Situational Awareness MilitaryStories

Quiet Calm. http://ift.tt/1GJ2N7G

"And now, the rest of the story." - Paul Harvey

Situational Awareness

Where are we?

Where are we going?

Are we there yet?

"I don't know." - The Water Boy

The Chinook, night time, top secret mission to recon some shitter, KIA from the cold. We are on our way again, and have just dropped OGA off, and I am alone again, in darkness , and I am very bored.

When we dropped OGA off, the temperature was dropping. At the last few stops, the air pressure was getting thinner. I know, because each cigarette, at each stop that I could smoke, had taken less and less of the "square" to satisfy my nicotine cravings.

Have you ever noticed how cigarette paper has little, equally spaced rings around it and running the length of it? Have you ever noticed how fast you use them compared to where you are?

I did, the very first time I went to Ft. Huachuca, AZ. Hotter than hell, and it so far above my home state of Louisiana, that a Marlboro Ultra light tasted as horrible as a Marlboro Red. Yes, when I first lit up, on the top of a mountain, at Ft. Huachuca, Arizona, back home, in the good old U S of A, I figured THAT out.

The rings of a Marlboro burn at a specific rate; slower the higher in altitude at which you smoke. The lower pressure must allow more nicotine to diffuse into my blood stream as I also smoke less the higher in altitude I am. I am an experience smoker and am well traveled and I know it takes a number of cigarette rings to satisfy my craving. I am meticulous in my observations and experimentation.

I doze.

I wake up and we are descending. I feel like I have taken a Greyhound bus, cross country, over the desert, and through the woods. I am able to sleep only restlessly. I yawn and stretch then realize we are making another mail drop and that I badly need a cigarette.

I am fully geared up, in my battle rattle, Armor, LBV, and Kevlar. I had asked for night vision before I left Kandahar, all I got was a raised eyebrow and the rhetorical question "for a plumber just going to Bahgram?". Regardless, other than my damn mismatched desert and woodland gear and this oh so conspicuous musket, I look good.

After landing, I stretch and grab Betsy and head down ramp to see if it is OK to find a hole to smoke in. I am not too nervous, as these mail drops appear to be in random locations to minimize contact with the enemy and I am surrounded by capable men my age. They have also turned on some sort of dim light at the ramp, which appears to indicate this stop is safer than the the last. I know from experience, to never just light up so I catch Gentle Ben's eye, hold up my smoke, and raise my eyebrows. I know he will only let me smoke if it is safe enough to smoke and if we will be here long enough. He points and I sprint.

I reach not darkness, but a star lit landscape, just out of that wind from the rotors and I immediately locate a good spot.

I am Inside a hasty perimeter and see a few SOF that are dressed like bad ass hadjis, they look like SF. I didn't see them at first, I suspect they were waiting. One guy looks like lawrence of Arabia. Another has a goatee. I watch from darkness as they converse with Grizzly Adams and Gentle Ben. I swear to you, it looks like a shot in a film, a scene by Cecile B himself, and I the camera man. They were waiting for us in this starlit dessert landscape.

I squat down with my back to a large rock, keeping to cover and using both the rock and a bush as windbreaks. It is getting colder and my hands shake as I light my smoke. Normally I smoke a pipe as Marlboro can be hard to find. This trip, I had broken out a pack of the good stuff from my stash.

I remember another "top secret" mission and think proudly of the last country I planted MY flag in. Yes, planting the flag as I call it. Smoking at least one cigarette in every country I stop in. The last country I planted my flag in was Uzbekistan, where I smoked a cigarette, while waiting for refueling, and as I stared into the distance at China not one mile away.

"I've smoked too many cigarettes in Afghanistan." I think to myself and wish I was in Panama, Honduras, Germany, or anywhere but here.

As I smoke, I am freezing mad ass off and noting every detail of the surrounding country side; that is, what I can see of it in this star lit sea of darkness. and I am curious about just whose mailbox we have stopped in front of.

I hear a familiar sound and think "Is not military but... Familiar."

Suddenly, in the distance and popping momentarily, I hear the sound of a two stroke? No. A sound rising and falling up...down...pause... And there again, up...down with a rhythm. Volume and Pitch changes indicate something in front of something and approaching. I am confused but only as identification fails me.

After a low pitch down and a sudden high pitch, I see a dirt bike appearing out of the darkness and coming in for a landing from one hell of a jump.

I realize that the sound was from the bike as it momentarily dipped into the valleys between the dunes he was jumping. At NIGHT.

"THIS is the shit!" I exclaim "THAT Mother Fucker is BAD!"

He is apparently the point and I hear more behind him.

Very quickly, I note slower four wheelers appearing from the darkness and approaching us with more motorcycles flanking. It was really professional and I could tell it was most effective.

Now I think it more like a Naval Squadron on land with the heavies, the four wheelers, in the middle and protected by a screen of escort destroyers, the bikes.

"Holy Shit" I think to myself in admiration for their alert, fast paced, and efficient movements, at NIGHT. The Joker just stares in awe of their toys.

The joker tries to escape, but he's too cold and too tired to do more than comment "dirt bikes and four wheelers!!!! oh my"

These professionals, this perfectly synchronized team, are all my age, as there are very few youngsters in SOF.

They are in and out before I can even get a good look at them. They are all dirty, mismatched, hard working sum bitches like me. But dangerous. There is almost no talking between the team members yet they execute action in perfect synchronicity, not one man slacking. They are rough and tough, but oh so capable and I know capable, I've seen it before.

They are gone before J can finish my cigarette fading into the dark as quickly as they speed away.

I am disappointed as I am not their package.

I finish my habit and head back to the Chinook; hanging around but with open curiosity.

Some minutes after the SOF team departs, two of the cleanest HUMVEEs I have seen since stateside come pulling in. In sharp contrast to SOF, the soldiers manning it are young and pretty, fresh and clean. Brand New they looked, fresh off the plane, and they looked to have that "new car smell.". The clean shaven faces of boys make me itch as they scare me more than Hadji these days. I would rather be safe out here with the SF, than in the rear with the gear and living in fear.

These are men of the 82, as the vets of the 101 have gone home. These men will have the look of the 101 soon. It did not take me long to figure out: the more experienced they are, the less accidents there will be. I like competence and experience in others more than exuberance and youth.

One HUMVEE, no armor, with an M-2 .50 cal and another with a Mark 19. Half dozen troops, young, very young.

At this time, the 101 has pulled out and the 82 have taken over. We are still having supply chain issues with the up armor for HUMVEEs I note. Now that the war is on and soldiers are dying, the civilians have finally approved the Army's request to armor all vehicles, but it comes in slowly. These men look so young compared to the 101. They will age quickly in this desert.

"Oh shit" I think and the joker, now in a panic freaks out.

I look to Gentle Ben with a look of horror, and he grins and shakes his head. I am not their package.

As they pull up, I can see these sharp young men are clean shaven with boots shinning in the darkness, and well trained. I almost thought they were kids at first. I wonder how they got so shiny in the field. I suddenly feel old.

They take an inordinate amount of time when compared to the efficiency of the last team.

As I watch, I make comparisons that I shall keep to myself about youth and inexperience.

They finally offload their mail and depart in a cloud of dust.

I ask Gentle Ben who they are and he replies "Rangers."

I am literally shocked. I stop, up, mid ramp, frozen for a moment. I look back, into the darkness, and apologize for my thoughts caused most likely, by the contrast between the two teams and my age now. I am 33 and my boys call me "pops" and I am angry I am not with them down in Kandahar.

I wonder just when the hell I got so old that Rangers started looking young to me.

In seconds, I am back on the bird, in my seat, secured, and ready to get on with our journey to my destination.

After what seemed like forever we arrive at our destination.

Only this time, the drop is Grizzly Adams, Gentle Ben, and the Water Boy. As the Chinook takes off, I wonder who is flying it and where my escorts were hiding in the Chinook. This whole time, I thought they were pilot and crew. There must be more to a Chinook than I was allowed to see.

I am directed to secure my gear to a waiting 4 wheeler and get behind a man whose face I never see. I might have enjoyed the ride, but it was entirely too cold for even thought. The joker didn't make a peep and we arrive without incident at our destination, a gateway into massive walls that disappear into the darkness to the sides and above us. A gateway made from ... Jingle truck parts?

It is too late to do my leaders recon and I am told I can check out the damage in the AM. Gentle Ben escorts me to my motel and they place me, with the groceries in the mess tent. The mess is a tent, GP Medium, with Liner. I feel like a sack, a package, in a refrigerator, no, a side of meat a walk in freezer.

This cold made the cold of Bahgram feel like a spring day. You can not imagine this kind of cold, and there was no escaping it, not even next to the heater.

Yes, there is a heater in here and though it is on, it is not keeping the food from freezing.

I pick a cot from a stack, and set it up right by the heater, shivering and tired. I quickly setup and practically race to get in my bag, my cocoon, my three piece. It only takes a moment to prepare for sleep. It takes an eternity for the sun to come up as I toss and turn all night, basting myself, toasting one side as the other side freezes. The dawn finally comes, and I am bored, cold, hungry, miserable, and exhausted.

Almost as soon as the sun begins to rise, I began to get warmer and less miserable. Within the hour, the tent warms up as this poor excuse for a heater begins to cope with temperatures now within its specifications. I exit my cocoon and police up my shit.

Gentle Ben soon enters and I, in a matter of minutes, am fed, warm, and holding a cup of the best, most warm coffee ever made.

Gentle Ben makes up for last night by apologizing sincerely for the conditions as there is no room in the SF teams tents, and I don't have clearance for the other, the Other Government Agencies Tent. Intel and interrogation probably.

He has kindly informed me what kind of SOF he is, Army Special Forces.

I keep a face showing no emotion, passive, but with a touch of appreciation. Inside that damn Joker is doing his "holy shit, holy shit, holy shit" routine. I reign the Joker in, as this is not the place to let my hair down, not here, not with these men.

I joke to myself "at least I have clearance for the mess tent and the latrine.". Too scared to try it out on Gentle Ben, I save it for later, for my boys in Charlie Company.

The mess hall is the best they have, and I am grateful for it and the warmth of Gentle Ben and his wonderful coffee. Yes, I'm tired, but now I am warm and fed. All I need to "Get-R-Done."

Fed and with coffee, the low level indicator on my nicotine level sensor, suddenly, and without warning triggers an alarm in my control room.

"I need a damn cigarette" I say to myself.

I exit the tent and am shocked by the brightness of the sun, the glare that for a moment, blinds me. My vision returns as my pupils contract, like the aperture size of my cameras iris.

"Bright!" Is all I can think. And "Oh shit, its waaaay past dawn." I must remember to thank them, they let me sleep late in the mess tent and did not disturb me.

It looks like I'm in an ancient Arabian adobe fortress, with jingle truck decor. The brightly lit walls rise high above me in a tight courtyard that contains 4 G.P mediums and a civilian model contractors latrine from the US. It is white with blue trim and it stands out in this primitive setting. There are towers with SF and Locals on watch. Capable, Deadly men moving about and around the walls, and a really well built mortar pit sits in the center of this citadels "courtyard."

Junk, ugly, non military, bright blue and red tin on walls or roof here and there. Random clashing patterns that horrify my sensibilities.

As I investigate, I notice that every construction, machine, or tool that a man depends on for life is in perfect condition. I notice anything related to comfort is maintained by Sanford and Son. In fact, I'm in a junk yard converted to a mud fortress. These boys need an Engineer.

I have soon investigated everything and am quick to ask if I can recon the area beyond the walls.

Gentle Ben orders me to stay close, watch for mines, and warns me to stay away from the pass at the north end of the valley.

He warns me to keep my armor on as there are occasional snipers in this valley.

I think to myself, that "It is amazing how much both armor and Kevlar can do for a curious mans courage"

I exit the fortress cautiously and walk to the road and survey the area.

I see a large trash pit to my left and a salvage yard from my 12 to 1.

The Joker spots something and before I can think, he's heading my body straight to a tank and what appears to be an old blown up half track.

A half track? I can not believe my eyes.

As my legs propel me forward, my eyes are darting around, looking for mines or booby traps, knowing the joker is careless of danger when he sees something he wants.

I make it safely across the ground between the road and the tank and do a quick survey of my surroundings.

I see none of the warning signs, no little piles of pebbles, no little rock on a big rock, no craters, no dead animals that might indicate the presence of mines.

Two hadjis in the trash pit to my left are yelling at each other. Common and not noteworthy in the desert.

SF on the walls 200 yards to my rear.

No sign of mines.

"Looks good" I say to myself.

In front of me, One beat up, ancient Russian tank that looks like junk, its turret canted and its barrel resting on the rusted out hulk of the half track next to it.

Because of the condition of the ancient half track, I assume the tank is the same, junk. The Joker inside thinks this magnificent Russian tank to be the perfect place to both satisfy our nicotine craving and survey our domain.

As I touch the tank and climb aboard, I lose all thought of situational awareness. As I stand, I suddenly feel as if on top of the world and I survey this barren land I have come to. It was the most magnificent feeling, something I cannot describe with words as I take in the view of this barren and inhospitable land. The beauty of the desert, a fantastic fortress in a valley far, far away. I light my pipe, as I have time, and I smoke a bowl and drift away.

I forget all about the tank I am standing on and think about who I am with and where I might be. Northern Alliance? Where?

I catch movement out of the corner of my right eye as I have turned around to face the junk yard kings castle and admire the view.

As I turn toward the motion, I hear angry words and cursing in an unknown tongue. The two locals have thrown their weapons down, in the trash that they wade through, and are now duking it out with ferocious intent. The fight is fast and furious, blow by blow, and they soon are rolling around in the trash, cursing and screaming, beating at each other with their fists.

"Lets get ready to rumbllllllle!" The joker announces.

It is a pretty good fight and I am enjoying it as the joker calls the play by play, the blow by blow for an imaginary audience.

It is over all too soon, and the victor rises to his feet chanting something while dancing, and holding his fist in the air as if in victory. It was almost as good as an end zone victory dance. Pride can be seen in every motion of his body, in every bone of his lean frame. Except for the scornful kick he delivered his vanquished foe as he departed, he is an honorable fighter.

I see something in his raised fist, and I think "Is that a ?" and then I recognize the prize.

It is half of the headset of a pair of headphones, the broken speaker dangling from its cable.

I gaze in wonder, and think "so poor that our trash is their treasure", and not for the first time.

The victor picks up and slings his weapon, and for the first time notices me standing on the tank like I own it, smoking my pipe. He starts towards me and as he is still exultant and smiling with his eyes, I do not threaten him as he approaches. His body language is non threatening and his weapon is slung. I keep mine the same as I feel no need to escalate.

As he approaches, his smile gets bigger, his questions and statements unintelligible to me, grow more pronounced the closer he gets.

I smile and give him the nod, and suddenly he grins from ear to ear, all the while chatting in a strange language. He climbs aboard and greets me warmly, like an old friend.

Situational awareness.

He begins to proudly show me that the tank I am standing on is his and it is soon evident that he is madly in love with her. Though her paint is gone and the blue primer fading and peeling, this tank is still operational. I now note well lubricated and with hydraulic fluid seeping from many leaks around the high pressure compression fittings. I hear and see still functioning equipment as he climbs in and fires her up. Not one speck of rust. Everything that is necessary for survival works; though loosely and with many leaks. All comfort, paint, accessories, and every thing non essential appears ignored. He is proud of his tank for good reason; as old as it is, it still works.

We admire his baby, and he climbs out, and then he begins to love on the one thing that should have been obvious to me as I approached. Because Mounted before me, on top of the turret, is an immaculately cared for, but ancient .50 caliber Ma Deuce that I had failed to see. On a Russian tank.

i assume she is Russian, as she has that nasty powder blue primer inside that we find on those old 500 lb bombs scattered across Afghanistan. Yes, I do mean the bombs the irresponsible Russians left, just laying around, so that any fuck nut with a grudge can find them. The Taliban fucktards use those bombs to make those horrible I.E.D.s to kill our troops with.

He climbs back in and elevates the barrel of the main gun, he traverses the turret, and we have fun playing with his baby while he shows me everything about her. I allow him to see my admiration, only slightly exaggerating my expressions to show him that he has me and to allow him his well deserved pride. I have met the Afghani version of a boy and his tank. He was so proud of her and she was indeed something special, though a relic of a forgotten age.

After putting the barrel back on the half track, he sees the question in my eyes, and answers me with body language. He uses his arm as the barrel and clearly indicates the "arm" bending and warping, explaining with body language the reason for resting the barrel on the old track is to prevent it from deforming from the weight of itself.

I finally extract, with the double handed, warm handshake these men use to show affection and respect. I then look him dead in the eye, smile a thank you, and give the nod, and head back to the the fortress with a wave. I feel the need to find Gentle Ben or Grizzly Adams as I have been gone entirely to long playing with the neighbors.

I find Grizzly Adams in the courtyard, and he escorts me to the latrine and in a matter of minutes, I asses the freeze damage and whip up a B.O.M for Gentle Ben. He now has a bill of materials to go shopping for. He then informs me there will be no future mission as he tells me they can fix it themselves. Apparently, they just did not know what parts to order.

That is it? An adventure to the top of the world, SOF, OGA, SF, and a Russian Tank and I only needed to make a shopping list.

Leaders Recon sounds more professional. I will ensure I leave that part out when I tell my new stories to the boys.

I never found out where that little valley was.

Submitted March 14, 2015 at 10:45PM by RantNRave31 http://ift.tt/18ok7A7 MilitaryStories