Bagram Airbase, August 2009
It’s a blessing and a curse, I think to myself as I stand in the mess hall line at Bagram Airbase. They are used to seeing contractors and intelligence people here, we all look the same, not military that is. And nothing sticks out more than being in civilian clothing in a sea of uniforms and crewcuts. People work hard on not trying to look but they never dare to get close, you often dine alone. In contrast to the more “rowdy” SF that is working hard on keeping up its reputation.
After dinner I head over to the armory, I pick up 9mm and armor piercing ammunition that I put in my faded green duffle bag, that also contains a briefcase with documents, 15k USD in cash, an assortment of handguns, some smoke, a plate carrier and a M4 carbine. The carbine didn’t fit, so the flash suppressor sticks out through the zipper. I personally do not mind the M4, but I would rather go with something more robust, like any AK variant except the Chinese licensed once, the thin metal that constitutes the safety is so thin that it can bend and jam the mechanism. The sergeant in the armory knows me well enough to not ask any questions or knows me…no one really knows me. For him I am just a John Doe, with papers from very high up, that is what scares him. He nods quietly and wishes me a good rest of the day. I have one more stop before I go where I should be: the kitchen. I go to the back door and ask one of the smoking chefs if Javier is inside. He points to a door, without looking and as I pull the handle he says, ‘Don’t forget the hairnet and shoe covers, they are on the right-hand side when you get in.’ It’s like a reverse airport, please bring your guns and ammunition, but for god’s sake don’t forget the hairnet.
Javier is sitting at a sterile desk filling out food orders, he looks up and smiles when he sees me. ‘Max! You old bastard, I thought you were dead, but I guess you are a hard man to kill.’ I chuckle a bit, I have known Javier for a few years, and he looks at life differently. ‘If something is going to kill me, it is probably going to be that chicken casserole you served tonight,’ I replied. He looked at me ‘Fuck man, I am sorry I am training new guys.’ He hands me two bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue label that he pulls out of a drawer. In exchange he gets three rolls of Swedish snus (a type of fermented tobacco) and some cash. We enjoy a bit of off-the-book trading, that’s how we met once. We pat each other on the back as I leave. ‘I want four rolls next time, it sells like butter in sunshine, so keep alive.’
I walk down to the barracks and try to locate the right row. I open the door quietly. A briefing for 16 men is in progress so I try to slide in quietly in the back. But everybody turns their heads and the man holding the briefing says. ‘There is your +1 to Kabul’. He continues with the briefing, and it’s all wrapped up within 10mins. After the briefing, the sergeant leading the convoy approached me and introduced himself. His name is McCoy, believe it or not. He asks if I have any questions and if I am familiar with their vehicle SOP’s. I nod, it’s not my first rodeo, but I wouldn’t say anything like that of course. He appointed me to the second vehicle and asked where I was going. ‘Where are you headed?’ I ask. ‘To the embassy,’ he replies. ‘Ok, that will be good, you can drop me off on the way. I’ll give you a heads up.’
As we leave Bagram Airbase in a dusty cloud behind us, I think about how I sometimes miss the being a soldier part. They are a tight team, they laugh, talk about life and most of all can’t wait to get back home. Me, I chose to be here, alone. Choices that sometimes do not even make sense to yourself.
The drive to Kabul should be a quick affair, 1.5, 2 hours at the most. I can hear the chatter on the radio, it’s going to be longer than expected. There is suspicious rubble on the roadside further ahead. The story of anyone that’s been to Afghanistan during the war. I go outside and take a sweep with my binoculars. A secondary rolling ambush is not likely as it’s just plain desert as far as the eye can see. And the soldiers know their drills and are taking up defensive positions. I walk up to the sergeant, who is standing by the hood of the vehicle. ’Do you know what it is?’ He shakes his head ‘EOD is on the way though.’ I sweep again with my binoculars, and I can see the tip of a grenade sticking out of the bottom part of the rubble. ‘It’s a 155mm grenade under there’. The sergeant looks up. ‘Are you sure?’ I nod and let him do his thing, back up his guys and all of that.
I relieved the guy holding our rear so he could have a coffee; he inspected my plate carrier and said, ‘I wish I could have a Glock on my chest.’ Be careful what you wish for, I thought silently to myself.
Bagram Airbase, August 2009
It’s a blessing and a curse, I think to myself as I stand in the mess hall line at Bagram Airbase. They are used to seeing contractors and intelligence people here, we all look the same, not military that is. And nothing sticks out more than being in civilian clothing in a sea of uniforms and crewcuts. People work hard on not trying to look but they never dare to get close, you often dine alone. In contrast to the more “rowdy” SF that is working hard on keeping up its reputation.
After dinner I head over to the armory, I pick up 9mm and armor piercing ammunition that I put in my faded green duffle bag, that also contains a briefcase with documents, 15k USD in cash, an assortment of handguns, some smoke, a plate carrier and a M4 carbine. The carbine didn’t fit, so the flash suppressor sticks out through the zipper. I personally do not mind the M4, but I would rather go with something more robust, like any AK variant except the Chinese licensed once, the thin metal that constitutes the safety is so thin that it can bend and jam the mechanism. The sergeant in the armory knows me well enough to not ask any questions or knows me…no one really knows me. For him I am just a John Doe, with papers from very high up, that is what scares him. He nods quietly and wishes me a good rest of the day. I have one more stop before I go where I should be: the kitchen. I go to the back door and ask one of the smoking chefs if Javier is inside. He points to a door, without looking and as I pull the handle he says, ‘Don’t forget the hairnet and shoe covers, they are on the right-hand side when you get in.’ It’s like a reverse airport, please bring your guns and ammunition, but for god’s sake don’t forget the hairnet.
Javier is sitting at a sterile desk filling out food orders, he looks up and smiles when he sees me. ‘Max! You old bastard, I thought you were dead, but I guess you are a hard man to kill.’ I chuckle a bit, I have known Javier for a few years, and he looks at life differently. ‘If something is going to kill me, it is probably going to be that chicken casserole you served tonight,’ I replied. He looked at me ‘Fuck man, I am sorry I am training new guys.’ He hands me two bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue label that he pulls out of a drawer. In exchange he gets three rolls of Swedish snus (a type of fermented tobacco) and some cash. We enjoy a bit of off-the-book trading, that’s how we met once. We pat each other on the back as I leave. ‘I want four rolls next time, it sells like butter in sunshine, so keep alive.’
I walk down to the barracks and try to locate the right row. I open the door quietly. A briefing for 16 men is in progress so I try to slide in quietly in the back. But everybody turns their heads and the man holding the briefing says. ‘There is your +1 to Kabul’. He continues with the briefing, and it’s all wrapped up within 10mins. After the briefing, the sergeant leading the convoy approached me and introduced himself. His name is McCoy, believe it or not. He asks if I have any questions and if I am familiar with their vehicle SOP’s. I nod, it’s not my first rodeo, but I wouldn’t say anything like that of course. He appointed me to the second vehicle and asked where I was going. ‘Where are you headed?’ I ask. ‘To the embassy,’ he replies. ‘Ok, that will be good, you can drop me off on the way. I’ll give you a heads up.’
As we leave Bagram Airbase in a dusty cloud behind us, I think about how I sometimes miss the being a soldier part. They are a tight team, they laugh, talk about life and most of all can’t wait to get back home. Me, I chose to be here, alone. Choices that sometimes do not even make sense to yourself.
The drive to Kabul should be a quick affair, 1.5, 2 hours at the most. I can hear the chatter on the radio, it’s going to be longer than expected. There is suspicious rubble on the roadside further ahead. The story of anyone that’s been to Afghanistan during the war. I go outside and take a sweep with my binoculars. A secondary rolling ambush is not likely as it’s just plain desert as far as the eye can see. And the soldiers know their drills and are taking up defensive positions. I walk up to the sergeant, who is standing by the hood of the vehicle. ’Do you know what it is?’ He shakes his head ‘EOD is on the way though.’ I sweep again with my binoculars, and I can see the tip of a grenade sticking out of the bottom part of the rubble. ‘It’s a 155mm grenade under there’. The sergeant looks up. ‘Are you sure?’ I nod and let him do his thing, back up his guys and all of that.
I relieved the guy holding our rear so he could have a coffee; he inspected my plate carrier and said, ‘I wish I could have a Glock on my chest.’ Be careful what you wish for, I thought silently to myself.
EOD arrived, and darkness started to fall over these sketchy parts. I did keep an extra eye through my NVGs, as the soldiers grew tired. The grenade was disposed of, and we could get in the cars and keep rolling again. Only the lights of the Hummer dashboard and the radio rig illuminated the night. In a northern suburb of Kabul, I told them to stop. It was time for me to start my night. The sergeant asked me if I was sure this was a good place for me to get out. ‘It is I replied’ as I packed my plate carrier in the bag. The hummers drove off, and I started walking into the night with my duffle bag containing. Cash, documents, guns, and ammo.
Til next time.
// Max & Tony
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