Morale and Welware
Mississippi was hot. Really really hot. So hot that I would leave the car running as I went into a store to run an errand during the day. I would rather face Grand Theft Auto in the seedier parts of Meridian than the scalding heat that would build inside after just a few minutes. Of course, it was a rental and I would also go to deserted parking lots and indulge my stilted dreams of being a movie stunt driver. Sorry Avis. 
Therefore after a mere 20 hours of travel on a DC-10 when I stepped out under the glaring security lights and felt a chill even through the fireproof nomex of the uniform that I was wearing I really did feel like I was in a different place. Kyrgyzstan. I kept meaning to look it up on a map, but I was so busy that the first indication I really had of where it was came from the moving map display on the airplane. As the little toy airplane slowly, so very slowly, traced its red line across the screen I was mesmerized as we passed by so many mysterious names such as Budapest, Belgrade, and the Black Sea. Now that I've seen them from 39,ooo ft I feel so much closer to them.
In pleasant predawn temperature we rode on a bus through a machine gun guarded gate, and I mean guarded by the gun itself cause the only soldier I saw was taking a whiz and not looking at us. Next was the requisite two hour inbrief that the Air Force always feels is so necessary regardless of the fact that the listeners are being propped up by leaning against each other in their sleep deprived haze. Stepping outside the Quonset hut I dodged the milling airman wondering where the bathroom was even though we had been shown a base map no less than four times I walked to the loading dock to check on our bags. Here were fifteen airmen trying to unload the bulging bags filled with everything that 300 people need for six months. Unfortunately, the 150 Romanians that we picked up on the way "forgot" that they had promised to come help unload their own baggage. I wasn't sure if it was a language issue but I hoped it was not a sign of how our coalition of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) was going to operate. Though I had a feeling it might be. After helping them out, and determined not to give into the
jet lag I went for a short wander around Manas Air Force Base.
This place is clearly designed around receiving, supplying, and then shipping off to war the hundreds of thousands of Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines that have passed through on their way to Afghanistan. There are no less than three Morale and Welfare centers designed to provide a way for warriors to pass the time waiting on their next flight and communicate with loved ones at home. There is one center designed an internet cafe, without the cafe part, where anyone can check out a laptop and webcam and talk over a very slow video connection with anyone back home who loves them enough to brave the 12 hour time difference.
One location is designed as a video gamer's paradise. It has several windowless rooms with duct tape-repaired pleather couches set 3 feet away from 40 inch plasma screens. At one point, the 14 seconds I was there, at least eight different stations surrounded by cheering young men were blasting away in First Person shooter games. It struck me as rather ironic as they sat in their weathered military uniforms that many of them had just come from shooting real bullets at non-digital terrorists.
My favorite place is the large tent set up for concerts called Pete's Place. The dark interior even hides a sticker covered bar where folks even have the ability to purchase two beers a day, meticulously tracked by an electronic big brother system. Outside though is an airy deck where one can pass the time in plastic deck chairs reading in the sun or people watching as the unending stream of camouflage walks by.
All of these things though only do so much to disguise the fact that I am locked into this square mile of gravel without any real job or purpose. I am quite ready to move on and get to do the job I came here to do. While I am sipping my Baltika Russian lager and watching Ironman 2, other troops are in the midst of combat needing help in a way that I can provide it.
I am ready.
Therefore after a mere 20 hours of travel on a DC-10 when I stepped out under the glaring security lights and felt a chill even through the fireproof nomex of the uniform that I was wearing I really did feel like I was in a different place. Kyrgyzstan. I kept meaning to look it up on a map, but I was so busy that the first indication I really had of where it was came from the moving map display on the airplane. As the little toy airplane slowly, so very slowly, traced its red line across the screen I was mesmerized as we passed by so many mysterious names such as Budapest, Belgrade, and the Black Sea. Now that I've seen them from 39,ooo ft I feel so much closer to them.
In pleasant predawn temperature we rode on a bus through a machine gun guarded gate, and I mean guarded by the gun itself cause the only soldier I saw was taking a whiz and not looking at us. Next was the requisite two hour inbrief that the Air Force always feels is so necessary regardless of the fact that the listeners are being propped up by leaning against each other in their sleep deprived haze. Stepping outside the Quonset hut I dodged the milling airman wondering where the bathroom was even though we had been shown a base map no less than four times I walked to the loading dock to check on our bags. Here were fifteen airmen trying to unload the bulging bags filled with everything that 300 people need for six months. Unfortunately, the 150 Romanians that we picked up on the way "forgot" that they had promised to come help unload their own baggage. I wasn't sure if it was a language issue but I hoped it was not a sign of how our coalition of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) was going to operate. Though I had a feeling it might be. After helping them out, and determined not to give into the
jet lag I went for a short wander around Manas Air Force Base.This place is clearly designed around receiving, supplying, and then shipping off to war the hundreds of thousands of Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines that have passed through on their way to Afghanistan. There are no less than three Morale and Welfare centers designed to provide a way for warriors to pass the time waiting on their next flight and communicate with loved ones at home. There is one center designed an internet cafe, without the cafe part, where anyone can check out a laptop and webcam and talk over a very slow video connection with anyone back home who loves them enough to brave the 12 hour time difference.
One location is designed as a video gamer's paradise. It has several windowless rooms with duct tape-repaired pleather couches set 3 feet away from 40 inch plasma screens. At one point, the 14 seconds I was there, at least eight different stations surrounded by cheering young men were blasting away in First Person shooter games. It struck me as rather ironic as they sat in their weathered military uniforms that many of them had just come from shooting real bullets at non-digital terrorists.
My favorite place is the large tent set up for concerts called Pete's Place. The dark interior even hides a sticker covered bar where folks even have the ability to purchase two beers a day, meticulously tracked by an electronic big brother system. Outside though is an airy deck where one can pass the time in plastic deck chairs reading in the sun or people watching as the unending stream of camouflage walks by.
All of these things though only do so much to disguise the fact that I am locked into this square mile of gravel without any real job or purpose. I am quite ready to move on and get to do the job I came here to do. While I am sipping my Baltika Russian lager and watching Ironman 2, other troops are in the midst of combat needing help in a way that I can provide it.
I am ready.
Labels: Afghanistan
posted by Jonathan Hassell at 20:42
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