Inside The Wire

Sunday, 29 July 07 

Greetings from Washington, 7,000 miles and worlds away from Kabul.

Where's Mike?

First, a much-needed apology for the delay in sending this letter. Several people have contacted my wife to ask whether I was finally able to slip the surly bonds of insanity that is the Bagram AMC Space-A experience.1 Those of you with your thinking caps securely in place can deduce from my salutation that, yes, I did indeed make it out of Afghanistan. However, I'm painfully aware that some of you had to wait nearly eight weeks to learn this, the whole while wondering where to put the "Where's Mike?" pushpin on your wall map; for that, I apologize. I can only offer the following recounting of my busy time since leaving Afghanistan – I hope it will prove a worthy and sufficient excuse.

Not long after sending my letter from Bagram, I – no doubt through some clerical error – was able to board a C-17 and leave Afghanistan behind. It was with much relief that I humped my sea bags over to the palletizing area, donned my IBA (body armor) and Kevlar (helmet) for the last time and boarded the plane. 

Flying in a C-17—Just Above Flying US Air

The Air Force C-17s are an interesting mix of boxcar and passenger jet. Rows of airline seats, jammed together with US Air-like lack of legroom, can be installed or removed as multi-row units. Most of the cavernous cargo bay, however, is filled with pallets of, well, cargo. Where, on the Scale of Pain, hitting your knee with a hammer is a 10, and flying on a C-130 is a 9.8, C-17's rate a 5 (just below poetry slams and just above flying US Air). Most of my traveling companions were part of an Army unit heading home on leave, while the six Navy personnel in the group were rotating back to the States for good, having completed our tours. (After our IA experiences, we were all thoroughly accustomed to being extras in an Army-run show.)  

Whether destined for homecomings or merely short visits, everyone looked forward to a short stop in Kuwait and a follow-on flight to the US. Shortly before we were to land in Kuwait, however, we received the unwelcome news that, due to a sandstorm, the plane was being diverted to Qatar.2 I could not help but remember the scene from The Perfect Storm, where swordfish boat cap'n George Clooney tells deckhand Marky-Mark, "She's not gonna let us go." At this point I was starting to doubt whether I would see my wife before the Iraq pullout in 2017.

3-Per-Day Drink Chit

Minutes later we landed on the blindingly bright, impossibly hot airstrip in Qatar without incident. Against hope and experience, I thought we might sit on the tarmac awhile, wait for the sand in Kuwait to return to its rightful place, then make the short flight to Ali Al Saleem. Alas, it was at this moment that AMC decided to expend its entire yearly allocation of efficiency. Within minutes we were off the aircraft, having watched with a sense of foreboding as the ground crew removed the pallets of our sea bags and scurried them away out of sight. Once off the plane and in no danger of taking off again anytime soon, the familiar "hurry-up-and-wait" routine returned.

Over the next several hours we (and by "we" I mean the Army unit and its six Navy hangers-on) checked our weapons into the armory, passed through Qatari customs (thank goodness I had mailed my "Qatar Bites" decorative platter home) and received a rack in a 60-man tent. Before being released (it was now early afternoon), we were treated to an overlong, unnecessary lecture on alcohol consumption. (Camp As Sayliyah and the air base in Qatar, unlike most Gulf-Region bases, aren't dry – remember?) While most of the Soldiers stood in line to register for their three-per-day drink chit, I listened to a first sergeant admonish his troops not to get smashed.3 I wanted to raise my hand and ask whether "getting smashed" on only three beers might indicate a condition calling for medical assessment, but thought better of it. 

The sobriety speech was followed by a most amusing (but not surprising) bit of Army-ness. Our flight was scheduled for 0600 the next day; thus, our "show time" was, in true AMC fashion, at 0300. The bus was to leave the tent area for the airfield at 0230. Accordingly, the Army personnel in charge of the group declared we would muster at the bus stop 0200. "Better make it 0130," warned one intrepid sergeant. "Yeah, maybe 0100 to be safe," responded another. "Hate to leave anyone." They were serious.

I set my watch's alarm for 0155 and wandered off to my rack.

Doing the Tent-Billeting Tango

The next morning we retrieved our weapons, passed back through customs, re-boarded the same aircraft (can one "re-board" anything but the same aircraft?) and flew the short distance to Kuwait. Upon landing, the six sand Sailors bid adieu to their Army brethren and headed for the Navy liaison desk. We repeated the tent-billeting tango of Qatar, this time landing in a 12-man tent while we awaited transportation to Camp Arifjan. I knew our merry band was heading in the right direction as I noted certain efforts to reduce needless pain. First, the liaison desk treated us in a manner befitting our rank (I was traveling with a Master Chief and four Petty Officers). Second, there were small vehicles resembling golf carts on steroids available to move our bags from the bus stop to the tent. Simple conveniences undreamt of during my previous redeployment experience in Kuwait (returning from Iraq).

Due to our delayed departure from Bagram and sand-storm-induced layover in Qatar, we had missed the cut-off for the scheduled Warrior Transition Program ("WTP") evolution. Based on my too-recent experience with the Army, I resigned myself to the worst: we would be warehoused until the next scheduled class, which would seriously screw up my travel plans.

Relax – You're Back in the Navy's Hands

(Here's a good place to describe my post-Kuwait itinerary. Several weeks before leaving Kabul, I was asked whether I was available to provide a lecture at a Peace Support Operations seminar near Prague from 11-15 June.4 Hmmm…trade my final five days in Kabul for five days in Prague…it sounded far too good for the Army to approve, yet, to my utter amazement, it did; I was able to have my time in Kabul shortened in order to attend the seminar. The only obstacle now was to clear Kuwait by the 9th.)

Later that day we loaded a bus for Camp Arifjan. A relatively new base when I passed through in October 2005, Arifjan is now a sprawling, multi-zoned complex with numerous tent cities, dining facilities, commercial restaurants, gyms and morale and welfare locations. Still expecting the worst, I stepped off the bus and approached the liaison officer sent to meet us. "Senior Chief," I began, "I have orders to Europe before I go to the States." 

His response was all I needed to hear:

"Oh – you're the one going to Prague. Take a deep breath, Sir, everything is on track. You can relax now; you're back in the Navy's hands."   

The Hua-Free Zone

After informing us that we had, indeed missed the window for the next military rotator flight back to the US, the WTP personnel explained how they would process us separately, rather than have us wait an extra week. Furthermore, they had already booked the five Sailors I was with on commercial flights. The liaison team was determined to get everyone back to their families on their original homecoming date. This "Navy taking care of Navy" attitude was a most welcome change. And the fact that WTP is a self-proclaimed "hua-free zone" was icing on the cake. 

Over the next five days I turned in my gear, saying farewell to Beretta Ser. #1361616, my Kevlar and IBA, and two sea bags full of equipment I never needed nor wanted. I attended the obligatory suicide and readjustment training, as well as filling out the paperwork necessary to process my tired butt out of theater. I also read a lot, worked out a lot, slept a lot and ate way too much.

Edna Pivo Spells Relief

On the following Saturday I dressed in civilian clothes, caught a ride to Kuwait City International and boarded a flight for Prague (via London). My time in the Czech Republic was very rewarding, both professionally and personally. During the day I helped train 20 personnel of the Czech and Slovak Armies on issues related to military requirements in post-conflict (or, as is more often the case nowadays, mid-conflict) peace operations. At night, I enjoyed the camaraderie of men and women proud of the fact that, per person, the Czech Republic consumes more beer than any other country. (For future reference, "Edna pivo" is how one asks for a beer in Czech; after that, you need say nothing further. Czech restaurant/pub culture ensures the waitress will continue to bring you beers until you groggily seize the initiative and stop her. What a country.) 

On 16 June (the date of my original rotator flight home) I flew from Prague to DC (via Frankfurt), where I was met by my wife. Amazingly, she's even more beautiful than when I left. From the airport, she drove me to our new house in the District. (While I was in Kabul she managed to sell our house in Portsmouth and find a new one in Washington, DC, all in preparation of my transfer to the Pentagon.)

Promotion and R&R

Over the next several weeks I checked back into, then out of, my command in Norfolk. During this time I learned that the Navy, despite its outward appearance of competence and good judgment, has selected me for promotion to Commander. Time to buy a new cover ("hat" to you civilians).

On 5 July my twin brother, younger brother, nephew and I left for Europe, spending a week riding motorcycles through the wilds (and not-so-wilds) of Bulgaria and another five days in Greece, Germany and Belgium. My brother Jim and I had been planning the trip for two years as a way to celebrate our reaching 40 without scandal, indictment, excommunication, etc. (We'd originally planned on riding through Kashmir, but that place has really gone to hell; you'd have to be pretty stupid to go there. Unlike, say, Afghanistan.) All said, it was a strange and interesting trip, one that would certainly fill a letter or two on its own. But this missive is aimed at my Afghanistan adventure, so let me end with a few thoughts on my time there.

Reflections on Tempting Fate

When I stepped off the plane in Bagram in the sub-freezing pre-dawn of 29 December, I said aloud to myself, "Mike, what are you doing here?" I had already volunteered for and survived a tour in Iraq; volunteering for a second tour, albeit in Afghanistan, suddenly struck me as tempting fate. This feeling stayed me with during my entire time in Kabul. (It greatly intensified after attending the memorial service for two fellow mentors – including a colonel only weeks from retirement – shot and killed near Kabul in May.) I wrestled with the thought that despite all the many reasons I had for going to Afghanistan, my volunteering seemed rather selfish in light of what I was putting my family through. For that, I will always be sorry.5   

My wife tells me I came back much less angry than when I returned from Iraq. She's right. The main difference is that I don't believe my efforts in Afghanistan were a waste of time. I left Baghdad thinking I'd spent six months beating my head against a wall, making little difference. (I also couldn't help expanding this conclusion to cover the Iraq war in general.) While I cannot say all I did in Kabul was a resounding success, or that I'm certain of a peaceful future for that war-torn nation, I do have hope for it. The Afghans I met are tired of war and (unlike many Iraqis) are ready to do what is necessary to bring peace.

Fighting for a Country that Fights for Itself

Another major difference between the two theaters is that Afghans are fiercely defensive of Afghanistan. While there are strong ethnic divisions in the country, there's no debate over what their country is or should be. This is not to say that there is agreement on how the country should be run (a substantial understatement). The tension between secular and religious factions (or, more accurately, between the secular, religious and the radical religious) will continue to shape Hamid Karzai's presidency and Afghanistan's future. Whether the Taliban will continue to fight for control of the nation is not the issue (they will); I have faith in the Afghan National Army's ability to achieve a level of security that will allow Afghanistan time to sort out the pieces born of 30 years of war.

Foolishly optimistic? Probably. But I want to believe this because I want them to succeed. The many Afghans I worked with daily during my time in Kabul, Herat, Mazar e-Sharif and Bagram are good people who want a better future for their country. More important, they are willing to work to achieve it. There are many exceptions of course; corrupt officials and warlords will prove continued challenges for Afghanistan. But I believe these challenges are not insurmountable, and I'm hopeful the new generation of Afghans will overcome them.  

I did good work in Afghanistan, and I'm proud of my time there. Of course, there is much more to be done. Fortunately, there are remarkable men and women, wearing the varied camouflage uniforms of different services and nations, committed to making a better future for the Afghan people. Trust me – these people are worthy of our help.  

I wish them luck. I wish them peace.

All Photos Courtesy of LCDR Michael C. Holifield, USN

About the Author: LCDR Holifield is a judge advocate with 15 years of naval service. In early 2005 he served as an IA in Iraq serving as Chief Legal Counsel for the Regime Crimes Liaison's Office (RCLO) at the embassy in Baghdad. The RCLO's mission was to train the judges, prosecutors and investigators in preparation for the trials of Saddam Hussein and others for war crimes. A year later he volunteered again, this time for an IA tour in Afghanistan. He was most recently assigned to Combined Security Transition Command-Afghanistan, where he was the senior mentor for the Afghan National Army's Judge Advocate General.