Angel

I wrote this one night while I was in Marjeh, but held off on posting it while I was in country. Then, obviously, my priority on my blog has been just about zero since I got back, but I've finally decided maybe some of you would appreciate these thoughts (and have decided to be Not Lazy enough to actually post).

I drifted out of sleep the first time, the buzz of the chopper seeping into my consciousness and slowly waking me to the point where I realized what I was listening to. The buzz faded: the chopper had left. I checked my watch. 0330. Earlier in the day I had been sitting at a conference table, getting some work done, while a squad briefing was held around me. When it was done, the Lt asked if anyone had seen the warning order for what was happening tonight. One Marine had—a cordon and search.

What that means is that the Marines had reasonable intelligence that someone they were looking for was going to be in a particular house that night. In order to nab the guy they were looking for, they would set up a cordon around the compound, then search every room of the house until they’d found someone. The cordon would prevent him from escaping. Right before I went to bed, that same Lt had stuck his head in the female billeting room to talk to the FET team about the operation. He’d mentioned that they’d be assembling at 0130.

That had been two hours ago, and I hadn’t heard them leave. If they’d stepped off at 0130, probably more like 0200, they would be well into their operation by now. And you don’t call in choppers to evacuate bad guys in the middle of the night; you hold them, question them, and then take them in the next day. A chopper landing in the middle of the night meant one thing, and one thing only. Medevac.

I lay there, and before too long I heard a second chopper coming in. I wanted to go into the COC, the Combat Operations Center, where they would be coordinating the medevac birds. Assure myself that it was just a flesh wound. That the young men I had seen sitting around the table earlier that day would still live long, healthy lives with their families. But you don’t need extraneous people milling around in your COC when you’re trying to get Marines medevaced. Instead I got up to go outside and use the head.

The main room right outside our door was filled with dust, which was not unexpected. This COP is covered with moon dust, and the buildings around here aren’t even close to air tight. I got outside to find it even dustier, the hum of the chopper even louder. The dust in the air reminded me of the dust storms we had right after we got here. It blows everywhere, and the chunks are large enough that you can feel the dirt hitting your arms and your face. I stood on a stool underneath the pull-up bars, hoping it would let me see into the LZ that is set up out back. It was too dusty to see anything, so I gave up and walked to the head.

When I was done, the dust had mostly settled, and I could see the stars again. I realized that because the LZ was covered in gravel, the dust I had initially seen was just from the landing. I stood on the stool again and looked down into the LZ. The bird was a CH-53, a pretty standard piece of gear the Marine Corps uses for combat support. The buzz grew louder, signifying that the bird was about to take off. I closed my eyes and covered my nose and mouth, hoping to avoid breathing the dust in, even though I could feel it on my arms and face again.

I made my way back inside and lay down again.

The third bird came in. Three in a matter of about twenty minutes, and you can fit multiple casualties on a bird. Something had gone very wrong in their operation that night. Or maybe it hadn’t gone wrong, and their operation had been a success. Hopefully they had gotten the guy they were looking for. The operation was just following Hawkeye’s Rule #1: In war, young men die. I fervently hoped that the medevac birds meant that Hawkeye was wrong about Rule #2: Doctors can’t change rule #1.

I lay there for a few more minutes, then got up to write. As I wrote the first few paragraphs, the fourth bird came in. But right now we’re still at four.

We periodically get messages sent out to all hands aboard Camp Leatherneck. They are usually short, only two lines, and read something like this:

At [time] ([date]), there will be a Ramp Ceremony for an Angel from [unit]. The ceremony will be conducted at the FW ADACG Loop* at Bastion Airfield. Please ensure widest dissemination of this information. All available personnel are encouraged to attend. Arrive early for the ceremony.

Unfortunately we usually only get a couple hours’ notice, and the ceremony is a couple miles across base. I haven’t attended a Ramp Ceremony yet, but I have seen pictures. Two long lines of Marines, sailors, soldiers, airmen and civilians standing at attention, facing each other. At the end is the transport plane that will take the casket from here to Dover Air Force Base. I’m sure you’ve heard of the controversy surrounding whether pictures taken at those ceremonies are released to the press. Maybe you’ve seen some of the pictures. (Pictures of President Obama attending a ceremony were released last year; google Obama and Dover and you’ll find it pretty quickly.)

A couple thoughts. I feel somewhat conflicted about the policy against releasing the pictures. Not that I think that the families should be identified, but I think regularly seeing pictures of our fallen Marines and soldiers would make the war much more real to the American public. I remember the first few years of the war (OIF) before I had decided to join the Marine Corps, feeling disconnected from the war. Reading about it, learning about what was going on, but not having a personal connection to it. Seeing the pictures would change that.

But I think there would also be two other (somewhat conflicting) effects. One, the public would grow desensitized to seeing the pictures. Two, they would quickly lose their tolerance for casualties, and thus for the war. Pressure would build to end it, now, and we would leave, probably sooner rather than later.

Let me say again: the things we do here matter.

In the last week I have had more interaction with Afghans than in the previous four and a half months that I’ve been here. The dirt we have been using to fortify the COP we are building was brought in from another part of the city by a civilian contractors, with 82 trucks coming in over a span of three days. The narrow ECP, or entry control point, and deep moon dust created a logistical nightmare--the heavy vehicles would beat up the surface of the ECP, and following vehicles would get stuck. We used our heavy equipment to smooth out the ECP and scrape away some of the moon dust, but it took several hours to offload the fill each day.

The second day, while we were waiting for the last trucks to offload, I stood around talking to some of the drivers. They knew only a couple words of English, and I didn’t know any of their language. But we managed to communicate. One of them told me he was 25; I told them I was 28, and the two others fessed up to being 28 and 22. (The one thought it was cool that we were the same age. I was amused.) One of them joked with pantomime and very broken English that his friend was chubby because he ate a lot and didn’t spend much time working out. He explained that he was skinny because he did a lot of running, and we talked about what we liked to do at the gym. One of them asked me if I wanted to trade my watch for his ring (no!).

These young men are particularly brave. The Taliban likes to target civilian convoys that provide support for Americans because they aren’t as well guarded as convoys solely made of American logistical vehicles. They are just as likely to hit an IED as we are, and their trucks don’t have the armor that saves American lives. They frequently own their own trucks, so if the truck is damaged the money to repair it comes out of their pocket. If they or their families live in the area, they likely receive death threats from the Taliban.

These men and all of the children that crowded around me a few nights ago after dinner deserve a better life than what the Taliban offers to them. They will not have that if we leave now. We, working with Afghan forces, can and will defeat the Taliban. But they still need our help.

When I return from this mission, I know I will have many e-mails piled up. The one I hope not to see: a Ramp Ceremony invitation sent out some time tomorrow for an Angel from G 2/6. Our Doctors are very, very good, and if a Marine can make it to a medevac bird, he has an excellent chance of living. Here’s hoping.

*The airport here on base.

My Marines told me the next day that only one chopper ever landed, but they also told me that it only passed over the COP three times. I don't know for a fact that the chopper landed because of a medevac, but that's the most probable thing.