I'll be home for Christmas, part I

On this day, two years ago, I was in Undisclosed Forward Location in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. My partner Advon and I had been there for weeks, after standing by at Prince Sultan for weeks before that (Advon had been here several weeks longer than I, hence the nickname "Advon", that's a story for another day). Our orders had just been amended to one year at PSAB, and we were resigned to spending Christmas here in Unnamed Deployment Location---even the entire bloody year.

We were settling in for a long haul.

Christmas trees were being improvised with mosquito netting, and adorned with the red tabasco sauce bottles from MREs.

Somehow a few strings of Christmas tree lights had appeared and were strung around the porches in tent city.

Rather than bum myself out about it, I was content to keep myself busy. A WeatherPak shipped in from a stateside base had been stored improperly, with batteries left in the battery compartment until they corroded the snot out of the unit, so I was improvising a way to power the device with 12 volts from a supply for an M8A1.

It was 0900, and I was spreading Goodwill and Cheer with the Comm Squadron, explaining my project for the nth time, this time to a skeptical Captain codenamed Mama Leia, building the case to ask if they had any benchstock of connectors I could tap into for this project. Advon stepped into the tent with a letter in his hand. He waited until a lull in my attempted conversation with Mama Leia, then broke in.

"I've been looking for you all over base," he said. "Need to sign this."

"What is it?"

"Our release."

"??"

"They're cutting us loose. Too many of us in theater to support the next rotation. Sign this, we outprocess and airlift out of here."

Rumors to this effect had been floating for a few days, but the consensus held that another team from our shop would be the first to leave. "What about Mike and Edgar?"

"CENTAF says release one complete UTC only. Mike can't go without Vic and Vic's 2nd in charge. Edgar wants to stay. We're next in line."

"How much time do we have?"

"We can't get airlift until after 1800."

"So you'll pardon me if I don't drop everything to hurry."

"I'll walk it to PERSCO. See you in the shop."

The letter was very plain, lots of doublespace and wide margins, clearly improvised on site. It said as pithily as possible that THE PERSONNEL IDENTIFIED ARE HEREBY RELEASED FROM THIS STATION as of EFFECTIVE DATE, under the authority of RESPONSIBLE OFFICER. No fanfare, no foofaraw.

And no instructions. "So where we supposed to report?"

"Back to home station." That was the default from our mob orders. Report to, proceed to, return to. This was definitely a return to.

I looked at the date once again on my watch. "No way we'll inprocess at home station in time to cut loose for Christmas."

"We'll take the chance."

* * * *

The WeatherPak was going to stay Not Mission Capable. We had to pack.

Advon and I deployed with three kit bags each---personal gear, A and B bags jammed together, C bag. On top of that, we were issued even more gear at PSAB. I was courier for our weapons (two more cases for me), and Advon was courier for the ammunition (a heavy GI ammo can added to his load). I took my time, stripping cartridges back out of the magazines and sliding them back on the stripper clips, folding socks, washing the dirty laundry before packing it. I had two jugs of laundry detergent and a huge tub of Gatorade powder, which I chose to leave for whoever would claim it.

Other members of the shop came by the tent, looking in just to watch me pack, saying nothing, or more heart-rending, "Don't forget about us, y'hear?"

"How could I forget you?"

"Gonna make it home for Christmas?"

"Doubt it. But we'll try."

* * * *
I waited in line for a morale computer about 45 minutes, between some 101st Airborne and 10th Mountain guys, carrying their SAWs and M4s with them 24/7, who get to email their folks maybe once a week if they're lucky.

I had to contact Barbaloot, who was only a few hours away from boarding a plane from DIA to BUF with Mother-in-law and 3 kids, and she was putting some stuff in the mail to me. I figured my super in Wyoming had already called her about our release. I'd confirm it and make sure she still took the flight instead of waiting for more details. I'd send an email copy to her mobile phone to make sure she got it.

Subject: stop shipments!!
From: Fûz {fusilierpundit@earthlink.net}
Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2001 18:18:33 +xxxx
To: barbaloot
CC: 303nnnnnnn@mobile.att.net

Barbaloot,
am moving in theater again
please stop any pkgs until further notice
stuff enroute will be fwded but SEND NO MORE
love you
fly safely
Hi Grandma
Fuz

* * * *

Our superintendent and NCOIC were both at a supply point farther back, looking for a few pallets of our gear that hadn't turned up. That was the first leg of our route back, so we'd see them there. They'd know more.

Fast Eddy and John borrowed our Mobile Command Post (a beat-up tan Hummer) to drive us and our bags up to the pax terminal.

"Lucky bastards," Eddy said as he dropped the last bag at the hangar door. "Merry Christmas." He shook our hands and backed the Hummer away far enough that he could light a cigarette. Its smell mixed with the smoke from incinerating garbage to give the air a third-world taste. John stayed with us, quiet, as the sky began to turn dark, offering to watch our bags for us.

Nobody was going to disturb our bags.

I took our release letters to traffic control. The airmen working there were oblivious, having more concern for the materials arriving or transiting, than for anything man or machine that was leaving. I told them I have release letters for two passengers to get to MCT. They looked at the letters without even touching them, made a note on a Post-it and stuck it to a board. "OK."

"You want copies of this, or orders, or something?"

"No."

"Alright, so can you give us a show time or flight number?"

"Stay around the hangar. We'll come get you." They then turned back to each other as if I weren't there.

John was still standing with Advon when I got back. "You want me to get you some chow?"

"Thanks, John, I just ate." Barbecued spare ribs at UGR Friday's. There was too much sloshing around in my mind, surely in Advon's too, for there to be any kind of conversation. We turned to look at the flight line, as the stream of airlift began to surge, the way it did every night. One of those planes was going to get us out of here. John stayed a few more minutes as night finished falling, then shook hands and left.

It was finally about 2230 when a string of three C-130s had lined up on the ramp. I had visited ATOC four or five times, checking on our flight, and they were tired of seeing me, when an airman with a green reflective belt and an LMR grabbed my sleeve, turned me around and looked at my name tape. "Where's your buddy?" I pointed out a hangar door, to the smoking area. "It's time."

The flight line was blacked out. By the light of blue-filtered flashlights and a few Cyalumes, we loaded our bags on a pallet resting on the tines of a forklift, then followed the forklift out through the dark to the taxiway. Then we stopped, and watched one, then another, C-130 spin up and take off.

"This one," the airman shouted over the prop noise, and the last Hercules taxied up with its ramp open and its cabin lights red. The cargo was loaded first, one damaged Herc propeller on a pallet, then our bags, then us. The loadmaster gave us earplugs.

I popped out my contacts without a mirror in the dim red light, then settled in for n hours in the air on the way to Seeb North Air Base.

The story continues here.