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| Soviet invasion, (jakiterunner.wordpress.com) |
As a middle school student in the late '70's, I was vaguely aware of Afghanistan. The Evil Empire, (the Soviet Union's nickname given by Ronald Reagan), had just poured over 150,000 troops across their south Asia border into Afghanistan. There was the typical Soviet propaganda films, graciously provided by Pravda, or news articles from ITAR-TASS, showing the invincible Soviet mechanized army, massing across the border to save the poor Afghans, at their request. In reality, the true goal was to move the Soviet Communist sphere of influence one step closer to a warm water port, and gain access to the Indian Ocean.
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| "Mujahedin mortar Russians." (Interestingly, this photo could be captioned "Mujahedin mortar US troops at FOB Shank." Nothing has changed for them, they look the same now. (Erwin Lux photo from Wiki) |
Western media quickly seized on the story of the Afghan resistance as a counter to the Russian propaganda machine. These guerrillas were called the Mujahedin, translated to "Freedom Fighters." As a 14 year old boy, growing up under the constant threat of a Russian nuclear holocaust, I could identify with these far-off warriors, fighting the hated Russians. I dreamed of making my way to the Khyber Pass, being handed an AK-47, and enlisting to help snipe at the evil Russians. (I think the movie Red Dawn came out about this time, adding to my fantasy.) One of the people that may have handed me a weapon, might have been Osama Bin Laden, one of the very Mujahedin fighting the Russians. It's amazing how naive we can be. But, as the Arabs say, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
Fast forward to 2008. As a helicopter pilot with special operations experience, I applied and was subsequently hired for a job with Blackwater, flying Little Birds over Baghdad in support of the U.S. State Department. Blackwaters' aviation element was then known as Presidential Airways (PAW). During the time of my initial weapons training, and prior to deployment, Blackwater lost the State Dept. contract. The loss was primarily due to the Iraqi government failing to renew their license because of a little incident in a place called Nisoor Square.
So I spent the next two years languishing in admin hell with Presidential Airways. In early 2010, I sent an ultimatum to the hiring managers, of which their were many. I was then offered a new opportunity flying S-61's in Afghanistan. I went to Moyock, N.C. for my interview. While there, I interviewed with two former Nightstalkers and was subsequently given the opportunity to fly the SA-330J Puma. Within weeks I was off for more weapons training, instrument refresher training, and finally aircraft qualification.
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| Le Puma, with trusted instructor Bob (David Tappe photo) |
The Puma was impressive. While an older airframe, it still possessed great speed, a decent lift capability, and retractable landing gear. Sporting an automatic pilot, flight director, and complete instrument package, the pilot is able to maintain great situational awareness and aircraft control. For me, a big, roomy helicopter with doors installed and a good heater, was right on time! After my good buddy Johnnie and I completed our Part 135 checkrides in Rhode Island, we were set to deploy.
In early May 2010 I received my travel itinerary for Kabul, Afghanistan. I would fly from BWI to ATL. Later that evening, I would leave Atlanta for the 13 hour flight to Dubai, UAE. I would spend the night in Dubai and at 5 am, check in for the chartered flight from Dubai to Kabul. My buddy Johnnie would follow me some weeks later and was keen on anything I could tell him about the trip to our base, Forward Operating Base (FOB) Shank.
On my flight to Dubai, I quickly flashed back to the 20 hour flight I took from Tennessee to Saudi Arabia, during Desert Storm. I had nothing else to compare it with. Sitting there, I watched the little moving map display showing the airplane graphic arching far north over Newfoundland and the North Atlantic, obviously taking a great circle route to Dubai. I watched and watched.....Jeez! Finally, I fell asleep over the Atlantic Ocean and woke up somewhere over Europe. The window shades are never opened on a long, multiple time zone flight like this. If you do, it messes with your head. Eventually, after an eternity, we arrived in Dubai around 10:30 pm local time.
After a fairly streamlined trip through customs, you emerge in what I like to call, enemy territory. Arabs everywhere. Some are pompous dandy's with their little red and white checked Keffiah head scarves. Wearing man-dresses, they strut about the airport, with a huge air of superiority, Others are the polyester pants wearing, Saddam Hussein moustachioed, pudgy little taxi drivers smoking away near their cars. Eventually I query a few western looking people I was on the plane with, and find they are waiting on a hotel shuttle. I don't know anyone in this group. Later, during subsequent trips, I would come to know more and more interesting people during these travels back and forth.
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| Bidet in my room (David Tappe photo) |
Hotels in the middle east are all the same. Ridiculously gaudy, marble tile from floor to ceiling, gold plated fixtures, huge chandeliers, and massive lobby fountains decorate them like a kings palace. A palace with a unsettling odor and always, always, always staffed by little red and brown people from Pakistan or Bangladesh or some other exotic eastern realm where hobbits live. The hotel always has a bar...oh yes, they love their alcohol in the middle east, and their foreign prostitutes; but it's illegal to own a bible there. Hypocrites. You get to your room, too tired to sleep, so you explore the strange differences from a western hotel room. Number one is the bidet. I don't understand how people who are comfortable wiping their ass with their actual left hand, require a fancy French bidet??? Really? If you're comfortable fluffing your ass dry with a handful of sand, do you really need a splash of water up your butt???? The room will have weird light switches; you need to put your room key in a slot by the front door in order for anything to work. The TV is always showing some soccer matches or a cricket game, or some mullah haranguing you about Allah. There's a little arrow on the ceiling indicating the direction of Mecca.
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| Starbucks in Dubai Intl (David Tappe photo) |
After maybe 4 hours of sleep, you head to a different terminal from the one in which you arrived. A VERY DIFFERENT TERMINAL! This is like a third world cattle pen, but with a Starbucks and McDonalds, oh and lots of marble. Gaggles and gaggles of tiny little brown men, in man-dresses and Jesus sandals, are being herded around between way too sketchy metal detectors, and their departure gates. Their luggage? Not Louis Vuitton, but cardboard boxes swaddled in saran wrap and tied with string. The smell is like a combination of sheep, B.O., and hell. However, I make due with a large Starbucks latte for a few drachma's, or whatever their money is called.
My ride to Afghanistan? A chartered Airbus operated under a Turkish flagged airline, I have never heard of. No need to worry about seat assignments, sit anywhere. No need to fuss too much about boring safety briefings. Amazingly, they did serve a breakfast. But sadly, the only thing I could identify was a croissant. There was some kind of rice thing, or maybe a type of hummus, I have no idea. There was an egg product. There was also a meat sausage-product which looked like a severed penis, drained of blood.
The flight was initially interesting as you briefly flash out over the Persian Gulf. I am pretty sure the flight goes over a portion of Iran in order to reach the Afghan frontier. How ironic. I think this was the case because looking at a map, you would have to go way south in order to use Pakistan as a route into Afghanistan. Iran looked like a typical shithole, but with mountains. Afghanistan was a bit more impressive. Very, very large mountains dot the landscape everywhere. With the exception of river valleys, nothing looked alive. No trees, no farmlands, no grasslands, no chaparral, nothing. All the rivers I saw were fed by snow-melt occurring high in the mountains.
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| In front of the Kabul Intl Terminal (David Tappe photo) |
We made a few turns here and there, and after 3 1/2 hours we started a rapid descent into Kabul. Looking out my window while on final, I got my first glimpse of Kabul. This is the worst looking city I have ever seen in my life. Beyond poor, beyond polluted, beyond belief as a huge wagon-wheel shaped prison slides past my window. Touching down, we quickly taxi to an incredibly dilapidated ramp, in front of a more dilapidated terminal. Signs of the Soviet occupation are everywhere. An air-stair is pulled up to the aircraft, and through a cordon of way too young looking guards, we are escorted to the terminal.
Inside, the tiny brown men are herded to a separate line, us westerners are moved into a slightly more modern area. A hawk-nosed, Mullah Omar look-alike, and after a disapproving stare, stamps my passport. I collect my bags.....passing through a few random metal detectors. (Why in the hell would you pass through a metal detector after you arrive? Are the Afghans worried you might bring a weapon there? INCREDIBLE!) I emerge in even more hostile territory. My eyes are darting everywhere, my head on a swivel. Time to put on the game face and be alert. I am supposed to find a particular handler, which is my escort to the parking lot, and a waiting, nondescript Blackwater security van. Little entrepreneurial boys are everywhere, trying to hustle a few bucks and pretending to be a handler. I find a guy with a clipboard, which seems to be a universal sign of authenticity, and yep, he knows my name.
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| Emerging from the Kabul terminal (David Tappe photo) |
Myself and another guy are hustled out the door. I can't resist the temptation of snapping a self-pic as I am walking through the front of the airport out to the street. A dangerous attention-getter given the situation, but also a once in a lifetime experience, and don't we kind of own Kabul anyway? The answer is no. Not in a guerrilla war, you don't.
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| Me and my little friend riding in the Van (David Tappe photo) |
The Blackwater guys look like a couple of Haji's. Fully dressed like natives and sporting beards, they are all business. Clearly these two guys are pros. One guy looks totally native and has some command of the Dari language, the other has the steely eye of a shooter. They cover us in body armor and then slip wool man- dresses over us. After a quick briefing covering a hostile situation, showing us where the weapons are, and extraction procedures, we begin out Toyota jingle-van ride to their secure compound.
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| Notice woman and baby laying in road (David Tappe photo) |
I took a lot of pictures during the short ride. Notable moments; the front of the terminal where an abandoned Russian jet sat upon a pedestal as a monument to their victory over the infidels. Also notable, an Afghan traffic circle where it's nothing but a slow-speed accident, layered with the sound of a hundred honking horns. I saw not too fresh meat hanging in front of stores, as an open sewer ran directly beneath. I saw a woman laying in a pothole in the middle of a busy street holding a baby, as she begged cars passing by. I think she lived there. You don't know hopelessness until you see something like that.
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| Meat over an open sewer (David Tappe photo) |
We arrived at the Blackwater compound. Pretty much like I imagined, huge walls ringed the facility, guards posted just inside like a medieval castle garrison. Decent housing within, including admin, chow hall and an amazing exercise facility. People were great, food was good......this time. The next morning we took another van ride, this time to the NATO side of the Kabul Airport. Safely ensconced inside a military facility, I finally feel comfortable.
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| Ramp 8, KIA (David Tappe photo) |
No one inside the air terminal knows when my helicopter will be here to pick me up. I have no way to contact my organization at Shank, and there is no ETA for my aircraft. So, in a fashion reminiscent of my time in the military, I wait. And wait and wait. After 5 or 6 hours, a Puma lands and taxi's up to Ramp 8. Me and another dude are waiting to board the aircraft. No one is there to marshal us, and no one got off the aircraft to get us. So we just walked over and got in, after verifying with the crew chief that they were going to Shank. I now have a window seat to see the countryside during the 25 minute run to Shank. Kabul looks even worse than I thought. Heavy haze blankets the city from cooking fires fueled by diesel and excrement. Visibility is down to few kilometers.
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| Looking into Kabul bowl (David Tappe photo) |
As we climb up the pass out of the Kabul valley, visibility improves greatly. This pass, and every other pass I saw in Afghanistan, was heavily mined by the Russians during their 10 year war. Rocks were painted white indicating a safe foot passage through these minefields. Most minefields were guarded by the carcasses of Russian T-55 tanks or random artillery pieces. The outlines of ghost Russian facilities, anti-aircraft emplacements, and choke-point defense positions, litter the landscape. In most cases just the tank or personnel carrier body hulk remains, everything else of value having long been salvaged.
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| T-55 Russian tank and goats (David Tappe photo) |
The same story has been played out since Alexander the Great, over 2500 years ago. Here's a Sun Tzu Golden Rule: The terrain dictates the movement of armies. Natural choke points have provided an ambush or defense position since before Leonidas and the Spartans held off the Xerxes at Thermopylae. The Afghan landscape shows this time honored theory in stark detail....the most recent examples provided by the battle plan used by the Northern Alliance in their routing of the Taliban, in the Panjshir Valley.
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| A fortress built by Alexander near Gardez (David Tappe photo0 |
And so we arrive at Shank. Like no FOB I have ever seen before. During my time in Desert Storm, an FOB was a temporary position used to support more forward operations and in that capacity, was very spartan. This was more like a firebase used during the Viet Nam war. Only this firebase, was much, much bigger...i.e. miles across and comes equipped with a 10,000' runway. And far better defended, as well. Interlocking .50 caliber machine gun emplacements, an anchored aerostat sensor platform hovering far above, watching the world. An immense Hesco wall topped by concertina wire with extremely complicated, zig-zagging ,entrance points designed to stop and attenuate any truck bomb, or infiltration attempt. Artillery pieces and attack helicopters round out the defenses in depth. Fighter jets and bombers could be summoned in less than 8 minutes providing one more lethal option to a ground force commander.
From this point on, my life would revolve around flight operations, chow hall hours, going to the gym, studying aircraft manuals, and watching movies. Skype was the communication tool of choice with the world back home. My little slice of Afghanistan would be a 10' x 8' plywood room in an Alaska tent. Since I was the new guy, I got the "vent room." The vent room is the place in the tent where the giant air intake was located which drew in air for the environmental control unit, and also had the output line for the whole tent interior. The output line was a vinyl tube that inflated in a dramatic and noisy fashion every time the unit kicked on. In the vent room you could hear nothing....it was constant noise and miserable. I was consoled knowing soon Johnnie was going to inherit my vent room and I would move to a new cube. Hahaha, sucks to be the new guy!
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| Rainbow over the showers and shitters (David Tappe photo) |
Luckily, we had internet service from Hong Kong or something, and it was fairly reliable. Bathrooms and showers were less convenient. You had to walk to and from the bathrooms. Usually they would run out of water yet for some reason, soldiers would keep shitting in them till you have a mountain of poop in the bowl. I usually took my showers around 2:30 am in order to not have to wait, and to avoid the shower Nazi's who yelled at you to take a combat shower. Sometimes we would preflight the aircraft around 3 or 3:30 am, so an early wake up was always in order. The flip side was that some nights you were in bed by 7pm.
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| My Hooch (David Tappe photo) |
And so begins my all-expenses paid vacation in exotic Afghanistan.
