Finally, one step closer to the war I signed up for. It's only taken a year in the background to get here. Though my list of accomplishments through that year is enough to make me proud, it doesn't feel as though I've really done much of anything. Over the coming months, however, I plan to change that.
Day Zero
26 July 2007
A mountain of rucksack rests beside me as I sit in room C-3, building 2606, for the last time. Walls bare, bed stripped, wall locker empty. All that remains as it was is my miniature library built up by book donations from the non-profit organization "Books For Soldiers". But before I can think of all the "Shoulda Coulda Woulda's", my ride arrives.
Off to the A/DAG we go and with plenty of time to spare, my hopes are high. The weather has been good all day, the dust is low, and it was a bit cooler than the rest of the week had been. So now all we do is wait.
My ride has other work to do so I am left, with my small mountain range of bags, to my own devices. And since I'm not really up for socializing at the moment, I think I'll just sit in the shade of my mountains like a crusty old hermit and wait for roll call.
But roll call never came. Ten minutes before flight time, though, a lot of things started happening very fast. A kid with a clip board came running out of the passenger terminal calling out our flight number, "Everyone on AL4 grab all your gear and gather up over here!" I surveyed my mountain range, "Oh, shit." One by one I took them over to the new spot for us AL4-ers and was even lucky enough to catch my name for roll call on my second trip. Panting, I arrive with the last bag just in time to hear, "Okay, I'll take ya'll over there. Let's go!" No time for surveying and swearing now!
I grab the first thing that I feel and throw it on my back. It's the duffel bag. Okay, IBA is on, Kevlar is close enough. Gotta hurry! Hoisting my overstuffed backpack onto my chest for a front load, I realize my weapon is still leaning against the Hesco barriers. No time to rearrange bags now; the others are already 100 meters ahead. Time to grab and go! M4 in my right hand, rucksack mountain in my left. Solid. Move!
After about five steps it becomes apparent that, although I am motivated through the roof, I am physically unable to…wait a minute! To hell with that! We got a war to win! And with that super hooah burst of motivation, I find myself about 50 meters from the bird, little white lights popping in front of my eyes, and clip board boy running over to help.
I must have looked like a lost child; standing there at the door of the Blackhawk. I put my duffel bag up first and just look at it as if waiting for it to tell me what to do next. I'm glad I put that orange tape on it. I like orange. Oh, yeah. Helicopter. In a hurry. Waiting on me. Got it. The duffel is lifted onto the knees of my much lighter packing companions and passed out of sight. Now it's rucksack mountain's turn, but that one isn't lifted or passed or even nudged, for that matter, so the backpack gets thrown on top and I climb into what's left of a seat. Clumsily I grope about for the seat belt and succeed in jamming the frame of the ruck into the knees of the captain sitting across from me. I would have cared more if any of the eleven other AL4-ers had even offered to help. Ah well. The doors close and off we go into the night.
The flight itself is un-eventful. A little bumpy and more than a little uncomfortable. It didn't last long, though, only taking about fifty minutes. As long as my team back at Spiecher made the call I should have a ride waiting for me at the Warhorse A/DAG. It's a comforting thought as I drag my mountains across another flight line panting and wheezing all the way. A quick PCI at the terminal reveals that I've lost my favorite hat (probably left during the rush to get on the bird) and the pen/laser/flashlight I got for re-enlistment (definitely lost here cause I used it to look for the duffel bag that was tossed away from the helipad). Ah well. Life goes on.
Two hours later I'm sitting on my duffel bag under the sign the reads, "Camp Warhorse Passenger Terminal". Soaked with sweat, sore as a bitch, and downright exhausted. I'm about to settle in for a little nap when a flashlight beam rips through the night, stinging my eyes. I never thought I'd be happy to see the little red headed S.O.B. that's on the other end of that beam. Oh my god. I think he's actually gotten whiter!
A trip to the Dfac yielded a to-go box of lasagna and a corn and lima bean mix (exactly like the dinner I'd had at Spiecher over six hours ago!), and a couple of diet cokes. The food here is pretty much the same quality as up north. Nothing really noteworthy.
The shower water actually gets cool here and that alone was enough to take all the bad from the day. The walk back to the tent is wonderful. The waxing moon lights up a spattering of clouds. The warm breeze left over from the intense heat of the day whispers, "I'll get you next time." The cot creaks and groans in welcome. And the rhythmic, steady beat of the helicopters sings me a lullaby.
Then, of course, I'm up every two hours until it's time to start…
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