On June 30, 2011, after cleaning the barracks, turning in bed linen, and picking up our weapons, we departed Joint Base Lewis-McChord. We arrived by bus at the airport terminal at 1730 hours and waited; our flight wasn’t until 2200 hours. We received a box dinner and the USO had lots of snacks and drinks for us. I couldn’t believe I was actually—finally—going to Kandahar Province in Afghanistan.
We flew from Fort McChord Air Force Base on a chartered North American airline, with the first stop in Leipzig, Germany, then to Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. All in all, including layover times, the trip from Seattle to Kyrgyzstan took 24 hours. Sitting upright was difficult and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I tried to sleep most of the time and didn’t see any of the in-flight movies until the last one—Gulliver’s Travels with Jack Black.
At Manas—a transit center operated by the US Air Force—we were processed and then sent to pick up our bags and grab enough clothing and personal hygiene items for 72 hours, as we didn’t know when we’d fly to Kandahar. We stayed in a transient tent for 40 personnel and I was on a top bunk again. Manas was clean and relatively modern, and the DFAC (dining facility) was well stocked with snacks, drinks, sandwiches, and a variety of hot meals. It wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Of course, the weather was sizzling hot, with no shade to take a breather. Carrying and dragging my bags into the tent was slow and agonizing, and made me sweat nonstop. I went to the PX and loaded my Eagle Cash card (similar to an ATM card) so I could use it in military-run stores. After a long 24-plus hours, I took a much-needed cool shower and slept lying down—what a treat!
The next morning, July 3, we were up at 0700 hours and during formation were told we’d be leaving for Afghanistan around 1800 hours. Air Force personnel inspected our body armor ceramic plates, which weigh 28 pounds, replaced them if cracks were found, and then they loaded our gear onto huge pallets for the plane. For security purposes, before departing everyone on the manifest was locked down in a sweltering holding tent for a couple of hours. We spent the time playing cards and perspiring.
Then our unit and another were crammed in, along with the pallets, into a large C-5 military transport plane. Unlike commercial airplanes, all the seats are extremely close, with barely any elbow or legroom, but the cavernous ceiling is 13 and a half feet high. Moreover, when traveling on military planes to a war zone, everyone must be in “full battle rattle,” wearing body armor, Kevlar, and carrying a weapon. This makes it difficult to be comfortable and to maneuver when using the one and only confined latrine on the plane. Lastly, the roaring of the engines was so loud that we were required to wear earplugs.
Last leg to Afghanistan on a military plane.
After a two-hour plane ride, we arrived at Kandahar International Airport, where we received a briefing. Although it was evening, the weather was hot and humid. The timeworn airport was faintly lit, with old plaster falling off the walls and ceiling, reminding me of the movie Casablanca. My unit was bused to Camp Roberts—a section in Kandahar Airfield (KAF)—and female soldiers were housed in a 12-person transient tent, where we’d stay until flights were set for each team to reach its final destination for the deployment.
My impressions of KAF: hot, really blistering hot, about 110 degrees Fahrenheit. There was annoying, fine white dust everywhere. KAF reminded me of the movie Mad Max—an endless span of desert under a brown, sunless, and cloudless sky, with the nonstop roaring noise of trucks, helicopters, planes, jets, and generators. The airfield was a small city, with at least 20,000 men and women. There was an array of uniformed soldiers from Australia, Canada, Italy, Bulgaria, Denmark, Germany, France, Spain, and other nations, as NATO had a strong presence there. Civilian contractors were from the Philippines, India, Bosnia, the UK, the United States, and other countries. When on duty, all military personnel had to wear their uniforms, or their assigned physical fitness uniforms, along with their weapons. The civilians had to have a photo ID card fastened to their outer garments. Night after night, there were flights taking off or coming in at all hours. Even with earplugs, it seemed like the planes were just over my head. I grimaced and inhaled the smells of the infamous poo-pond—a round lake in the middle of the base where raw sewage was treated.
In our free time, we could buy almost anything from the PX and stores along the Boardwalk (a strip mall) that sold knockoffs of brand-name items. Since the transient tents were so far from the center of the base, we had to take a bus to eat, shop, or go anywhere. For each bus ride, we had to wait nearly 30 minutes in the unbearable heat for the bus to arrive. I needed three hours just to do my laundry at KAF!
The day after our arrival, I thought, “I am one day closer to my mission, and one day closer to going home.” Each day that passed was one day less in Afghanistan. I tried to sleep in the afternoon because the heat was so intolerable. But even with air conditioning in the tent, it was roasting. We had formation at 1900 hours for updates and to learn which teams would leave for their outlying camps. My team was scheduled to leave six days later, on July 10. I really wanted to leave as soon as possible so that I could learn my job and settle into a routine. After the formation, I decided to skip the delightful free army chow. Some of us went to the Boardwalk and ate at Mamma Mia restaurant. The pizza wasn’t bad, considering the owners were Thai. There was karaoke in the square, with soldiers attempting to sing, their voices as dry, dusty, and crackly as the city. This was one Fourth of July I wouldn’t forget.
Boardwalk at KAF.
113th CSC at KAF Camp Roberts.
The next day was my 31st wedding anniversary. I wasn’t able to get to the MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation) center to use the computer and wish Rob a happy anniversary. We had a KAF briefing in the morning, and another briefing in the afternoon about Role III—NATO hospital—where the center’s commander detailed a sickening account of the number of legs and arms amputated because of IEDs (improvised explosive devices) this past year. Welcome to Kandahar!
In an outdoor ceremony, after just three days in the war zone, Col. Rabb presented each member of the unit with our combat patch. He thought this was an appropriate time, as it would be the last time the entire group would be together. I was happy to receive the patch and proud to wear it on my right shoulder. The patch represented the number of challenging obstacles I’d had to overcome to get to Afghanistan.
In the evening, we had night firing of our M-16 rifles to ensure they were working properly. We had to shoot ten rounds while wearing full battle rattle gear in the oppressive heat. When we were finished and about to walk back to the parking lot to board the bus, the camp’s siren went off, indicating rocket attacks. Everyone dove to the ground. We waited for a couple of minutes and then ran into a nearby cement bunker. My heart pounded in my chest and a sour taste arose in my mouth (adrenaline). My brain on full alert, my mind said, “This is real. It’s no longer practice or role-playing. It’s real!” I listened, but there were no nearby explosions. Nevertheless, we stayed in the harsh heat of the bunker for half an hour, dreading and sweating, before the all-clear sign. Mercifully, we had bottles of water to drink. As we filed onto the bus afterward, there was some disquieting nervous energy among us.
My behavioral health team consisted of Pfc. Li and me. This was her first deployment, though she had been in the Army Reserves for about three years. Li was in her 20s and had recently married. She was observant and quiet, but with an air of self-confidence.
We now learned we were scheduled to leave Kandahar at 0300 hours for our FOB, Camp Nathan Smith. I was surprised, as the original schedule had been set for a few days later. I didn’t get back from the firing range until 2300 hours, so there wouldn’t be much sleep this night, as I had to repack my rucksack, rolling duffle bag, and three-day assault bag.
Our driver pulled into Ramp Lima around 0130 hours, but we didn’t even get out of the vehicle because our flight was canceled due to a sandstorm. Back we went to Camp Roberts to try to sleep on our cots. Another team was going out, so it was noisy. I might have slept a couple of hours, but in the morning the generator went out, so no air conditioning and no more sleep. I headed to the DFAC for lunch, hoping the air conditioner would be working when I returned, but no such luck. I hung around the USO tent because it was slightly cooler there. Li and I were there for nearly three hours when my executive officer ran into the tent and shouted that we had to go to the air ramp immediately. I wasn’t totally packed, so I ran back to my tent and threw everything together as quickly as I could. Sweat ran from every pore of my body.
Back at Ramp Lima, we loaded our bags into the Blackhawk helicopter and had buckled ourselves into our seats when the flight crew signaled to us to exit. We begrudgingly unloaded our bags and returned to the flight line to discover that a one-star general and his entourage were taking the bird. I was pissed. We were back at the ramp and waited for the next flight out, which was three hours later. Arrggh!
As I sat on the hard bench at the ramp waiting for transport, drenched with sweat, and with no electronics or a book to occupy my time, I was deep in my thoughts, reviewing the path that had led me to Afghanistan.
As a young girl, the middle child of five, I’d learned that I didn’t garner the same attention from my parents that the oldest or youngest siblings received. This was fine. I was able to carve out my own identity and direction. I developed certain skills and, perhaps unconsciously, ventured into activities to seek attention.
Even though I grew up sharing a small home with two brothers and two sisters close in age, I was more comfortable being alone. I liked having my own space. I didn’t have close friends or feel the need to have them. I didn’t like being surrounded by people. I had friendly relationships with acquaintances, coworkers, classmates, and roommates, but once I didn’t see them anymore, I hardly kept in contact. I liked to do what and when I wanted without waiting for a consensus or having a discussion. To me, this was simply more efficient.
In the military, surrounded by many people, I still preferred solitude. This was a good thing, since military personnel are constantly in transit. It is fruitless to make lasting friendships, as one was here and then transferred to another unit the following week. Another issue was the fact that, as an officer, I was not allowed to fraternize with non-officers. I could be friendly with other officers, but again, they would leave the military, or transfer, or had no time to socialize because of the demands of the job. Lastly, as a therapist, it was unethical for me to be friends with my clients. So it was a good thing I like being by myself.
I also thought my personality was well suited for the military. I was generally quiet, even-tempered and steady, without complaint, loss of temper, or irritation. If I was upset, my face rarely showed it. The circumstance had to be quite unacceptable for me to react. I think I’d learned this as a child. Attracting attention to myself wasn’t what a good Chinese girl would do. I’d learned that many things weren’t in my control, and being angry didn’t change that fact.
Maybe the third time would be a charm? Nope! After waiting three hours and carrying our bags to the flight line, we were again denied boarding because there was no space. We carried everything back to the vehicle and returned to our tent to spend another suffocating night at KAF. I was now exasperated.
We were up at 0300 hours for a 0430 hours pick-up to the ramp, but for the fifth time, we were denied access to a helicopter. By this point, I was seething, losing my patience. My first sergeant reminded me that I had volunteered for this, which helped me regain composure. Soon after, my first sergeant grabbed our bags and drove us to the Canadian air ramp, where we got on a Chinook helicopter to Camp Nathan Smith (CNS). Preparing to strap in, I was surprised the five-point seat harness we had used in training wasn’t available; instead, there was only a simple lap seat belt.
We were finally on our way.
Aboard a Canadian Chinook from KAF to CNS.
Not five minutes into the trip, the rear and side gunners engaged their machine guns—brat-ta-tat-tat—loud enough to be heard above all helicopter noises. The gunners were firing at someone or groups of insurgents on the ground. In disbelief, I glanced over at Li, my stomach rolling, thinking that we could be killed before reaching our FOB. With cold fingers, I cinched the seat belt tighter across my lap. The gunners fired a few more times. As far as I could tell, no one was shooting back at us. All nine passengers had tense faces, lost in their own thoughts, but they didn’t look scared, which was good because it kept me calm. To avoid possible ground fire, the pilot flew the helicopter circuitously up, down, and sideways, making the flight a longer, more intense, but safer trip.
We finally arrived at CNS where we were met by the outgoing behavioral health team, Capt. Rivas and Staff Sgt. Little. They helped carry our bags and showed us the camp. We settled in transient housing, a narrow room with eight bunk beds. This time, I snagged a bottom bunk! Resting for a minute, I reflected slightly on my trip here—frightening, surreal—but there was no time to dwell on it, as I had to adjust to my new surroundings.