Traveling with the Army as a Travel Agent: Part Deux by Steve

I distinctly remember landing at Kuwait International Airport (KIA), the end of a Christmas Day journey in 2001, and thinking to myself, “every time they fly to the Middle East in a movie, like Indiana Jones, they always here the call to prayer, where’s my call to prayer?”  Only to gradually regret that thought as I spent a collective 25 hours over the next four days sitting in the KIA security office.  I heard more than my share of the calls to prayer as we worked through the paperwork to allow our weapons into the country.

At the end of yet another bus ride, we arrived at Camp Arifjan.  Camp Arifjan is actually a new locale for me, I had previously lived in Kuwait for three months when Camp Doha had been the prime hub, so it was a new experience.  Rolling in sometime after midnight, we were briefed and in-processed.  Of course the briefing consisted 80% of “you must wear your reflective belt even though no vehicles can drive here” and 20% “this is what is about to happen to you”.  We were released to find our bags and be back at 5:30 am.  At least they had a 24 hr Starbucks and Hardy’s.  I decided to pass on the 1 am triple bacon cheese burger and went with a cream cheese Danish and coffee instead.  I’ve always loved the “you’re here, we have facilities, but we’re not going to give you the opportunity to use them because we will find a way to make the process of getting a bunk so arduous that you won’t have time to do it all” briefings that every stop seems to give.  Weapons checked into theater, my first shave in days, and it was “sit on duffle bag” time until we got back on the buses.

Next stop, Ali Al Saleem Airbase.  One of my old frequent haunts that just used to be a small speck in the desert.  I remember when one airman in a container office on a 90 day deployment (yeah, that’s how the air farce rolls) used to run all of the movement out of this airbase into Afghanistan. Since the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq increased significantly in scale since ‘02, it has become a mini-metropolis.  Check in; flight at 7 am the next morning and it’s a much needed day in one spot with a bed and blanket…even a dining facility, gym, exchange, and pizza place.  Able to Face Time the family and grab a shower then we were ready to continue.  

This is where the Air Force became my air carrier.  C-17 ride ready to go.  C-17s used to be the key ride into and in theater, as often they are loaded with random cargo in the middle and seats along the outside; when a civilian carrier wouldn’t allow you to turn on your electronic devices, the inside of a mixed load C-17 becomes a free-for-all of soldiers finding floor space to lay out their poncho liner and go to sleep.  Sure it’s a little noisy and cold, but I’ll take the freedom of stretching out on a long flight over the drink cart and a bad meal any day.  Unfortunately this was a pax pure flight which had seat pallets occupying all of that lovely stretch space.

One of the neat features of “Ali Ali Oxen Free” are the French built Kuwaiti “bomb-proof” airplane hangars.  Since ’90-’91 each one of them has one neat penetration in the top courtesy of the USofA, so much for being bomb proof…even funnier is the small cement and sand-bad structure next to each that act as a bunker for ground crews to hide in while under attack…hello, you’re right next to a big-a** bunker with a large hole in it…if it didn’t survive, what makes you think your cute little Lincoln-Log playpen will?

The C-17 made a straight haul into Kandahar Airfield at 6:08 pm…what, wait a second, I need to go north to Bagram.   At least some seats were freed up with the 2 hour stop.  Now, another hop, and it’s finally off to Bagram arriving at 8:10 pm.  

“Well little Bagram, you’ve grown since I’ve seen you last in 2002, I remember when you were just a little toddler airfield…scrapped Soviet fighters still on the perimeter, unexploded ordinance everywhere, people massed into dusty tents that would tear and blow away in your wind, and cans of soda spontaneously exploding in the summer heat…even since I saw you in 2006 when you had buildings and air conditioning and had really started to fill in.  Now you’re full grown, almost bursting with stuff and containers and living quarters; I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Now at Bagram, flight availability was unclear but those of us going to Kabul knew there was a chance at 7:30 am.  What to do, what to do?…some chow, a little time in the USO trying to sleep in a leather chair and waking up feeling even worse while a movie played way to loud right next to my seat…it was only insult to injury when they finally turned the TV down after I had moved.  

7:30 pans out (barely under the allowable weight), and I was headed for my first STOL flight.  As we sat and waited to board, I did manage a phone call to the only point-of-contact (POC) I had in theater, and, through a very broken and static filled conversation, I understood that he would pick me up at the airport…whomever he, who answered the phone actually was.  As we moved to the aircraft, my impression was that this little two engine puddle jumper looked better suited to the Alaskan bush than to a war zone, but it reduced an hour plus drive (with a possibility of death or dismemberment) to a nine minute flight, theoretically, with fewer dangers.  

Up in a few feet and over the mountains.  All good fun until the automated plane voice starts chanting “Pull-up, Pull-up, Pull-up…” as we started our decent into Kabul.  Oh well, if we crash now at least I won’t have to spend a year in this hole.  It lands without incident, but now another leg of fun begins.  As much as I knew deploying here was that I was destined for Kabul, somewhere in ISAF (ISAF HQ, I assumed)…this was effectively the end of my knowledge base for future movement and at the end of common movement for our party that had been reduced to four folks headed for different but equally unknown futures.  It’s always nice to have a goal and companions, now I didn’t have either, but someone was coming to pick me up…right?...