Downrange

“Going downrange” is Army-speak for any movement that takes you closer to where the bullets fly and the bombs explode.  Since last week I’ve moved to a base near the city of Gardez, a step closer to my final destination.  The convoy down was through countryside that looked a lot like the Arizona-California desert, interspersed with some small towns, farms, and orchards.  The area was by no means safe, but the settlements looked calm, organized, and peaceful enough.  Though not exactly prosperous, much had been newly built.  The people either stared or ignored us as we passed.  We took one rest halt in the middle of nowhere, and still were quickly surrounded by a gaggle of kids, including a number of young girls who must have been in their last year or two of freedom before they went behind the veil.

Going downrange implies heightened awareness, tension, and danger.  We do what we can to get ready, but there is still a lot of waiting around, killing time.  For me, that means watching football games on the one TV in camp and working my way through Joseph Conrad stories and novels.  Lord Jim, The Secret Sharer, Youth, and Typhoon down, with Almayer’s Folly coming up next.

I’ll post a picture or two when I can get back on the Internet.

Duffle Bag Drag

 

The Queen's Palace

The King's Mansion

Still traveling enroute to my final destination, far in the east of Afghanistan.  Before I get there, I’ll have spent time at four, maybe five other camps.  While waiting for transportation from one base to the next, we live in “tent cities” and do plenty of what the Army calls the “duffle bag drag.”  Need I explain what that means?  Hint:  each of us has been issued mounds of equipment and uniforms.

Some camps are neater than others.  One sits close by two magnificent-but-ruined mansions.  Built in the 1930s for Afghan royalty, they now sit bombed, dilapidated, and empty.

Outside the Queen's Palace

Graffiti at the Queen's Palace.

Returning to training after visiting the Queen's Palace.

Halfway Round the World

Deployment slows as we reach one of the nations that serve as staging bases for the movement of US forces into Afghanistan or Iraq.  Here, there’s precious little to do while waiting for available aircraft.  We bunk in big 200-man tents, read, listen to music, watch videos, call home, check the Internet, go to the gym, kill time at the rec centers, wait for the next meal, and, most of all, doze.  We are fighting jet lag, so all our waking activities are conducted in a half-alert haze and at odd times of the day and night.

Ben the Plumber

I took this picture in Indianapolis.

Benjamin Franklin lurks in my family tree six generations back on my mother’s side.  The family flame burns dimmer these days, but the legacy keeps me alert to things like the truck pictured above.  At age 50, Franklin traveled with the local militia into northeast Pennsylvania to fight Indians.  I don’t know if he had any close calls with death, but the Autobiography describes sleeping on the ground for two months in the late winter until the uprising ended.  Now 50 myself, I’m sure that couldn’t have been easy.

                                                                                                                                                                     Home on leave this week.  Back in Kansas next.  Deployment soon after.