My final blog entry. I wish I had had more opportunity to write but being in Afghanistan and the limit

The days have turned cold. There is not really a changing of the seasons in Afghanistan -- well at least not where I am. One day the highs are in the mid to upper 80's the next day it barely breaks into the 60's. Winter is settling in and the Afghan people are beginning to mold themselves into a routine to allow them to survive another long hard winter. The landscape is parched, broken, torn, and thirsty for moisture. What little irrigation and last vestiges of water from the few rivers which trickle in this damaged landscape tease those who need its life giving properties -- as what remains is not enough. The land -- the people of Afghanistan -- need this winter even though they know the winter brings unbearable cold and suffering -- they need winter for the brutal embrace that wraps them in bone chilling nights and fierce winds -- as they know spring will give them another chance at life and the ability to push forward through another year of suffering.

A soldier recently left our FOB -- his year of service complete and he is now making his way home. This was his second deployment to Afghanistan and in his previous deployment his commander coined the term LAG -- Leaving Afghanistan Guilty -- the words are simple yet ring so true. As we prepare to leave as well, we leave in our wake a country still broken, beaten by conquest, war, tribal politics, petty infighting, corruption and lacking a vision to provide inspiration to allow the common man to rise up like the Phoenix from the ashes to regain a proper place on the world stage. I want to believe that in the wake of our time here we were able to make a difference, but I am left grasping to understand what did I actually do, and was it actually worth the sacrifice? Was it worth the deaths and the expenditure to our national treasure? Did we do the best we could to make a difference? In my heart, I will say yes -- we did do the best we could -- but I am left wanting to know was it enough? Will the tide change? Did we make a big enough ripple in the water with our tiny pebble to affect a current which seems to be pushing against us so hard with every stroke we make.

I was in Kabul this week. I stood on the edge of a roof at the International Airport -- a mud brown expanse of squalor and seething humanity spread before me on the deep, dark, rich brown mountains which define Kabul. The building framing my perch had been pock marked by years of battle -- bullet holes leaving lasting marks on faded walls -- permanent scars like the aftermath of bad acne on a teenager's face -- viscous scars never to be covered up no matter how much paint or plaster is applied. I stood erect. In front of me flew thirty flags of thirty nations -- each representing soldiers serving in Afghanistan. A colorful kaleidoscope of collective nations hopes and ambitions. Each representing a piece of the world community -- each nations flag wavering in a crisp early evening air as the sun set a smoky orange hazy resting upon the airfield. I ran down the names of each flag -- putting through my mind each nations place and status in the world. I weighed and tried to place an intrinsic value on each nations piece of the collective puzzle -- why were they there -- who was really fighting -- who was willing to sacrifice. But as I looked at each flag I was left with a stinging sense that most of the country's represented were there in name only. This is not to diminish their value and contribution, but in my humble opinion, the flags represented what could have been, not the reality of the situation on the ground -- as most of the flags represent those who are in Afghanistan merely playing soldier -- not being soldiers. The sacrifice of this effort falls to heavy on the shoulders of too few and that burden extracts a painful price. The final tally has yet to be called due, but when the final bill is paid, once again, our nation and a few allies will have paid too much in blood, treasure and sacrifice. I pray we all leave knowing he are not suffering from LAG.

My sincerest condolences go out to the family of CPT Bruno Desolenni who was killed in Afghanistan on Sept 20th by an IED strike. Bruno was from Oregon and I trained with him at Fort Riley at the beginning of the year. Bruno was a man of tremendous physical strength and strong moral character. He was always friendly and wanted to do the right thing and make the best of any situation-he will be missed paying the ultimate sacrifice in service to others. He was 32.

Soldiers accept risk in war and to be honest, you never think it is going to be you who will get killed or injured. It is not that you put on a cloak of invincibility, rather if you sat and contemplated what the risks really are, the chances you take and the dangerous situations you face on a continual basis--you would probably just curl up into a ball and say I don't want to play.

We have all used the term, well isn't it a small world. This fact was demonstrated to me twice so far in Afghanistan.

A few months ago, I found myself in a city called Pol-e-khumri having lunch at the Hungarian Provincial Reconstruction Team base. As I was enjoying a fine lunch of Hungarian goulash, in walk two Americans dressed in western business wear. The man wore a shirt and tie and the woman was sensibly dressed in a pantsuit. I looked up from my plate, thought, hmm, I wonder where they work and then went back to eating. About 10 minutes later, the man approached me and said, excuse me, are you Aaron Bert. Taken back a bit, I said, yes I am. He responded by saying, I read your blog in the Seattle Times. No way! I joked, hey, it is nice to have fans even in Afghanistan. Come to find out he was from Everett and was working in Konduz as part of a justice reform program while he was on leave from the Snohomish County Prosecutors Office. Truly a small world.

In July my team was supporting a massive operation in the northern part of the country focusing on securing key lines of communication and expanding the professionalism of the Afghan National Police and Afghan National Army. This operation was supported by NATO forces and we had a large hand in helping shape Afghan actions. One aspect of this was to conduct joint coordination meetings each night at the Provincial Headquarters with all the various players involved. These meetings were usually low-key affairs with many people coming and going.

All the players were there and as the meeting was about to begin, in walked two females. Each was wearing a headscarf, not the traditional burka, but since I had seen females in and around Provincial Headquarters before I did not give it much thought. They took a seat to the side of the room and the meeting began. About five minutes into it, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Division came up to me and through my interpreter stated he needed to speak with me about the two females. I turned around and looked at them and only then did I realize they were not Afghan women - definitely Western European.

I stood up and signaled for the two women to follow me outside. The CID chief proceeds to tell me the two women are American and they were found travelling in a car to Kabul and stopped at a police checkpoint. He hands me two color photocopies of their passports. This is rapidly developing into a delicate situation as I don't have any authority over who the Afghan Police detain, but I can try to influence events and attempt to gain their release if they haven't done anything illegal.

I approach the two women and introduce myself. Both women were in their early to mid twenties, who were working for a Non-Governmental-Organization in Kabul teaching English to locals. They stated they had travelled to Mazar-e-Sharif to visit friends and were returning to Kabul - travelling with a male escort from the NGO. I found their attitude interesting - it was a bit reserved, but also a bit flippant, as if how could they be detained for merely travelling in Afghanistan - they were Americans - they were young and they were idealistic - who would want to interfere with them.

I talked with the CID Chief and explained to him who they were and that they were merely travelling back to Kabul and no harm was done. As he began to state they could be released, in mid-sentence he paused and then said with a deep serious tone, you know, young women, especially American women, should not travel in such a manner in Afghanistan, you never know what might happen. I thanked him for his understanding and then I turned to the women. I stated the CID chief had decided to let them go. You could see relief on their face. I felt like a father for a moment, just having to tell them the ways of the world in Afghanistan. I advised them next time they should travel with a larger contingent, only travel during the day and by all means, bring your real passport, not a photocopy of the main page. I then provided them with $60 for cab fare back to Kabul and they left.

I find several things interesting about the whole experience. 1. If the U.S. Military was not there at that meeting at that particular time, I have a strong feeling these women probably would have disappeared for a bit - not necessarily to meet their end, but probably would have met a most uncomfortable situation at the hands of the police. Remember, this is a country where the justice system is bent to make a crime fit the person of interest - there would have been no problem to take these two away for some time. 2. I was able to get them released due to the personnel relationships I had built with the ANP - fortunately for me, the police trusted me and fortunately I was able to work the discussion to our advantage. 3. The almost blatant arrogance of the two to be travelling virtually alone in a war ravaged country where people will do anything for money, really showed me how some people are just not aware of the environment they find themselves in. What, did these two think because they were women and American they would be untouched? Actually those two factors made them the perfect target for exploitation.

More lessons learned in Afghanistan.

A few missives:

I sit in a folding chair emblazoned with the US Army Logo which I picked up for about $6.00 in the tiny Post Exchange which serves our camp and brought with me on our current operation. The midday sun beats down upon half of my body as I try to push myself into the last vestiges of shade. Although I have lost a bunch of weight due to the heat, lack of desire to eat the same food day after day prepared without much care by KBR while in the US camp, and many bouts of-yella-or native sickness, my body still looms to large for the moderate reprieve which the shade offers. Sounds of a foreign country slip over the wall I sit against, the triple strand of barb wire giving no protection to the echo of mid-day prayers from the mosque down the street, the sound of a child crying in the distance, or the rattle and hum of traffic off of the main highway not more than a kilometer from my location.

My team and I are living with a group of soldiers from Finland and Sweden while we conduct a long-term operation designed to improve the command and control functions of the Afghan National Police–excuse me while I try to stifle a laugh. When we stay with our European allies, I am enveloped in a womb of civility, of rational thought, of shared experiences and a likeness which does not compare to what we encounter when we slip away from these protective walls and venture out to do a job we half understand and half expect to succeed. Comfort zones are stretched and cultural acceptance of the differences in a western approach and the Afghan approach to problems and solutions are tried time and time again. My eyes are wide open as I attempt to see things from a new perspective; trying to understand the social, political and brute reality of actions driven by or even shattered by the pain and suffering of 30 years of war.

I want to believe there is hope for the Afghan people. I want someone to tell me the sacrifices being made are worth the cost and that when I leave and or when the final chapter is written on Afghanistan by whom ever is the ultimate victor; wondering if there ever truly is a victor in war; I need to know that the smiling faces of the children I see-the earnest thumbs up thrown by toddlers barely able to stand-will endure and that those smiles will never have to shine for another foreign soldier, as they are truly able to live in peace.

One soldier from the original team in Washington, who I might add is very handsome, single and likes to draw attention to his Roman nose, with the initials of MD, had a recent email exchange with a friend-it went something like this:

SGT D-I can’t decide if I am going to have pizza and a beer or a hamburger and a beer as my first meal when I get home on leave.
FRIEND-Wait a minute, what do you mean a beer? Are you saying you cannot drink?
SGT D-Correct, as an adult entrusted to make life or death decisions, one thing the military does not trust me with is a beer.
FRIEND-You have got to be kidding?
SGT D-Nope.

Interesting thing about this-almost every other NATO and ISAF country is allowed to drink alcohol while deployed. I venture to guess European countries believe their soldiers are responsible enough to have a beer or two. The United States on the other hand disagrees strongly. What is interesting though is since alcohol is forbidden to be consumed by US soldiers, what ends up happening is its consumption is taken underground where soldiers will binge when they can and that in turn ends up causing more trouble than if they were allowed a beer every now or then.

One road links Afghanistan. Like a belt made of asphalt-it attempts to hold the country together, ringing the outer provinces, providing the only high speed connection among the major cities in a country almost devoid of modern infrastructure. The road of course is used for transport, but it also serves as the byway for every type of transport available. Jockeying for space as we hurtle down the road in 12 ton vehicles are: donkey carts, individuals riding donkeys, donkeys in packs, donkeys carrying everything from wood, to bags of grain to water jugs, donkeys wandering by themselves, lone donkeys standing in the middle of the road, oblivious to the speeding cars passing within inches of hide and head, push carts of all shapes and sizes, three wheeled motorcycles called Zarangs (cheaply made in China) but practically everywhere, cargo trucks bursting with goods magically staying in place as bundles are tied 30 feet in the air, defying the laws of physics-we are baffled by how the goods are stacked so high-camels, herds of goats and sheep stacked 10 to 20 deep, children as young as two or three, walking by themselves, mere inches from modern missiles on four wheels, children on bikes, men on bikes, whole families on motorcycles with the baby on the gas tank, the father in the center and usually another small child holding on as they teeter on the tiny luggage rack, women covered head to toe in sky blue burkas huddled in the back seat of a Toyota Corolla or five or six packed into the back of a Zarang, mini vans loaded with people and then four or more sitting on the roof of the vehicle hurtling down the road, oblivious to the dangers of what a sudden stop or turn would mean to their bodies.

As we navigate the belt of Afghanistan, we are thrust into a world where images from the Road Warrior intermingle with normal rush hour traffic in Seattle, resulting in a potentially toxic concoction of sudden death, road side bombs, police extortion points, speed and adrenaline. Couple this with the fact no one in this country has ever taken a traffic safety course and we drive defensively to protect ourselves-one is left with some truly harrowing tails from the road.

I handed him a ice cold bottle of water from our cooler we keep stocked in the back of our UAH (up-armored truck). He nodded thanks. The heat was oppressive, but fortunately for us, a dusty haze hung in the air like a thin layer of cotton obscuring our vision beyond 200 meters and holding back the baking temperatures of Afghanistan in June. I watched as the soldier began to systematically piece together his bomb suit-the kind of equipment which makes the wearer look like a futuristic spaceman. Before he put on his helmet, I leaned out my door and cupping my hands down low I said, Man, you have got huge balls to do what you do! He smiled and gave a short hearty laugh. He was a true soldier. Brave and professional, he approached his job with true courage. SFC Gyula Kovacs, 30, Hungarian Explosives Ordinance Disposal would be dead in less than five minutes.

How can I write about the death of a man who I did not know-but who came into a highly dangerous situation, and in performing his job gave his life so that others would have the chance to live? How can I describe the tension which bubbled under the surface as I commanded the scene and directed American and other Coalition soldiers-knowing full well that my decisions would impact our collective lives? How can I cut through the clutter of the daily news reports of causalities from Iraq and Afghanistan and pierce a lingering sense of indifference to the loss of life-both civilian and military in a war destined for a long slog? What do I need to say to explain the stoic professionalism I witnessed by the Hungarian soldiers as they reacted after seeing their comrade in arms die in front of their eyes? How can I explain the impact of watching a man die so suddenly when as a soldier I have seen death, even to an extent becoming desensitized to the event, yet when I close my eyes at night, the event continues to replay like some horrible nightmare? And how can I explain the tremendous sense of pride I felt as I watched all the soldiers respond as professionals-taking command of the situation-sweeping through compounds, rounding up suspected individuals, assaulting across an open field into a maze of mud huts, holding their ground in soaring heat, sweating profusely, standing guard without complaint? The men who were on site that day are regular people-but through our choices to serve, we have been thrust into extraordinary situations which either break you outright, or slowly work at your sense of what it means to be human and causes you to question your own mortality and the larger question of what is truly good and what is truly evil.

SFC Kovacs gave his life that day in service to Hungry and service to the larger cause of freedom in Afghanistan. Although my interaction with him was short, the image of Gyula will forever be carried in my heart. And as long as I have air to breathe, his name, and his sacrifice will not be forgotten for in the end, we are all brothers.

Any soldier who has faced combat will tell you there is nothing romantic or captivating about facing death and making split second decisions which play into whether you live or you die. In such an environment, instinct takes over; bolstered by training, you begin to react to unseen sensors you never knew you had. Your whole body becomes a conduit of information-the sights, sounds, the feel, the smell of every little detail flow into your mind-you struggle to make sense of what is happening-you struggle to make sense of the absurdity of the situation-you struggle to comprehend your own mortality under the most demanding of environments. Like any skill, or trade, after engaging in combat, you become better at understanding its nuances-you program yourself to react and to understand what actions you can undertake to give the slightest advantage-and like any skill, if it is not used, you need to practice. Unfortunately, although the Army strives to do so, no level of training truly prepares you for the moment when you realize someone is trying to kill you and to survive you have to reciprocate the action.

In combat engagements, and thankfully I have not been in anything to note of to date in Afghanistan, a soldier will develop a sixth sense for trouble. It might be butterfly’s in the stomach or just a general feeling of impending doom-a small tickle in the back of the throat that something is not right, or something is just out of place enough to warrant a change to the mission. This sense is not taught-it is only learned from the mind altering terror of combat. Soldiers will begin to sense if it is going to be on-the collective belief that trouble is imminent can change the whole dynamics of a mission. As a leader, it is something I have to be cognizant of-I need to sense the trouble as well and either calm the soldiers, or use the heightened senses to the advantage of the mission.

But what am I to do when I am the one with the feeling in my gut? Who will calm me when I feel fear? How do I parlay this feeling into ensuring I am doing all I can to protect the lives of those who serve under me? Do I implement more risk controls at the expense of mission accomplishment, or do I stick with the plan as published and push forward? I worry about these things because what I am doing is not a game and my decisions and the decisions of those around me have real consequences-peoples lives are at stake.
We are about to begin a long mission. I have the feeling of trouble resting in my gut tonight as I write this entry.

Here is to hoping it is just that-a feeling.

In a land filled with immense suffering and poverty, I have come to believe little gestures of support can make a world of difference.

Little feet need little shoes and from the two pictures included with this entry, you can see how even without shoes the boys have smiles on their faces-but picture how big those smiles would be if those little feet were in shoes!

Through the generous efforts and gifts from employees at the City of Seattle, a 1000 pair of little shoes will be making their way to me in Afghanistan and then to children who need them so desperately.

I am appealing to your desire to make a difference, if you can spare one pair of shoes and a pair of socks, it would mean so much to the little feet of Afghanistan.

If you want to help, email: afghanshoedrive@gmail.com

From that email you gain information on how to help.

In war, there is only so much which can be accomplished by force -- we will win this war by an overwhelming dose of the soft hand of support.

Thank you!