My Dearest:

Originally posted Wednesday, July 20, 2005

My Dearest:

Good to talk to you last night, I can only imagine how tiring this house/kids/moving adventure has been. Plus having to support me while I'm away. It can feel little overwhelming at times no? Know that this whole venture will make us stronger, better, more loving and appreciative members of this world. If it does nothing more than shows me what is most important in this life it has been a success. I miss all of you ...sometimes to fault and I must remind myself of the task at hand and that is to bring everyone home so we can pass on these lessons to others. The threat level here is low. There hasn't been an attack on this outpost and we are surrounded by hundreds of ANA soldiers including or own organic security.

You asked what our job is here so I'll outline it for you:

1. We man three different missions on a rotating basis. First there is the security of the FOB [forward operating base, Camp Victory] we man a number of towers and checkpoints to make sure the occupants of this base are safe.

2. Quick reactionary force. We fall in on a number of up-armored HUMVEEs and do convoy security for vehicles going into Herat or the airbase. Every time someone [military] fly's into the airbase we sweep the runway and perimeter for IEDs [Improvised explosive devices] and then lead the convoy back into the base. Any other contingency for rapid movement of reinforcements to our people of the ISAF crew. [International stability assistance force...i.e. the Italians, Spanish forces that help secure the Airfield etc...]

3. Internal reactionary force. We escort nationals into the base who supply needed commodities Fuel, cleaning services, construction etc... and take over QRF is the first unit is busy with another mission.

We do this on a 24 hour continuous schedule.

So far I have been able to go out into Herat twice with the QRF and yesterday with some officers in LTVs [light armored vehicles] as a shooter. Needed security for the guys outside and the vehicles we use inside the city proper. The Afghani's seem to be an interesting people, probably as interesting as we are to them. Anytime we stop a small crowd appears, mostly children because they're fearless and undeniably curious, most of them know little English and like to try their speech on us. I try and bring some candy or treats with me when ever we go out so I can give it away to the kids; they have so little and are mostly dirty and raggedly dressed. Not all mind you, but given the economic and socially disruptive environment they have grown to accept as life they are pitiful by our living standards.

Just got back from a small mission outside the wire with the Major, someone dug up a bunch of mortar rounds and other ammo outside our compound so EOD [explosive ordinance disposal] has to come later and blow them up.

I went out with the garbage truck this morning to provide security and it was a sad sight to say the least. Two dozen children from the ages of 3 to 14 or 15 were there fighting to get to our trash. The security isn't for the driver or us but to keep the kids from climbing up onto the vehicle and injuring themselves. They just jump into the pit [still burning] and pull out anything of value before someone sets it on fire; meanwhile the trash is cascading down on them from above. Quite a sight. I remember seeing the same thing in Korea so many years ago. One of the guys asked me to take some pictures but, after witnessing that spectacle I would have felt shameful to have exploited their plight. Something's are just to tragic to simply take snapshots of so, instead I found one of the two adults present, caught his eye and with my left hand over my heart said "Salaam A-likem" "Peace upon you" which showed him respect and I hope a small level of human understanding.

Hello again, had to go on duty {Sergeant of the guard] for my shift. Some of us NCO's have had some difficulty impressing upon the kids [nineteen/twenty something] the gravity of the situation we find ourselves in. The easy part would be to say were in a foreign country that has known only war for more than one generation where most families have lost members to its insatiable appetite. Another would be to tell them as I have already have that there are people out there who would gladly kill you just because of the clothes your wearing. This uniform that we wear so proudly is just a target for those who wish nothing more than anarchy to rein here again. Then they would be free to move back into the area and terrorize the local population with their polluted sense of righteousness. However, sometimes an abject lesson comes along that is just too easy to ignore.

Yesterday a suicide bomber blew himself up in downtown Herat trying to kill the local police chief/interim Governor. He was unsuccessful and luckily no others around him were injured. If you can imagine a small block of New York with ten thousand motor bikes and bicycles all trying to use the same road and sidewalk as twenty thousand others you'll soon get the point, that no one else was hurt was a small miracle. It was near some of the same road I had traveled yesterday pulling security with the interpreter and the maintenance chief. So I found a picture of the bomber on the web, just what was left of him surrounded by a crowd that had formed, and I made everyone in my squad look at it and try to picture one of us there that could have been killed if we didn't watch our six or we fell asleep on post.

All it takes is a second, a moment you let your guard down and feel complacent and it reaches up and bites you in the ass.

Unfortunately in war there is no room to grade on a curve or produce the will needed to put the Genie/bullet back in the bottle/barrel.
Please my love, don't think me cruel or heartless but, if I'm going to bring all these men home in one piece, both body and soul, we may have to become a little of that which we detest. Remember the only thing you said to me when I told you I was leaving? You said come home in one piece. Well I’m and I will.
Kiss our children for me and tell Dev to remember Daddy and his soldiers in his prayers.

I love you
Always...
P.




[Reprinted with the expressed permission of the Queen.]

Gentleman: Welcome to Afghanistan

Originally posted 07/14/2005

Gentleman: Welcome to Afghanistan.

That disembodied voice came over the intercom as we rolled to a full stop at KIA, Kabul International Airfield whose weathered facade still showed the bullet holes and pot marks from the ravages of twenty years of war. As the ramp on the C-130 lowered we got our first taste of our new home for the next year. I do mean taste, for the air is so hot and impregnated with the dust and earthen particles kicked up by a savage wind that you can actually taste it. {We later decided it tastes like dry oatmeal, red tide, with carpenters chalk and a dash of peat moss thrown in}

My eyes kept tearing up so badly in the first few minutes I couldn't see around me enough to keep myself in line to the terminal. We walked from the plane to a dark front room with one cooler full of bottled water and a dusty clock that stood still at six fifty-three. As we waited for our ride to Camp Phoenix we watched dozens of different aircraft take off and land from an airfield that looked as deserted as the rocky landscape that surrounded us.

We had come from a world wind 60 hour flight that took us to some incredibly memorable places. We started off with a Bluebird bus ride from Camp Shelby to Kessler Air Force base in Gulfport Miss. Here at the Trent Lott Air National Guard base we were counted and recounted for the manifest before we were able to board the flight. The first leg was a little over three and a half hours to Stephen King's homeland, Bangor Maine. Although we arrived at 03:30 in the morning we were surprised to find the "Maine troop greeters." This group of about fifteen men and women lined up in a gauntlet down the concourse to shake hands and welcome all the troops that come though the airport from Iraq and Afghanistan and all points in between. They were mostly older WWII and Korean War veterans that were making sure that we knew that they knew of our collective sacrifices for our country. They looked like our Mothers and Fathers, our Aunts and Uncles and those distant kin folk you see once a year at Christmas or holidays. Yet, here they were with the sun barely cresting the horizon holding hands and speaking in hushed tones to these strangers as though they knew us from long ago. They served us coffee and homemade cookies, listened to our talk of family and friends and graciously allowed us space to start to accept the entirety of the task that lie ahead. I will never forget them or the humility they shared with us one extraordinary morning in July.

We reboarded the plane for a long eight hour flight over the Atlantic. We skirted the edges of Canada and Greenland until banking right to make the jump over water. Our next refueling point would be Shannon Ireland. Home to green rolling hills, ageless castles and Guinness Stout beer. Imagine my unbridled joy! To be in the home of the most coveted dark beer brewed for centuries in the same fashion for King and surf alike. We nearly ran up the gangway and much to my delight found "Joe Sheridan’s old Irish Pub" complete with wooden floors and hot and cold running adult beverages. We bellied up to the bar five deep and began an ordering frenzy that would put Wall Street to shame.

Nothing like a comely Irish lass speaking in her native tongue to wet the appetite for shameless imbibing debauchery. Alas, all good things must come to an end and once again we were called back to continue our journey. Another eight hour leg done in darkness over the European continent watching the endless progression of nameless cities gliding under wing. We stopped again for fuel in Adama Turkey where they refused to let us off the plane for three hours until we finished trading pilots and fuel. So much for Turkish hospitality.

After take-off I watched as we ascended from the darkness to the edge of the coming dawn. The clear unadulterated hues at this frozen altitude spread before me like Gods pallet with enough color to paint all the worlds below. In hindsight, at that moment, I guess I had a sort of epiphany. From this precipice of indescribable beauty to the trash strewn dusty streets of Kabul where the children beg from the side of the road for anything to fill their empty bellies.

We crossed North of Israel and Iran, crossed over the Caspian Sea and through one of the most inhospitable areas on earth: the Kara desert in Uzbekistan. Thousands and thousands of miles of desolate empty barren terrain. After flying over that area for forty five minutes the only sign of habitation was on the banks of the Amadar JA River where those people had scratched out a few acres of plants near the rivers edge. Finally to Manus Air force base in Kyrgyzstan where we off loaded our bags and waited for movement into Afghanistan. Twelve hours later we caught a hop into country. As we drove out to the flight line I saw our aircraft: a C-130 Hercules transport. I caught myself smiling broadly. My Uncle, Major [ret] John .J. Pietenpol had flown tens of thousands of hours in this ugly plane but loved it like an old mutt. Ungainly and ungraceful but reliable and strong. So there, high above the Hindu Kush Mountains, on the way to another war, the irony was too much to bear and a single tear slid down my cheek for the man I loved so dearly and never felt closer too than that moment.

We were picked up from KIA by a convoy from the 151st Infantry, Indiana National Guard. These are the men we would be replacing. They rode up with gun trucks front and rear security for the Haji buses rented to take us to Phoenix for processing in country. Different sized armored vehicles from France, Germany, Romania, were parked all over the airfield. All units with the ISAF, International Stability Assistance Force. Each lending a hand with operations all over A-stan. The ten minute ride down Jalalabad road to the camp was an eye opener. Bombed out buildings, open air market stands, trucks and cars of all shapes and sizes in all stages of disrepair and dilapidation.

To drive in this country you only have to pay the price and figure out which hole to put the key in. This leaves the roadway looking like a mad incantation of the Indy 500 and Mad max wrapped up in a demolition derby. Like our own highways there are crosses here along the roadway to mark the deaths by car. Only difference here is if you die in an accident they bury you under that cross on the side of the road. There's no 911 or hospitals or ambulances to take you away from the scene, if your relatives aren't there to pick up the body you get interned on the side of the road.
Our first night here we were hit by three rockets fired from the mountains to the West. They struck downtown Kabul near the U.S. embassy and fortunately no one was injured. Two days later as another group of our company was landing two mortar rounds hit the airfield, again no one injured. We had received our new up-armored Humvees and the Chief wanted everyone to get rated to drive them so we set about giving a sort of outside the wire drivers test. Our company area inside the compound is considered a safe area so you only need to carry your individual weapon and at least one magazine for protection. However, once you leave the front gate your in a hostile fire zone. That means full battle rattle and all the weapons for security during any movement.

We drew up the manifest for our road march, body armor, commo, M4’s, water and had a pre movement brief on actions on enemy contact then, on to the motor pool where every footfall raises dust like small atom bombs in a Childs miniature dirt war.
Seven vehicles outside the wire took a left down J-bad road passed the Afghan Army camp and took to the hills to get a feel for the new heavier vehicles. When I say hills I mean two and three thousand foot mountains that surround the city on three sides. They rise up into the dusty sky like so many jagged rotten teeth. I never knew there could be so many different shades of brown. Up on the trails winding around the ANA training area we rode keeping our interval between vehicles and tested the maneuverability of the new Hummers.

We rode passed an old Soviet motor pool now gone bone yard. Hundreds and hundreds of tanks and armored personnel carriers, anti-aircraft guns strewn about like a careless child’s playground. Rusting and wasting away they mark the sad passing of a dying communist dream that cost the Afghani's millions of lives. On to a set of caves dug by the Russians to house their armor and passed the village of Pole-I-Charki where a refugee camp has risen. It only takes a second and the kids come running out from everywhere to give us the thumbs up and beg for anything. We have nothing for them and cannot stay idle so we move out swiftly. Avoiding them is an ever present danger because they have no adult supervision and run in and out of traffic hoping for a handout.

"Ish Allah" means "Gods will” the Afghans say it so everything they do and anything that happens is according to the will of God. A seven year old girl was struck and killed yesterday by one of our trucks coming back from Kandahar. I wrote my Mother and told her it will take a while to harden my heart to the realities of this new life.

A restless wind blows
Howling in catacombs
Whispers an ancient
and anxious melody
A child's breathe on glass
Collage of love
Finger painting
Bumps and bruises
quickly forgotten
with a Mother's kiss
The tears of Angels
have fallen

A GRUNTS EYE VIEW

A GRUNTS EYE VIEW

Originally sent out 04/01/2005

Hello again South Walton, glad to be around again in one form or another. My name is Staff Sergeant M*****, US Army infantry squad leader A.K.A. Lieutenant Paul M***** South Walton Fire department. I have been afforded the privilege by the Sun of writing a column following my task force as it prepares to deploy to the Middle East.

This is an honor I don't take lightly. With all the media focus on the death and destruction surrounding the war on terror I thought it would be educational if not enlightening to have a first hand look at the war from a different perspective, say a grunts eye view. Down here where the leather, canvas and sweat mingle and the long hours of the day blend all too easily into the night. I hope I can take you with me- to see though my eyes. I'll show you the pride, dedication, and love shown by so many soldiers young and old.

Our mission is training the Afghanistan National Army to be an independent fighting force able to protect its borders and citizens from outside or internal aggression. After two decades of high intensity warfare there is little left of any infrastructure in any major city much less in the outer lying areas. We hope to assist in rebuilding schools and other small projects near our area while not on combat operations. These people need our help. By no means are we the only ones sacrificing however.

I thought my decade of Army training had prepared me for another deployment to foreign soil only to be blindsided by a heart attack. Not the E.R. lights and siren type I'm used to responding to but the one that comes when saying goodbye to the ones you love. How do you tell a five and a one year old you love more than life itself you’re leaving them? The Army doesn't have a manual for that. The wives, mothers, children and families of these men and women, the finest America has to offer, suffer and sacrifice along side us. Each holding their own silent vigil awaiting a warrior’s return. Remember them as much as us in your prayers. The days weeks and months ahead will be difficult and challenging for all of us. I look forward to sharing this mission with you. So, using the infantry’s motto "Follow Me"

FOB Tombstone

FOB Tombstone

We passed through Char Rah, Delaram, and a thousand small dirty sun baked hovels. Every mile further south the poppies grow from small plots in secluded places to fields that cover the landscape from one end to the other.






Riding down out of the craggy mountain cliffs and into a vast open plain that lies north of the Khash desert ends the nine hour trip. At the gate we waited for 30 minutes for someone to get there collective shit together and let us in.
Tombstone seems to be just another shit hole rising up from a layer of bedrock, dust and flat stone in the middle of nowhere.
With the vehicles parked I told my guys
“Be sure an go over your guns with a brush before you plant your ass anywhere.”
“Joker, go with the colonel and find us a place to sleep…roger?”
He came back fifteen minutes later sayin
“Watch out, some Navy light bird came over to Dave and just went ape shit because he was wearin his ball cap, made him take it off” he said.
“You gotta be shittin me man?”
“Does this guy know where the fuck he is?” I said.
“The Colonel told me to pass it on brothers…boonies only.” Joker said
“Alright…alright I’m too tired for this shit, let’s find an empty rack.” “Take your weapons off and keep um with you, there’s no telling who’s watching the chickens in this henhouse.”
Nate motioned me over to a Quonset hut and I found us a few bunks to crash on. I laid my 240, my M4 and the Drag on the bottom bunk and climbed up, boots and all, and promptly feel into a dreamless sleep.
The sun has barely crested the horizon and already the dust and heat waves have begun to obscure the surrounding landscape. I got up, scouted out the latrine and took a piss then found my way to the chow hall. It’s always a treat for the first few meals to see all the fresh fruit and green salad in one place, it sounded like a fuckin rabbit warren in there.
Nate came over and told me we would be getting an “official” briefing later today but the consensus from the drivers, SECFOR, LTF, and the Brits is Sangin area is a very bad place.





Joker had cornered a Spec-4 named Morrison who was a medic and worked with the SECFOR team from Kandahar. He told us he was going to act as a scout with a couple of the other guys and lead us up North into Sangin. He said
“This is a place where you don’t want to get caught with your pants down.”
Our rules of engagement [ROE] has changed somewhat to reflect the METT-T [Mission, enemy, terrain, troops, time] we have here. Intel says expect to be hit on the way up and never get on the road, it has been mined so heavily no one uses it. Instead we will be using the open desert between the road and the adjoining eastern ridgeline and if things weren’t interesting enough, the powers that be have introduced another poppy eradication mission called “Riverdance” to our full schedule.
At 10:30 we gathered together and entered the CP to receive our brief from a Lieutenant Colonel Slusher [previously National Guard Bureau Pentagon seat shiner and five star REMF asshole] and another Captain. He kinda looks like a shorter, pudgier Telly Savalas albeit the lollypop and “who loves ya baby” smile.
I’m not wearing any of my Army designated patches or rank, my mustache is way outta limits, and a fine layer of afghan dust covers me from head to toe. As I move through the office area I’m noticing everyone else watching me from the corner of their eyes.
Great, I’m thinking, these are the spit and polish types the other team warned us about.
The LTC began by telling us that we were now under the operational control of the 205th RCAG {him} and no longer a part of the command structure of the 207th in Herat. This was diametrically opposed to what we were told when we received the initial brief and I looked around seeing all the others looking around with that “What the fuck?” kinda look. The LTC on the brigade team from Herat says he’s in command, the ODA team say they have operational control of the FOB, the Canadians want some kind of say in this show…Jesus this thing is beginning to be a fuckin goat rope nightmare.
The Captain took over the brief and began showing us our new area of operations and contacts from fire and IEDs over the past few months.



Each contact was represented by a red box containing date, time and weapons used during the engagement. The route we’re taking looks like it was hit point blank by a shotgun and started hemorrhaging.
The main supply route 611 is unusable cause every time someone uses it they blow up. The land to the west of the road is full of pissed off poppy farmers and drug runners.
The land east of the road is open desert but the ridgelines form a couple of nasty choke points we will need to stay away from.
So, in a nutshell, the path we will take will meander [Not a term used much during military planning] east to west in a crazy, irregular pattern.
This is my type of planning! The young Captain is doing an exceptional job during the brief but he is constantly being interrupted by the Colonel who adds nothing of any interest but I guess he feels he needs to say something.
The Captain says, “No accurate estimates of the enemy strength can be made but we believe there is fewer than 150 dedicated Taliban fighters in Musa Qala, Kajaki and Sangin districts of the Helmand Province.”
They seem to have the strongest presence in Musa Qala and generally operate in squad sized elements. We also believe they are trying to rebuild their numbers and leadership after the TICs in March.” “The timeline of significant events is as such:
In February during the beginning of the mission and build up of FOB Wolf there were a few minor TICs mostly involving the SF team and the ASF members near Sangin village. Then, as it looked to the locals like we were going to stay around for awhile they started routine probes using small arms fire and mortars.”
“Things were in a state of relative calm until March 25th and the SF team at Wolf conducted Operation Carpe Diem. While securing an LZ near Sangin they took one US KIA and another WIA. On the 26th a SECFOR element was ambushed near the junction of RTE 611 and Hwy 1 taking no casualties.”







“On the 28th at 15:00 hours a re-supply convoy heading to the FOB was hit by an IED and it destroyed an ANA LTV killing eight Afghan soldiers and cratered the road so badly they had to unload an excavator to fill in the hole.” All the while they’re taken fire from the village near Hyderabad and they called in CAS to lay in a coupla 500 pounders complements of a pair of A-10s. That seemed to quiet them down enough for them to finish the march and they ended up inside Wolf without further losses.”
“We believe this was the first shots of the battle that culminated with the attack on FOB Wolf that evening at approximately 23:00 where there was one US and one Canadian KIA and three WIA.”
All the while I can see the light bird eyeballing us and I can tell he’s fuming about something. Some of the guys wear DCUs, others the new ACUs and most of my SECFOR team is sterile.
He interrupts the brief again and starts talking about the uniforms and personal hygiene of the team members at Wolf. He says our guys up there are all screwed up and it looks reminiscent of a scene from “Apocalypse Now” and he doesn’t run his operation that way and on and on…then he picks out SGT Reddick and tells him the combat patch he’s wearing is unsat. This leads into an even bigger argument because Reddick isn’t backing down. He quotes 670-1 word for word in a calm and somewhat contemptuous tone and now the colonel looks more like an ass than before and it takes a few minutes until the whole room gets back in order.
These guys here are more concerned with uniform violations and etiquette than combat action, I’ve heard you promote to the level of incompetence but this is ridiculous. Where do they find men like these? The colonel ends his litany by saying “There are 5-“Stans” here; Tajikistan, Pakistan, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, and now “Talibanistan.” Great.

Sangin....leaving home

4/21/06
Leaving home


We woke early from our last day at Camp Mog and began the final preparations for the movement south to relieve our team in Sangin.

What an odd feeling it is to be leaving this area which has been such a large part of our tour. The members of the ODA team have begun to mingle into the group and offer last minute suggestions and tips for staying alive down south where the war strikes swifter and deadlier than the desert asp.
We emptied the ammo conex and distributed the entire load of ordinance between the vehicles and stocked as much water and food as we could manage. The lack of any real intelligence for this mission so far has been a real ass kicker. It’s like playing a treasure hunt, only when you find the “X” that marks the spot it lies over a booby trapped triple stacked mine.
“We won’t be coming back, so pack anything not coming with us into footlockers and boxes for movement to Camp Victory” Said Colonel A. We packed our green footlockers for pickup and I brought along only what I can fit into my ruck, bug-out bag and computer case.
I must admit it’s hard to leave this small group of men I have grown so close to and become so fond of. To call them the “Silent professionals” is such a grossly held understatement. They are the heart and soul of so many operations throughout this country and their absence on this movement will be felt for some time to come.

The convoy moved out of Camp Mogenson first gate at 0600 passed the ANA barracks then out the second gate to the open range of the Palha Shorab Mountains to test fire the guns. We had built some of the locals build a 25 meter range complete with overhead cover and another 100 meter range right outside the FOB walls so we could train with live ammo anytime we felt the urge. We drove out and parked, waiting for a quick check of the area. Slappy and any number of children might be out drifting around the impact area looking for scrap or food in our garbage. We never waited for them to move we just shifted fire and drove on; they knew how to get out of the way.

As usual the Afghans are taking their sweet fucking time getting to the assembly area and were burning valuable daylight waitin on their asses.

By the time they have gotten all their people together we’ve lost 45 minutes. Something about which team was in the red cycle or who was too stoned to drive or some shit. Hell, they said smokin hash made them better soldiers---who am I to argue?
As we pass the second gate leading out of the camp Colonel A. breaks radio silence with “The box is hot” meaning he has turned on the ECM device which always causes a few snickers among us adolescence killers.
Joker is manning the “Ma deuce” fifty cal and is leading the element down the rutted concrete road leading passed the school, the SHAF gate, and down the long curving passage way leading to Highway 1. The children come running out from behind the mud walls and earthen hovels leaving a small dusty cloud in their wake. By now I can recognize most of them. Their small faces dirtied by the ground they so recently slept on. I wonder what sort of future lies ahead of them.
We pulled out past the main gate occupied by the ANA and took a right heading south through the town of Azizabad where one of the 7th group’s ODA team, SFC Pedro Munoz, was killed by small arms fire in January of 05. He died while trying to capture Mullah Dost a local Taliban leader who had pulled off many attacks on coalition troops. Dost was killed in the initial firefight but unfortunately “Papi” died on the medevac chopper in route to the nearest field hospital. His award of recognition was hung over the coffee maker in our team house and I read and reread it daily.
We drove on for a few hours until we met up with our other SECFOR/ETT team from Farah who had brought out their re-fueling vehicle to top off our tanks for the long ride to FOB Tombstone.
Fuel wasn’t the only thing we got though; Sgt Dave L*** from Vermont was going to bolster our ranks. Dave had an easy going manner but always managed to upset the higher ups wherever he went. He had a “no bullshit” attitude and could sniff out a ticket punching, badge chaser a mile away. Maybe that’s how he ended up in Farah.

He worked for the US Border patrol and due to his background in Special Forces he had an unconventional and unique way of doing things and I loved the guy. He kept an AT-4 rocket with him everywhere he went so if he got the chance he said he’d
“Shoot the first Tali-bastard with it I see.”
Unfortunately during the one time he wasn’t driving he happened to be directing the ANA fire from a plateau near the base and he didn’t have it near him. It became a running joke every time we got hit…
”Hey Dave, did you get to shoot your rocket?”

The Poor Bastard's Club...exerp from the upcoming book

SANGIN


Leave me here in my…stark raving sick, sad, little world. [Incubus]




Security Issues:
§ On 22 April, four Canadian soldiers were killed when their vehicle struck a roadside bomb in Shah Wali Kot district about 75 km north of Kandahar. A US contractor was also attacked in the same district on the Kandahar-Tirin Kot highway. On the Herat-Kandahar highway (Kandahar province) one checkpost was attacked twice in two days. The Coalition forces and the ANA arrested insurgents in Zabul and Uruzgan provinces.
§ The Coalition forces and the ANA established a joint base in Kunar province, and requested the deployment of 20 more ANA as Operation Mountain Lion continues.
§ On 20 April, insurgents attacked an ANP checkpoint in Duab, Nuristan. One insurgent was killed and three were arrested, one of whom reportedly of Pakistani nationality.
§ On 22 and 23 April mines were discovered on the main roads in two districts of Nangarhar province.

Political Issues and Verification of Political Rights:
§ Illegal occupation and construction of houses on publicly-owned land and the case of a child allegedly killed by ANA in a traffic accident were discussed in the Provincial Council meeting in Kandahar.


Sangin is little more than another small town along another dry riverbed in a mixed group of mud huts and compounds collectively gathered around thousands of acres of poppies growing out of a vast, empty desert.
It lies in the southern part of the country about 30 kilometers northwest of Gereshk off the ring road in a fertile valley where the Musa Qala and Helmand rivers converge. None of us had ever heard of it until Doc had been killed.
We knew we had an ETT/SECFOR group down there near Laskar-gah at FOB Tombstone but like most of our Kandaks in the outer regions we didn’t know what they were doing on a day to day basis.




The only time we heard from them is when they got hit or someone was injured and that was normally hours, even days after the incident happened.
Most of these small FOBs, like ours at Shindand, were basically independent little training areas for the ANA. How most of these places were chosen is still a mystery to me. I guess since the Afghans had no real ability to travel or transport soldiers around the country in mass they created small bases in the places most likely to be populated by soldiers living near that province.
Shindand airbase however, was an obvious choice given all the time effort and money the Soviets poured into it during “their” war. Not only that but the Afghan government didn’t want it falling back into the hands of any of the rival warlords who continuously fought for the land and prestige of owning such a prized area of surplus aircraft and parts to be sold abroad.
The others however, like Chagcaran, Farah and Qal’eh-ye Now, were so remote and rudimentary they were little more than mud huts and small compounds wired up with small generators surrounded by uninhabited oceans of desert.
The initial mission, made by the team from FOB Tombstone in Lashkar Gah, was to venture into the Sangin valley in early February and recon the area to see how much influence the Taliban had and to re-supply or relieve a group of ANA soldiers that had set up a temporary base there. The mission was supposed to last less than seven days so the team of American and ANA drove right up route 611 into the heart of enemy territory. They met up with the Kandak that had set up on a plateau over looking the Helmand River and began small excursions into the valley to judge the locals reaction to their presence.
No one, at least at our level, knew the real reason we were there. Perhaps it was a precursor for the “Riverdance” missions or to extend our strike capabilities into another lawless region. What we didn’t know was how many lives would be lost in the fight to pacify this small enemy stronghold.






From the very beginning of the incursion it was readily apparent that the Taliban and the OMF were not going to make their arrival a welcome one.
Within hours there were signs that the enemy was tracking the movement of anything up on the plateau and began a systematic probe of their defenses.
After the first week the team called back to Tombstone asking for re-supply and direction instead, they were told the follow-on mission was hold the plateau and stay with the ANA until further notice. The men were living out of their UAHs and eating MREs and bottled water until the ANA was able to hire a man to come live inside the base and cook bread and goat for them. The Afghans had tried earlier to buy food in the bazaar down in the valley but most of them ended up sick from some sort of poison or foul meat.
Later, when the ODA team arrived with all their Jingle trucks and conex containers full of gear they told them to take over the small compound in the center of the plateau and run a temporary wire perimeter out front of the position.
What began as a small ANA outpost began looking like an American FOB. Hesco barriers were flown in and the slow process of filling them around the entire perimeter began.