- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 410
Warning: This is not an AAR or an exactly accurate account. This was written to be compelling and to give an idea how it feels out there.
Remember the "Speed kills" campaign signs, reminding you to slow down, it might save your life? Well, not here. Speed is good, speed is your best friend and he might actually save your life. He means that the enemy won't have time to place an IED in your path, he means that it is hard for anyone to time and blow up an IED right beside you; he means that you can roll out of a kill zone on momentum alone. I am in the air sentry hatch in the rear of the lead LAV III today. The road has been flowing easily so far, enjoying the fast moving scenery, as we follow the river back to camp.
The weather is cool at low thirties Celsius and overcast; a surprising reprieve from the summer heat and the unrelenting sun typical of the Afghan desert in this season. The crew is experienced and the driver seems to be masterful at maneuvering the vehicle swiftly without playing pinball with the passengers. The recent unexpected rain and being the first ones in the order of march, mean that the dust I have to breath in is minimal. No one could picture a better day to be an air sentry.
It is hard to suppress a cringe every time we have to slow down to keep convoy integrity. This isn't entirely friendly territory: adults are stoic as we drive by, but kids tell me the real story by giving us a variety of hand gestures. Some wave, others give us the thumbs up, but equal numbers give thumbs down or emphatic single finger salutes. I wave back to them all.
The traffic starts to build up, but they all pull over out of the way for us, letting us through. It was a good idea to install billboards everywhere along the local roads, with explicit instruction on what to do when a convoy comes up on you. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a local market springs up, tightly bordering the road with single story "strip malls" on both side. And traffic STOPS.
There is the acrid diesel fumes in the air, barely covering the intermingling smells emanating from the market. All sorts of animals meats, trinkets, drinks and wares are haphazardly hung up on the open walls of market shops, or strewn on make shift tables. I no longer feel surprised now at where I might stumble upon the familiar red pop can with the Coke logo, here with the lettering in arabic characters and a pull tab top. There is an unpleasant dirty, salty taste from the muddy sweat oozing down my face, as a lazy break in the clouds slowly lets sunshine brighten up the moment.
The vehicle intercom crackles to life: "Tractor tangled up in front of us". We might be able to back up, but it would be a tight fit. There is a rickshaw, a taxi and a huge bus on the right of the LAV, who have all nicely pulled over and pushed us to the other side of the road. Ambush, scream all my senses, it's a perfect set up.
On the left side, my side, there is a crowd of 30 locals, but it feels like a sea of 300. There is an awning over the market and that makes me the only one with good over watch of the crowd. We are in so tight; I lose sight of some of the closest locals in a blind spot behind the high sides and hatch door. We usually do not let people come in any closer than XXXXm (omitted for OPSEC reasons), but we don't even have 50cm separation right now.
I raise myself out of the hatch to get better situational awareness, thus exposing my whole upper body to the outside. It is a gamble, and might be the wrong one; raising my personal risk to lower the threat to the LAV and the eight occupants inside. There is a grizzled "Adjudant" from the Vandoo's in the other hatch watching my six, the only reassuring thought for a neophyte like me at this time.
As I scan the vicinity, my heart hammering away, I see fear, nervousness and anxiety amongst the crowd and people barely dare to breath. No one seems to move a muscle and I fight the urge to shoulder my rifle. If anyone makes any move that looks in any way life threatening, I am ready to defend the crew and myself. Be cool, just be cool.
I force a smile and venture a wave. The tension breaks and I can see the crowd releasing a collective sigh of relief. While I'm scanning harder than ever, some kids return my wave and most people smile back. Not letting my guard down, I scan deep into the shops and on the roofs, back to the crowd, right to left, bottom to top, non-stop. We finally start moving again, I wait until we clear the market and drop back down into the hatch.
This will stay with me as one of the most vivid memories of my tour, and will be reliving the moment over and over, second-guessing everything to see if I could or should have done anything better. To the rest of the crew, that was just a Tuesday morning and to a lot of soldiers here in theatre, it is the day-to-day reality. All these soldiers deserve, and have, my sincere respect and unconditional support.
Edited by Vern 05 Jul 2007 at Dissident's request as the PAFFO has had a change of heart.
Remember the "Speed kills" campaign signs, reminding you to slow down, it might save your life? Well, not here. Speed is good, speed is your best friend and he might actually save your life. He means that the enemy won't have time to place an IED in your path, he means that it is hard for anyone to time and blow up an IED right beside you; he means that you can roll out of a kill zone on momentum alone. I am in the air sentry hatch in the rear of the lead LAV III today. The road has been flowing easily so far, enjoying the fast moving scenery, as we follow the river back to camp.
The weather is cool at low thirties Celsius and overcast; a surprising reprieve from the summer heat and the unrelenting sun typical of the Afghan desert in this season. The crew is experienced and the driver seems to be masterful at maneuvering the vehicle swiftly without playing pinball with the passengers. The recent unexpected rain and being the first ones in the order of march, mean that the dust I have to breath in is minimal. No one could picture a better day to be an air sentry.
It is hard to suppress a cringe every time we have to slow down to keep convoy integrity. This isn't entirely friendly territory: adults are stoic as we drive by, but kids tell me the real story by giving us a variety of hand gestures. Some wave, others give us the thumbs up, but equal numbers give thumbs down or emphatic single finger salutes. I wave back to them all.
The traffic starts to build up, but they all pull over out of the way for us, letting us through. It was a good idea to install billboards everywhere along the local roads, with explicit instruction on what to do when a convoy comes up on you. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a local market springs up, tightly bordering the road with single story "strip malls" on both side. And traffic STOPS.
There is the acrid diesel fumes in the air, barely covering the intermingling smells emanating from the market. All sorts of animals meats, trinkets, drinks and wares are haphazardly hung up on the open walls of market shops, or strewn on make shift tables. I no longer feel surprised now at where I might stumble upon the familiar red pop can with the Coke logo, here with the lettering in arabic characters and a pull tab top. There is an unpleasant dirty, salty taste from the muddy sweat oozing down my face, as a lazy break in the clouds slowly lets sunshine brighten up the moment.
The vehicle intercom crackles to life: "Tractor tangled up in front of us". We might be able to back up, but it would be a tight fit. There is a rickshaw, a taxi and a huge bus on the right of the LAV, who have all nicely pulled over and pushed us to the other side of the road. Ambush, scream all my senses, it's a perfect set up.
On the left side, my side, there is a crowd of 30 locals, but it feels like a sea of 300. There is an awning over the market and that makes me the only one with good over watch of the crowd. We are in so tight; I lose sight of some of the closest locals in a blind spot behind the high sides and hatch door. We usually do not let people come in any closer than XXXXm (omitted for OPSEC reasons), but we don't even have 50cm separation right now.
I raise myself out of the hatch to get better situational awareness, thus exposing my whole upper body to the outside. It is a gamble, and might be the wrong one; raising my personal risk to lower the threat to the LAV and the eight occupants inside. There is a grizzled "Adjudant" from the Vandoo's in the other hatch watching my six, the only reassuring thought for a neophyte like me at this time.
As I scan the vicinity, my heart hammering away, I see fear, nervousness and anxiety amongst the crowd and people barely dare to breath. No one seems to move a muscle and I fight the urge to shoulder my rifle. If anyone makes any move that looks in any way life threatening, I am ready to defend the crew and myself. Be cool, just be cool.
I force a smile and venture a wave. The tension breaks and I can see the crowd releasing a collective sigh of relief. While I'm scanning harder than ever, some kids return my wave and most people smile back. Not letting my guard down, I scan deep into the shops and on the roofs, back to the crowd, right to left, bottom to top, non-stop. We finally start moving again, I wait until we clear the market and drop back down into the hatch.
This will stay with me as one of the most vivid memories of my tour, and will be reliving the moment over and over, second-guessing everything to see if I could or should have done anything better. To the rest of the crew, that was just a Tuesday morning and to a lot of soldiers here in theatre, it is the day-to-day reality. All these soldiers deserve, and have, my sincere respect and unconditional support.
Edited by Vern 05 Jul 2007 at Dissident's request as the PAFFO has had a change of heart.
I remember the Gun Fighter program we learned before we were deployed to Khandahar. It was drilled in us over and over again to perfection. Than I quite vividly remember a soldier who was a god at it miss a stationary Timmy Taliban target from 25ish ms away. There are to many Variables in combat to completely rely on "instinctive" actions. 
