Outside the Wire: American Soldiers' Voices from Afghanistan

SPECIALIST, ANONYMOUS MALE

86 SPECIALIST, ANONYMOUS MALE THE BIG BANG I grab my “bag of deliciousness,” my snacks for the mission on which I am about to embark: some Girl Scout Thin Mints sent from home, strawberry fruit roll-ups, and the case of Rip It energy drinks I “acquired” from the DFAC. Then I throw my IOTV (improved outer tactical vest), with my Kevlar helmet attached, over my shoulder. Last, but certainly not least, I grab my M4 5.56mm gas-operated rifle with the ACOG sight (advanced combat optical gunsight) on top. I dread this mission, partly because it is my turn to drive. Secondly , this is a “peace” mission, which means we can’t be as quick with our rifles. I’ve been in Afghanistan, or as my niece calls it, “assghanistan,” for a little over a month. I live just outside the city of Spin Boldak, a shitty town consisting of Taliban forces, drug lords, and people looking to harm us. I’m in the southern part of Kandahar Province, just next to Helmand Province, and the main border crossing from Pakistan to Afghanistan. Forward Operating Base Blackhawk is my house. Hearts and minds: that’s the war we fight. My twenty-five-man platoon is being sent to the village of Wanacka , 45 kilometers north of FOB Blackhawk. Today we’re carrying rice, so our enemies can be well fed while fighting us; radios, so our enemies can have more components to build IEDs that can blow up under our tires; and news of our increasing number of patrols in the area, an effort to rid the villagers of Taliban forces. I drop my vest, Kevlar, and bag of goodies in the dirt when I reach the Stryker and unlock the Stryker’s door and three hatches. I then move slowly toward the opening to the driver’s “hole,” a 4 x 3–foot steel-enclosed box of isolation. In case of an emergency there isn’t a man who could even begin to pull all 275 pounds of me out of that can. I do a PMCS (preventive maintenance checks and services) on my truck: kick tires, check fluids, make sure we’re good to roll. Then I set up my iPod on the radio box right next to the gunner’s seat for the mission that will begin in twenty minutes. I drop the headset and turn on our speaker box. I sit in the back of the truck, THE BIG BANG 87 isolated, not talking, listening to the sound of Lil Wayne singing “Go DJ.” Unlike most of my counterparts, I like to sit in silence before a mission, reminisce about what I have back home, a family that would love nothing more than not to bury their son, brother, uncle. I look down at my watch, check the time and temperature: 10:45 and 118 degrees. What the fuck? Then I tell myself it’s a dry heat, as if that fucking matters! “You ready, Mickey?” It’s my staff sergeant, a.k.a. “Buck.” “The truck good?” I look at him with a sour face, as if I’d just put a handful of Sour Patch Kids in my mouth. “Roger, we’re good to go.” He smiles, “Cheer up, asshole. I don’t want a skid mark on my truck today.” Staff Sergeant Ponzi is the one noncommissioned officer in the whole fucking unit who really gives a shit about his soldiers. He never asks how you’re doing just to ask, he truly cares, and I respect him for that. “I saw you in the gym yesterday and your max-out on bench press is the skid mark of the squadron,” I say. “Sorry, we can’t all be Superman,” he chuckles. Our platoon sergeant , Sergeant First Class David, calls Staff Sergeant Ponzi over to his truck. He is giving Ponzi the pre-mission brief, telling us the same stuff we already know. SFC David is in his fifteenth year of military service and on his first deployment, and here I am ten months in and already “in country.” I’m still sitting in the truck. Now it’s “Z-Ro,” a Texas rapper, filling my ears. Everyone else jokes and plays around. One of the guys has drawn a line in the rocks with the tip of his boot. A couple other guys stand, backs to the open ramp of the truck, waiting their turns to throw rocks at a...