ANZAC Day

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Ugh.

I can't believe it is 4 a.m. and I'm awake. What the #$@! %, er, I mean, what on earth is going on? Oh yeah, today is ANZAC Day. Time to get my sorry derriere out of bed.

What is ANZAC Day, you ask? (if you are not from Australian or New Zealand, that is) Well, it means lots of things to lots of people, but obviously, it means something more to the people of Australia and New Zealand. One of the Kiwi soldiers told me quite simply: "ANZAC Day is the day we became New Zealand, and left the UK fold."

The day commemorates (not, repeat, not celebrates) the landing of Australian and New Zealand forces in Gallipoli. By the time it was all over, some 2721 New Zealanders lost their lives, still to this day the largest military loss of life in the nation's history.

According to NZHistory.net.nz, the Gallipoli campaign was New Zealand's first major effort during the First World War. British First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill proposed the idea of using British naval superiority to engage on an amphibious assault to threaten Istanbul/Constantinople, the capital of Germany's ally the Ottoman Empire. New Zealand and Australian forces, already in the area training in Egypt, were chosen for the assault, along with a French unit (and I think some others -- if you want more detail, check their website).

The original landing at Gallipoli was scheduled for 23 April, but bad weather delayed the event until April 25. For any number of reasons (still hotly debated in Australia and New Zealand), tides, faulty navigation, changed orders (late), even simple negligence in operating the boat pulling the troops, Australian troops landed 2 km north of their intended target, in a much tougher terrain than they would have faced otherwise. More to the point, the proposed landing site was lightly defended, but the actual landing location met an entire division of Turkish troops, who pushed the ANZAC forces back. Weeks of poorly planned, poorly executed frontal assaults on the ridge led to enormous casualties over non-strategic ground. Weeks of unimaginative frontal assaults and the inevitable reaction to counteroffensives blurred into months. Troops remained in the area until December 1915, when they were ultimately withdrawn. In all, 8000 Australians and 2721 New Zealand troops lost their lives for a piece of ground which never proved decisive in the events of World War I.

Not surprisingly, this day resonates strongly with my Kiwi co-horts here in Bamyan. One of the senior NCOs (sorry, Non-Commissioned Officers) and I were talking about it the other day. He mentioned that as a kid, ANZAC day was most important as a holiday. There were parades and such, always fun, but why were these old men part of the parade? "Now I know," he said. "Saddest thing is seeing the parades year after year, and seeing the numbers of those old soldiers dwindle, bit by bit." ANZAC Day is a point of pride, though, especially for the military. "This life is tough," Nui was telling me. "My son and daughter are six and seven, and I have been away for most of that. Still, I hope one of them sees the value of this life. ANZAC Day taught me that, maybe it will teach them as well." Another old salt, this one a Navy guy (all three of their service branches serve here) told me that he will never watch English Premier League soccer, no matter how popular it may get (it's the most popular televised sport on the planet), because of how the British "left us out there hanging." 91 years on, and the feelings run raw and deep.

So, we got up at 4 a.m., everyone struggling into the shower blocks to shave and clean up. Kiwis are generally a tidy lot, but there was an extra effort this morning (which is why I had to stand in line waiting 10 minutes for a sink). If you are up and moving early enough, then rum and coffee is part of your day, part of the tradition. For some reason there was no rum (not sure if that is because we are under U.S. military rules, or because we have invited Afghan guests). That was a disappointment -- I needed something to give me a jolt in the crisp dawn air, and I don't drink coffee. I like traditions that involve alcohol (at least to some point -- may be a while before I go back to Bourbon St. during Carnival). Even so, you make do.

At sunrise, 4:55 a.m., the soldiers paraded to the flag pole, where the colors (both Aussie and New Zealand) were unfurled together. A cannon salute went off (I wonder if the locals even noticed -- landmines go off at random every so often, so big booms are part of the landscape here), speeches were made, prayers were read, hymns were sung, salutes were held. We all were wearing poppies (ok, felt poppies -- the real deal is definitely available here in Afghanistan, but I guess getting hold of them would be a more problematic issue), and took them off to drape them near the wreaths laid in respect for NZ's brave men (and women) who have given their all in service to their nation. As is often the case with military events generally, it was a serious and somber event.

One of the things I like so much about working here is being with the Kiwis, who are in my opinion much more laid back than the U.S. military. Relations between officers and enlisted is relatively informal, and the entire atmosphere is relaxed (except when rugby is playing -- we've covered that before). The Kiwis are extremely professional, but they realize that small stuff is small stuff. Good lesson for us all, in this guy's view.

ANZAC Day, however, clearly is not small stuff. ANZAC Day is a bunch of things. It is our Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and Independence Day all rolled into one. It is not just another opportunity to barbeque -- it is the type of respect and ritual our own veterans deserve, but only get amongst each other these days. It also talks about the horror that war brings, which, lame as it sounds, really is difficult to convey unless you have seen it up close, which is something nobody really wants. I am not a Kiwi, but April 25 has been etched indelibly into my memory by the looks on the faces of my friends here. I will make a better effort to approach Memorial Day and Veteran's Day in the States with the spirit those days deserve. To my Kiwi pals around the world, I can promise you I will not forget April 25.

God speed to all the Kiwis and Aussies out there defending their nation (and ours) with their sweat and sacrifice. God speed to all soldiers in harm's way for our benefit. Be safe, all.

Child Funeral

Since the weather has started to turn a bit more towards spring (even while it snowed on Easter Sunday), I have been something of the exercise freak. I work out in the gym for two hours a day, 5-6 days a week, and get up at 6 a.m. to either do abs or climb PT Hill, the nicest Stairmaster in Central Afghanistan. From the gate and back generally takes about an hour (best time I have ever done was 40 minutes, and that was practically a run), and in the 25 minutes it takes to get up hill we climb a good 1000 feet. It's a great workout.

One of the nice things about the hike at 6 is how quiet everything is. At that time of the day, the only activity you see are the giant ravens circling looking for trash and scraps to eat, and lots of smoke rising from houses throughout the valley, as the pungent aroma of burning donkey dung lets you know that women all over Bamyan are awake fixing food for their families. Other than that, nothing.

Two days ago, however, my hiking pal Sally and I were surprised to see a band of men out nearby the road. Two younger men were on their hands and knees scooping out earth, while some older gentlemen knelt by the side of that hole, bowing and prostrating themselves every so often. Next to the eldest man was something wrapped up in a colorful sheet/sari. I could only guess, based on the small size, that it was the body of a small child.

Usually when we see locals here, they are almost always cheerful, waving, giving us a smile, which is not the case for all of the country. In the South and East, the mostly Pashtun people are much more guarded in their reactions/emotions towards Coalition forces. On this day, as the two young men and the older men prepared the site to take the body, the looks we received were undisguised anger and hatred. It was quite a shock.

I am not certain what drove those looks. It may have been that a woman was witnessing this action, which appears not to be something for the women to do in Bamyan (women and children regularly will visit graves on Fridays to clean and sweep them, with no men present). It may have just been a general anger at foreigners generally. It could have been anger that these rich foreigners could not do more to save this child from his or her tough lot in life.

Children in Afghanistan do have it tough. Infant mortality, and under 5 mortality, is higher here than anywhere else in the world. Malnutrition is rampant, poverty is endemic, disease ever-present. I could see why a parent might shake his fist at the fates that decree children in Afghanistan are less likely to make it, and at the foreigners whose obvious different circumstances may seem so grossly unfair.

Whatever else I have managed to do here, hoping to make a difference in the lives of the people of Afghanistan, of Bamyan, it wasn't enough for this child. May he or she rest in peace, in a better place where life is not so hard for the kids.

Pre-Fab Purgatory

Hello Sports Fans! Hope all of you are recovering from a wonderful bout of March Madness. Kudos to Big Baby and company for exceeding all expectations in making it to the Final Four this year. Commiseration to Seimone Augustus, the best player in college basketball today (period), for reaching the plateau of the Final Four again, but not the summit. If that were not enough, we even have "a tradition unlike any other" this weekend, as Tiger, Vijay, Phil, Ernie and company all make a run for the green jacket in Augusta. This being an all-Kiwi zone, we won't see any of this, but will be browbeaten with Super 14 rugby all weekend long (the Crusaders won a tough match against Waratahs from Australia. I can tell how excited you are. :P

It is good to be back in Bamyan, even with a dearth of U.S. sports options. I spent a week in Bagram Airbase, about an hour's drive north of Kabul, for a series of meetings and conferences, and wow, I will be so happy if I never have to return. Ugh.

The drive up to Bagram is the first thing. Roads here are . . . glorified goat trails, let's face it (my cousin Willie and my uncle Pete likely would enjoy these roads, the rest of us -- we'll skip, thanks very much). The usual road paths meander along, parallel to, across from, through, and under rivers, making for wonderful driving conditions. At least the snow and ice are giving way to spring (reluctantly), so that the chains don't come out. Nothing quite as unnerving as a 5-ton Hum-V skidding across the road with a 400 ft. vertical drop directly to one side. Anyway, the drive, all 120 km of it, takes anywhere from 6-8 hours. There are not potholes in the road, there are roads in the potholes.

Lesson for the uninitiated: do not eat a large or heavy meal if planning a trip involving similar conditions. Given the departure time, I figured we would not have a chance to eat lunch, so I scarfed down a huge breakfast, as opposed to the usual cereal and yogurt routine. Turns out, they moved up lunch an hour so that we could eat, so I followed the mega-breakfast with a burger that would make the Hardee's Monster Burger proud, potato salad, and a zillion calorie banana smoothie.

All that food, even with my accelerated metabolism (altitude and exercise, mostly), was over the top. Then we hit the potholes. Ugh. Have you ever seen a person with red hair, red beard, and green skin? That was me? I looked like some perverse Christmas smurf, and felt worse.

So, upon arrival at Bagram, I can't say how happy I was to be at the destination (the final 30 minutes of the drive is paved, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles). First impressions did little to dampen that enthusiasm. I went with the Kiwis down to Subway. THEY HAVE A SUBWAY!!! They also have Burger King, a serious looking pizza joint, Korean food (excellent), and a Popeye's (the Popeye's disappointed). I could not believe all of this existed in the middle of Afghanistan, but anywhere you have a large contingent of U.S. soldiers, U.S. amenities are never far behind.

Better still, the base has a hair salon that also does massages. After that six hour drive, a massage sounded like a good idea. A nice, young Kyrgz women beat me up like a meat tenderizer for an hour, all for $20, and I am happy to report that this is all she did. (Contrast that to Bangkok, where you have to find massage points that advertise "no sex" or else they will offer more than you expect.)

At this point, I think I could get used to this place. Wrong.

Well, come sunrise, I get a more complete sense of the camp, and in this case, more information is not better. Row upon row upon row of B-huts, all slapped together, next to two-story conexes that served as latrines and showers (thank goodness they were smart enough to put the showers upstairs, and the toilets down below). Spaced irregularly around the camp are tons of port-o-lets, such that the warring smell of human excrement and the massive chemicals used to break down/clean up such waste is ever-present. The air smells stale, on a good day.

The chow hall is also slapped together, as well as the food. (To be fair, the Kellogg, Brown and Root contractors are trying, I believe, but you can't personalize food for thousands, I don't think). Think every boring meal you ever had at the school cafeteria, just multiply the options for ennui. Nice touches like how many calories a particular dish may contain became suspicious, as the steamed broccoli and the braised pork ribs and everything else were 122 calories. I should have lost weight, right? Ha.

I did like the gym they had there, tons of elliptical machines, tread mills, and weights galore. This being for the U.S. military, where everything must, by definition, be bigger and better, the weights were out of my league. I thought after 3 months in the gym here I could at least hold my own, but they had dumbbells (these were not smart bells, believe me) that weight 150 POUNDS. Sorry, that's only 20 pounds less than me -- if I am one-arming that, I am the next Barry Bonds with the "cream" and "clear." Oh, sorry, don't want to get sued, ALLEGEDLY with the "cream" and "clear." The gym was put in under a semi-circular roof that could be retracted. It needed to be retracted more -- the sour smell of human sweat was ever-present.

Why was I there in all of this? Turns out a lot of PRT commanders will be rotating out fairly soon, so there was a conference with the outgoing PRT leadership to get lessons learned, best practices, that sort of thing. Great information to take in, but somehow I can't help but think it would make more sense to hold such a conference jointly with the new people coming in. Oh well, I am no expert. Neither are the gazillion lieutenant colonels running around. In other settings, I would say you would need to call in an exterminator, as you have an infestation. In this setting, I call it HQ. Go figure.

The Kiwis have their own small enclave in one nook of this giant base, and thank goodness for that. A little sliver of sanity helped me endure the eternal blah that is Bagram. I can only feel for those poor unfortunate souls who will spend their entire time in theatre based in Bagram. You see them, people whose gray insides are beginning to eke out beyond the new camos (U.S. military has some cool pixellated camos that supposedly work in all environments -- I would not know), people bereft of enthusiasm, of smiles, of hope. It really is a way-station to everywhere for the military, and a way-station to nowhere at the same time. Pray for these folks. I know I do, now that I have had a taste of life in pre-fab purgatory.