Combat Safari
Quick note:
I've been writing about psychedelics and how they've put me back on a healthy track. What follows is just one of the firefights I'd gotten into in Afghanistan. The psychology of combat. It was significant in that it was one of the longest. And it was one of those times where I truly thought I was going to die. These kinds of scenarios will forever alter the way a person looks at life...
September 29, 2011.
-0500-
The Corporal-Of-The-Guard wakes me up. I have a patrol to lead. Groggy, I unzip my bivvy sack, swing my legs over the side of the cot, careful not to boot the Marine sleeping an arms-length from me.
Three hours of sleep, good enough. I ease into sweat-stiff patrol cammies, ripped along the inner seam of the right leg, from crotch to below my knee. I lace up my boots, grab my rifle, then step out of the tent. I look for a spot where I can be by myself.
Most of the time, I like being alone, especially before everything starts moving. Before all the parts of the puzzle are crammed into place.
Morning prayers drift from loud speakers, miles away. A haunting, prophetic hum of fates yet spun. A rooster crows in the distance. Wild dogs bark at their shadows. A rush of chilly air flows through the castle walls of the Hesco-barriered patrol base. The clockwork sunrise burns in shades of pink and crimson against blue.
Stars disappear, completing another lunar cycle. Dawn of another day in Afghanistan.
Image Credit
You can climb to the tops of the walls along the outer perimeter, get a sweeping view of an ancient landscape cradling its secrets, its forgotten history, buried under rock hard layers of sun-scorched earth. So many buried bones from so many different empires. I swear, if you listen just right… you can hear the ghosts of this place, whispering. Desperate for anyone to listen.
Afghanistan has a dangerous beauty--red roses on a thorny bush, pleasant to look at. But as you lean in to smell the blossoms, you notice sharp spikes shaped like shark fins, lining its branches. A warning. If you don’t heed that warning, if you’re careless, it’ll draw your blood without a care, because… that’s just how it is. This place is my Hearts of Darkness, my Apocalypse Now.
The people still live in dirt, still work with their bare hands and feet. Use their brains to make what little they have, make do. They live hard lives. Their only complaint? Us…
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Home sounds nice. Sleeping on a soft, comfortable bed. Taking a cool shower. Smoking a nice fat joint, drinking an ice-cold beer. But I want to be here. Not home. I don’t think about home much. Don’t like getting care packages, talking on the phones. I’m not here for reminders of home…
After a last look out over the landscape, I climb down and slowly make my way to the C.O.C. The beating heart of the patrol base. Its pulse, its brains, its nerves.
My home away from home.It’s a Base-X tent with plywood floors nailed to pallets. Comms equipment bursts to static-riddled life. There’s a large view-screen for the camera tower in a corner, can see half-a-mile in every direction, up to a mile on a clear day. Everything is covered in fine layers of dust and dirt, swept along by cooling fans from all the humming machines.
A floor-to-ceiling map dominates the entire space, a khaki sea of sand splashed across an enhanced satellite image of the surrounding desert, covering an entire plywood wall that acts as the divider for the platoon commander and platoon sergeant, who sleep on the other side. Clusters of villages and blocks of green-shaded vegetation dot the pixelated landscape. Our route takes us south, up, when you’re standing in front of the map.
Mid-way point puts us on the boundary of a large village, trailing off to the east. An area we’ve recently focused on. It sits at the upper-left corner of the map, towards the ceiling, the southeastern boundary of our AO. Then nothing. Just desert and sand.
From the village we head straight west, crossing a huge no-mans-land. No cover or concealment, just a few wide canals, with smaller ones branching off like the veins in your hand. We’ll be open, exposed. A fuck-all spot to be in. Odds are fifty-fifty on getting ambushed.
There’s a stack of words and numbers written on the worn dry-erase board, in blocky blue letters:
Presence patrol.
TOR-1100.
7Marines, 1 Corpsman, Gigi
Just another patrol…
Four small strips of black electrical tape make a box on the board, next to the red-smudged initials of the A.N.A. Still blank. No Afghani soldiers coming with us, which is fine. I don’t trust them so much. They’d be dead weight anyway, slow us down. They see military operations a different way than we do. That’s all I’ll say…
Today it’s all about speed.
Ammo’s already dispersed, specialized gear issued—packed—ready to go with the Marine it’s assigned to. Everything done the night before. I pop my patrol cocktail of ephedrine, caffeine, ibuprofen, wash it down with a warm bottle of water, then walk out to go wake everyone that’s going.
My squad squishes into the C.O.C for the brief. Keep them short and sweet--if we’re attacked, attack back, keep each other alive, shoot-move-communicate. Simple. It’s not rocket science. Just sheer will and discipline. Everyone knows what to do anyway. Months of patrolling and firefights, years of training together. It’s second-nature now. Ten minutes tops, just a quick, four-hour patrol.
The platoon commander hovers like an obsessive diaper-sniffer, adding his two-cents. We shake our heads, but we’re ignoring him. It’s not his fault. College kid, military family, grand expectations, eager to make a name for himself so he can write an emotional memoir about it someday, called something like, “My Men, My Warriors,” or some other weird, possessively paternal title. Problem is, guys like him use us to accomplish all that. So, in a way, we’re a commodity to all those platoon commanders. Our lives for their promotions… just the way it is.
Guess who I am...
hint, epic hair.
Eight of us are going out for a stroll today, like fucking tourists on a combat safari. We gather near the covered dining area. We look like turtles, daypacks stuffed with everything we need. Last minute cigarettes smoked to nubs with just a few anxious puffs. We check each other over, make sure nothing’s left behind. Everyone is focused. I toss a fat lipper of Grizzly Wintergreen into my mouth. A harsh nicotine rush kicks up the caffeine already tingling at the tips of my fingers.
A thousand things go through my head every time I step outside the wire:
Comm-check, black handheld squawks. Shoulder-mic-shaped like-phone squawks, its black corkscrew cord attached to the oversized brick of a radio in my pack.
We line up in a loose, staggered column near the entrance of the base.
“C.O.C this is 2-2, over,” I say, keying the shoulder mic.
“2-2, this is C.O.C, send it,” they respond.
Left foot-right foot. We start walking forward. “Roger, 2-2 request permission to depart friendly lines. Seven Marines, one Corpsman, one dog, over.”
“Permission granted.”
“2-2 out,” I say.
That was it. Kicking up billowing clouds of moon dust, everyone picks up the pace. Walking down the chute is a visceral experience. Walls are high, the zig-zag passageway just wide enough for a vehicle.
There’s a scene from the movie Gladiator, where Russell Crowe walks down the line of warriors, entering the arena in the Middle East. For some reason, that scene always plays out in my head.
Like smoky spirits, crowds of people line the tops of the walls. Frenzied. Charged. Angry. Roaring for violence. Craving a death-show as they lean over, drenching me with buckets of animal’s blood. And sometimes, I welcome the warm liquid splashing over my face… even if it’s just in my head. Dust cakes my lips. Body hums with adrenaline, buzzes with caffeine and anticipation.
Let this dawn patrol begin...
Stay tuned for Part 2!
Previous Posts:
Conquering Fear!
Once a Marine, Now a Psychedelic Explorer
From Machinegun Marine...
The Science Behind the Trip
Introduction Post