Watches Without Time by Matt Zeller

Author:Matt Zeller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HIS027190
ISBN: eBook ISBN: 9781935982258
Publisher: Just World Books
Published: 2012-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Four months prior to our arrival in Afghanistan, the soldiers of Teams One and Three landed in Kabul. They endured one of the coldest winters on record and by the time of our arrival were tough grizzled veterans with a bond I both envied and initially found impenetrable. I was certain that as turtles, they saw us as ducks, rookies, Fucking New Guys (FNGs), and found our arrival as deeply unnerving as the departure of the South Carolina teams (who had preceded them by almost 10 months). The army’s rotation policy, especially with the mentor teams, means that every four to six months, a series of veteran soldiers are replaced. Moreover, this rotation policy means you have new guys every few months, but they are always (in theory) paired up with someone with experience on the ground.

Teams One and Three were members of our brigade’s advance party, a detachment our higher command sent ahead as guinea pigs, and their experience in training and actually deploying to and from Afghanistan provided valuable lessons learned for the brigade writ large. More importantly, they filled a gap in coverage that had long ago been created by some unforeseen screwup in soldier rotation, a gap that exists to this day. They’re family, and their departure is bittersweet. On the one hand, I celebrate the fact that guys I care for so greatly will soon be home safe. Selfishly, however, I yearn for them to stay.

I look at the new arrivals, their innocent faces, unsure of where they are or what this place is like. I see beyond the bravado they attempt to use to mask their concern and fear. A handful of them are Iraq vets, but this is not Iraq, and I wish they’d stop trying to compare the two. In truth, they haven’t a clue, not a single one of them. None of them was in Waghez with us. None of them got stranded at FOB Airborne. None of them was in Tangi Valley, or Ajiristan, or Southern Deh Yak. I don’t want to learn the new guys’ names, and I find myself fighting my brain’s attempts to remember their unfamiliar faces. The FOB, our home, our sanctuary inside hell, suddenly feels alien, a totally new and unrecognizable place.

I find myself giving them the same speeches and advice passed on by the South Carolina guys when we first arrived: “Yes, you’ll get your CIB. We’ve all been in a firefight at least once. And don’t wish for it, it sucks when it’s really happening.” “Yes, you can trust the terps. Don’t mistreat them, they’re just a part of the team as any of us; yes, they are armed, get used to it, they’ll likely save your life just like they’ve saved all of ours.” “Yes, the Internet sucks here. After this tour, you’ll never complain about Internet speed again.” I’m the veteran, and they’re the rookies, turtle vs. ducks.

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