty poo pond remant-y pair).  I saw a trainer I know, JD.  I haven't seen him in a while so I told him about my marathon plans and he gave me some great tips on training.  According to him I need to add in some speed interval training, or at least I think that's what he said, I was a little enamored by his gorgeous Irish accent.


My goal was 6 miles, the furthest yet.  I ran 10K, 6.2 miles instead, (mostly because the treadmill is set to kilometers in the gym and my poor math skills only get me so far) in a time of 63 minutes, not outstanding, but awesome for me!  I felt like I hit my perfect stride midway through and that I could run for miles.  I even cranked up the pace for the last kilometer.


The craziest part of it all was an Air Force pilot who was on the treadmill next to me came up to me when I was stretching afterward and said, "You are my inspiration.  I wanted to run 6 miles, but I just couldn't do it, but I saw you just running along like it was no big deal, and I thought I can do this too.  Well I didn't make 6 miles, but you got me further than I would have."


Wow.  24 hours ago I didn't want to run an inch, then somehow I found the inspiration through the sacrifices of our troops.  Now, unintentionally, I passed it on to a troop.  I love the way sometimes life just surprises you. :)

Race Idea

So in November I’m going to run a marathon, that's 26.2 miles!  It's the Soldier Marathon in Ft. Benning, GA.  Today I ran a 5K race.  So far in my marathon training I am up to 5 miles, so a 5K should be nothing, I do it every other day.  Well, I started too fast, and it was super dusty, needless to say I’m making excuses for the fact that I was burning out toward the end.  I looked down at my wrist, saw Daren’s name and got an instant second wind.  I thought of all the sacrifices he made, and realized my running 3 little miles and donating 5 dollars to a military non-profit really is not that big of a deal, I can do this.  I also received some help from an extraordinary running mentor, SSG Jeremy Logan, who finished the race in 20 minutes (a “crap time” according to him, he usually finishes in 18), then jogged back down the course to find me and help me keep pace and motivation to get to the finish line.  A couple months ago Logan ran 46 miles in less than 24 hours for a charity run!

I’m also blessed enough to have Air Force Captain Robert Simmons as my running coach.  He has run some marathons including some 50 milers!  He is the one who has agreed to meet me 4 days a week in the wee hours of the morning to run, and never bailed on me even once!  He also helped correct my form so I wasn’t hurting my shoulders anymore (You’re wondering how do you hurt your shoulders running?  Well, let’s just say I looked like a drunk kangaroo when I ran).  Anyway, back to the race idea.

Tonight I was washing my face and dreading the fact that tomorrow morning on my marathon training schedule I have to run 6 miles, the farthest yet.  I started to doubt how I was going to keep my motivation up to keep adding miles and weeks until the marathon in November.  If it was that hard today to run 3 miles, what is it going to be like when I need to run 16, 18, 20?!  Then I thought about how I got through today, by looking down at my bracelet and realizing that in the grand scheme of life my feet hurting, or breath panting, or muscle soreness is nothing.  That discomfort will be gone in mere minutes.  I thought how a family somewhere in the US is mourning the loss of a loved one right now who was killed in the war in Afghanistan or Iraq, how their pain is incomprehensible to mine, and their sacrifice exponentially more.

That’s how the plan came about.  According to my schedule I should run 4 days a week, with one day being speed workouts, and one day being my “long day” and the other two just usual days.  That’s 4 days of motivation needed and an opportunity to honor those who have made the ultimate sacrifice. 

I am going to write the name of the heroes who have been killed in action since I last ran on my hand.  For them and their eternal peace, I will run.  For their families and the pain they are enduring, I will run.  For all their fellow troops who miss them, I will run.  For thanksgiving for their sacrifice for my freedom so I can run another day, I will run.  They’ll be my motivation. 

In June of 2010 there were 103 casualties in Afghanistan alone.  Every single day you can check the Department of Defense's website and see the news releases of casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan. 

So tomorrow morning, my 6 miles will be for a Marine hero, Sgt. Mark A. Bradley, 25, of Cuba, NY, who died June 16^th in Helmand province, Afghanistan and an Army hero, Pvt. Ryan J Larson, 19, of Friendship, Wis. who died June 15^th in Kandahar province, Afghanistan. 

This one’s for you.

My Boys

I found myself a family in Afghanistan.  They’re a smellier, more foul mouthed, definitely more male version, than my family back home, but they’ll do just fine.  Being one of three girls in my immediate family and one of a gaggle of mostly female grandchildren, I always secretly longed for a big brother, well doesn’t God have a funny sense of humor, now I have about 25 of them…who are armed and dangerous. 

I arrived in Afghanistan on September 30 and on October 31 I met some G Co.  More than a thousand soldiers come in our center’s doors everyday, but these guys, 3^rd Squadron, 2^nd Stryker Calvary Regiment, Ghost Company, (G Co for short) there is just something about them, like a mold that rapidly grows and seems annoying at first but then you realize it's really penicillin that's amazingly awesome and saves lives.

Gentry and Hidalgo obviously up to no good on Halloween

 

Cindy and "Butter Bar" Hidalgo on Halloween

It all started when I spotted a wounded warrior who was leaning on crutches looking bored out of his mind, I told him I could offer him a seat if he wanted to volunteer behind the desk.  He took the bait, finding nothing else remotely entertaining to do and became our first G Co volunteer.  That was Gentry.  Then Hidalgo spotted Gentry behind the desk and wondered what he was doing.  I quickly roped him in as well and then Cooper soon followed too.  Hawes, although in H Co, still belongs in the cool kid group because I met him on Halloween with the rest of the guys.  Then although they didn’t volunteer, Perez, Grover and some others started hanging around the USO.  These guys were the first troops that made me laugh harder than anyone I had met out here.  They will do anything I ask of them, although making sure to give me a hard time first, then eventually doing it.  They make fun of me, and get it right back.  They are also fiercely protective, even if they have fun watching me squirm when a creeper approaches.  It was like having instant brothers I never knew I wanted.  All my coworkers came to know the guys and Cindy and Sarah York became close with the crew as well.

Cooper picking on me

Well because soldiers gossip more than high school girls, word must have gone around that the USO has free internet, delicious coffee and some employees with soft spots for G Co and when some more G Co came through for various reasons like stryker maintenance, going on leave, or detainee guard I met some more of the boys: Ortega, Young, Moser, Shaw, Irons, Dalrymple, MacDonald (H Co), Morgan, Sgt V and Garcia to name a few.  They were all like the rest, hilarious, inappropriate, brave, funny, exciting, ridiculous guys.  Then there were our "voluntolds" James, Christiansen, Knutson, and Gaultier, who provided endless entertainment during their stay.  Later on I met Runkle, Goff, Cole and Thompson.  I've become closer with some than others, but with G Co I've had countless DFAC meals, Catchphrase nights, Green Bean runs, Egyptian Rat Screw games and even Young and Moser acted in a video for my friend back home.

Cooper picking on York

Just like family, they were there for me after Hidalgo’s death.  My heart swelled the day after I attended his ramp and at four different times G Co guys came to the USO with heavy hearts but determined souls to break the news to me.  Much to their relief, I already knew.  As I embraced each one I thanked God for the support system he had given me.  Throughout the months the guys have talked to me and made me smile with memories of Hildago and pieces of stories I never knew.  These stories are reassurances to me that this great guy would never be forgotten in any of our minds, and that his example lives on in all of them.

/

Hawes wearing my sweater, lil snug, no?

As I’ve showcased, I have a strong attachment to “my boys.”  Since I arrived at KAF there’s always been one or more here at any given time to annoy, I mean, entertain me.  Almost 7 months I’ve known these guys.  Now they are back at KAF one last time to redeploy (go back to Germany).  A couple days before their arrival Hawes was introducing me to some H Co and he said, “Don’t bother trying to impress her, G Co is her favorite.”

I was so disappointed (okay maybe a lil more than that, pretty much devastated) when I found out their date had been pushed back and I would only get to spend a few days with them before I left for my vacation to come home.  I’d have to leave one family for another.

Young and I eating homemade cookies Bonnie Mattas sent the boys

They’re leaving to go back to their lives.  Although I’m sure I’ll meet other soldiers who will become my friends, none will compare to G Co.  I want for them the absolute best, because they deserve it.  They’ve had to deal with a lot of injuries and death this deployment, but they are all incredibly strong men. All the words in the world couldn’t thank them enough for their service to their country, the sacrifices they have made, the things they have had to endure, and what their friendship has meant to me, but I thought I’d give it a shot.  When I took this job I thought of how much I’d give, I never realized how much I would get.  I picture that scene in The Blindside where one of her rich friends says, “You’re changing that boy’s life.”  She immediately responds, “No, he’s changing mine.”

 

As I’m sure with all the friendships one makes throughout life, some might become life long friends that see me through anything, and some of them will drift away and just become names I see on my Facebook feed.  But even then, I won’t be able to keep myself from cracking a smile.  Because although I may forget specific conversations, or not know their current situation, I’ll never forget the way my boys made me feel…like I wasn’t half way across the world from my family, they were right here.

Toujours Pret.