Blind Eyes, Black Hearts - A GWOT Story (On Hold)

Chapter 7, Part 1 - Welcome to Zeki Valley

Part 3

Counterinsurgency

After a refueling stop at Kandahar Airfield, the convoy of 8 Chinooks and supporting aircraft flew down south to a place called ‘Crocket Ridge’, a long, dry and sandy ridge that you could usually see in Nevada. And how I meant dry and sandy, it meant it was dry and sandy. There was nothing but rocks and sand and a set of villages, possibly containing fighters from beyond the Pak border, which was not more than around 50 miles east of where we were going to land.

The pilot, Captain Reyes, informed us that the place we were to land was called ‘FOB Freedom’, in which I’ve heard, was a lone Forward Operating Base in Kandahar’s more quiet regions. From year to year American marines and soldiers have died to protect this far-south, lonely, yet important outpost. But in recent months the ‘traffic’ around there had decreased admirably, so it was significantly undermanned and underguarded. According to what I’ve heard, a battalion from 4th Brigade, 101st Airborne Divison (known before as the 187th Infantry Regiment ‘Task Force Rakassan’), was being posted out there. Alone. I began asking myself questions – ‘Were we here to assist normal infantry? Were we considered surplus? Where was Task Force 105? – Rick Salvade in his memoir.

***

The sun gazed through the circular windows of the Chinook helicopter at Rick as he woke up. The Chinook was in an aggressive turn. Most of the rangers were sleeping, and some were fairly awake. Platoon Sergeant DeMuynck was among the awake, and he greeted the lieutenant as he woke up. “Had a nice nap, sir?”

“A cramped, nap, Jas.” Rick said, chuckling. The 38 rangers were cramped onto each other inside the Chinook. It was rather hot for Rick, even with the Sixteen-Degree Celsius air conditioner on. It was so tight in that helicopter; the large packs were put under the feet, body armor pressing against their chests, and weapons hugged in their arms or put between their legs. Rick then turned his head around and looked through the window.

Tan. Sand. Heat. It looked like they were on Mars.

Everything was colored tan, except the sun and the sky, which were yellow and blue respectively. The helicopters were now passing the dead deserts of Kandahar- where only rock and sand existed. It looked more like Iraq than the Central Asian orientation of the country.

Rick had a -0.50 prescription on his right eye, but he could see a village from faraway. It was the usual, shepherd’s village, where Afghans would usually herd their cattle to be grown and cut during two of the Muslim’s big holidays – Iedul Fitri and Iedul Adha, where cattle, mostly goat and cow, would be sacrificed in the name of God for the poor.

Rick ignored this, and thought of the trip. “Where are we?”

“Southern Kandahar.” DeMuynck replied. “Pilot said we’re heading for a camp named Freedom.”

“FOB Freedom? That’s a shithole.” Rick replied.

“Oh, that, Freedom?” DeMuynck remembered. It was a vital outpost in South Kandahar that guarded the villages near the Afghan-Pakistan border. Until earlier this year the tensions between American troops and militants had significantly decreased, but the years before, it was a complete ‘shithole.’ Forward Operating Base Freedom was one of the hot-listed areas in Afghanistan, averaging with at least 3 American casualties every week. It was that hot. Rick expected explanation on the ground on whoever sent them here.

Not more than an hour later, Rick could see helicopters flying the other way around. Black Hawks, flying north. Rick couldn’t see any of the men on the black hawks clearly but they looked like patrol choppers that scanned the dead rocky ground beneath them. Rick decided to stand up and go to the pilot to ask some questions.