The Long Way Home- First Installment
With the onset of my final Afghan dusk I walked the quarter mile to the passenger terminal, my duffel bag slung across my shoulder digging in just enough to remind me that I had packed too much crap, and carrying my laptop in the opposite hand. It was quiet as I stepped out of my hooch, most of the soldiers were undoubtedly at chow or those on night cycle would be down on steel beach standing ready to launch, which translates to playing HALO in the ready room. Just as well, I had had my full of “goodbyes” earlier in the day. So, I did the duffel bag drag under the ever darkening purple sky walking past the plywood hooches that were canvas tents a mere nine months earlier. Listening to the gut rumbling roar of an EA-6 Prowler courageously taking to the skys, I thought to myself that those guys have proven their worth time and again in spite of repeated attempts by a bunch of bean counters to put them out to pasture in some Arizona bone yard. I recalled that the four seater jet was invaluable to us during the early days of the Bosnia affair.
As the noise began to subside, I stopped at a row of conexes to look at the damage caused by that one rocket that finally did make it into our camp in the weeks preceding the Afghan elections. Of the countless attempted attacks, one son of a bitch made it just inside the tall sand filled Hesco walls to take out one of our conexes. Unfortunately, a piece of shrapnel from the wounded conex parked itself in the leg of one of my soldiers who was walking to his hooch nearby. I whispered a little prayer begging for that to be the only Purple Heart awarded to any of my soldiers for the entire deployment. My thoughts were interrupted by a large “jingo” truck painted in fantastic bright colors with tassles and trinkets hanging from various places inside and out of the cab. The Afghan driver flashed a broad smile and waved as he drove past, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust half waving and coughing. I resumed my solitary walk to the passenger terminal with a twinge of excitement in my heart as I thought about seeing my lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook and our merry band of pirates again in a few days.
I came upon a row of several up-armored turtle-back humvees with their engines running, black-out drive lights on, and a group of soldiers mulling around the hood of the lead vehicle. I felt a little rush looking at the weapons mounted atop each one of the dust covered workhorses. An NCO was speaking to the group, reading from notes on a clipboard undoubtedly briefing them on their upcoming mission. I overheard him review the rules of engagement and then announce a commo check in “five mikes” as the group broke up and headed to their respective chariots. The Army goes rolling along.
Stepping into the plywood passenger terminal, I dropped the duffel at my feet with a “clunk” and sat down on one of the dozen couches that were lined dress right dress in rows of three facing a large screen television airing the Armed Forces Network to help those of us waiting to catch a flight outof the Stan pass the time. There was no travel agent to book my ticket out of the desert, so I silently hoped that a good dose of patience and a lot of AFN would be enough to keep my sanity as I waited to begin the first leg of my long journey home. A large white dry-erase board hung on the wall next to the televeision screen with the schedule of outgoing flights hand written in blue ink. Noticing that I was in luck, only two hours until the next scheduled flight, I settled in for the wait. It wasn’t long until the announcement was made for “those passengers wishing to travel this evening to please report to the manifest window with a copy of their orders.” I obediently reported to the manifest window with a copy of my orders in my hand.
We were notified that the flight had been cancelled and that there were no seats available on the following one, but there was a flight with some thirty open seats scheduled in about eleven hours. I sat back down and waited noticing on the mission board that a red line had been drawn through the listed flight I had anticipated being on. What the hell, eleven hours really isn’t that long of a time compared to nine months. Sgt Hook out.
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