transporters
Jan 25, 2010
at Suffield last May, I remember wind. the rain. 0530 hrs before sunrise, the long green water buffalo train—HLVs, GWagons, LAVs, Luv-Dubs. stretched across prairie. huffing. puffing. putting in time. ready for rolling replen. it was the last time I saw them before Afghanistan.
for two days. quarantined. I lay in my GI tent. isolate. watched the platoon. come and go. snuck out once to visit the boys in their mod tent.
“misfits” they told me, “this is where bad soldiers go” —they swore they could name date, time, offence, that threw them from the rifle coys. into the rolling ranks.
I looked down rows of cots at men and kit. stretched out. waiting orders. putting in time. all shapes. all size. a guy with the best hair on the planet. a guy with major art. a guy with an English accent, 8 feet tall. another with a three-week beard. and a BF Cpl. with brown, brown eyes. and they bitched and they cursed. complained. and BF Cpl. pulled a little rank.
“we didn’t sign up for this. this isn’t what being a soldier is” they all laughed. two guys got jacked up. “you fucking don’t fucking mouth me” Cpl. said. “for that. pack. you’re heading out with Charlie Coy. might not be back for 5 days or a week.” jacked-up duo bitched under their breath. headed to Lt. D’s, their platoon commander’s tent.
I sat. looked at wallet pictures of babies. listened to soldiers. bitching. laughing. telling jokes. bantering. taking the piss out of each other. then WO (the good looking, quiet one) stuck his head in the tent. they all jumped up. got ready to go. faster than the wild fires that creeped the camp (wild fires the arties started on the level 6 range). I was alone.
seven months later, I landed in KAF. walked through the night. the dust. saw WO, in the light of his seacan office. looking tanned. looking good as ever. I waved hello. asked after transport. “they’re fine” he said. a man of few words.
a few days later. I flew outside the wire. fast and low. three gunners. ten soldiers armed. ready. out to the pointy end. me in helmet. ballistics. frag vest. scared shitless until we took off. then it was in the Great One’s hands and I breathed Afghanistan in. gorgeous. a million miles from soft, green home. we flew the red desert. the wadis. wild camels. nomads. the mud villages. grape huts. kilns. farms. pot fields. pomegranate, almond tree groves. the farmers waving up at us. jingle trucks along the ring road. the highway. we landed someplace. where? I still don’t know.
we grabbed our gear. ran through the dust. into the fortress. after the OC, the first ones I saw? transporters. “what the hell are you doing here?” we asked, laughed, shook hands. outside the wire. it was a good go.
the day I left. I sat with transporters in their tent. stretched out on cots. waiting orders. putting in time. bantering. bitching. joking. taking the piss out of each other. I marveled with envy at one soldier’s giant air mattress. then Lt. comes in. “grab your kit. it’s time to roll.” and two of them draw deep breaths. strap on frags, pistols, helmets. one turns to another staying behind, “look after my baby boy if I don’t make it home”
and they’re out there now. driving BF trucks down those booby-trapped roads. taking deep breaths. delivering. picking up. rolling fast fast fast. counting the days until they get home.
2 Comments (Closed)
By some weird coincidence, the page I was looking at prior to this one was this cartoon: http://xkcd.com/695/ (don’t forget to hover your mouse over the picture for the popup text). Not the same thing, I know, just synchronicity.
You know, in a way I’m glad that I don’t know anybody over there. My worry for our troops is much more detached and clinical that way, nothing personal. No lost sleep, lucky me. It is mostly through your work that I have been able to get even a vague approximation of what it must be like.
In previous posts you have stated that you deliberately withhold judgment when writing, that you only report. Without breaking that commitment, can you tell us whether or not your opinions about what we’re doing have changed? You now have so much more personal experience and information than when you started. Has that confirmed what you had only suspected, or has it made you re-evaluate?
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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled transporters. It was posted here on January 25, 2010.
Douglas Hill
A breathless read. I like your concise take on this.
Jan 26 2010 · 07:35