Belated Bon Voyage

As you could tell with my last entry, I was a bit preoccupied at the end of April. Life was more about getting from one, er, moment (ok, movement) to the next than anything related to life Up the Hill. (That is the Kiwi’s own shorthand for Bamyan, especially when in Bagram meeting/speaking/cajoling other Coalition Forces). With my own preoccupation, I did not have a chance to give my homage to the outgoing Kiwis from Crib 7. It is wayyyy overdue, but here is that. It’s also longer than my similar tribute to Crib 6, not because I liked them any less, but because the bulk of my Afghanistan time was with this hoary bunch.

Where to begin? At the top, I guess (in the Disney “Alice and Wonderland,” and possible in the book as well, but I can’t quote it, the Mad Hatter tells Alice to “start at the beginning, and when you get to the end . . . stop.” The head honcho, Group Captain Steve Moore is, in many respects, the type of leader I would hope to be. Laid back, easygoing, always ready with a joke or smile, but fully cognizant of the swirl of issues, complications, dilemmas, frustrations, challenges, and pitfalls which command in a post-combat environment present. (Bamyan is Post-combat in my view, unlike provinces in the south and east, which are still stand-up fights, save that the bad guys don’t stand up.) We were eye to eye on Bamyan’s big picture (not to say that either of us had a monopoly on the correct prescription for Bamyan’s many ills) so we did not have to spend our time and energy on internal wrangling. His only vice? (at least that he could indulge on a military base, where alcohol is verboten) Rugby (as if you have to ask at this point). The Super 12 (Super 14 now) League, with teams from NZ, Australia and South Africa, took over Fridays and Saturdays for three months. There was even a betting pool (tipping, they call it, organized by the Camp Chaplain) for Super 12. Not sure whether Steve was in on the pool, but he certainly took the lead on everything else related to Super 12. We made a point to schedule around matches, so that the Commander was back on Planet Bamyan when it came time to meet with locals.

The rest of the Command staff certainly had its idiosyncratic elements -- Morgan Procter, the Second in Command, whipcord thin (cigarettes), a farmer, an army man, dedicated to “keeping his Air Force boss in line” (managed to keep us all hopping in the process). Brad, the operations cmdr., from whom every third sentence was “and we’ll crack on.” Good man for his position, not flustered, but his coffee cup was definitely a security blanket. Brad spent two days searching for that mug, two long days for the rest of us. I’m glad he lashed the cup to his belt after! Paula, the logistics cmdr., an elfin lieutenant (pronounced LEV-tin-unt) from the Navy, who managed to get me to summit PT Hill in boxers (you’ll have to get that story in person, I’m not commiting that to the internet, thanks much), and as wonderful a person as I’ve met anywhere. Don’t bug her about the pink toilet paper though -- ouch. (The previous logistics officer left a gap in TP purchasing, forcing Paula to go local for our supply. Let me tell you, rolled plywood, no matter its pretty pink color, does not a pleasant experience make. Never saw so many men walk like crabs in my life.)

Even though this Crib was smaller than Crib 6, it seemed to hold its own in the characters department. Ross, the chaplain, who organized the camp’s betting, poker nights, horse racing, and Julie, the fiery Medical Officer who whipped all of us (Kiwi Shir included) into shape. TK, the Command Sergeant Major, who will always be my pal for jumping in and helping me wash all the dishes one Friday (Friday night is the Development Group’s night, and there was nobody around but me). Abe, the unofficial head of the Command Post, whose sonorous voice was quick to find the humor we all needed to survive the winter. Obs (short for O’Brien), whose fascination/obsession with the Hoff (that’s Hasselhoff to the rest of us) bordered on clinical. The workshop boys, Bonzi and company, the only guys I have ever met who ape a very female trait and troop off to the bathroom as a pack. Bulldog, supply sergeant, Pete, the head mechanic, Mish, our communications officer, the Sparkies (that’s electricians), Lance and the cooks, who were the real reason I have to work out 2 hours a day just to stay where I am, Tinsley, who wanted more than anything to take all his cool toys and hang with the US forces along the border and go kill bad guys, Tee Tai (whose blood ran red bull and sugar -- never seen a man with so much energy in my life) and the whole QRF gang, Heath and Sean, our resident bodybuilders (lots of muscle power in this Crib -- turned me into something of a gym rat), Kiwi base was full of interesting folk. I have to make sure not to neglect the patrols, Aaron (we got along great, surprise, surprise, and I was most impressed when I watched him chug an entire bottle of pancake syrup), Mel, Jason Healee, in charge out in the field, and even SarMajor Brill from the support element operations in Bagram. All in all, a great team.

Last, but certainly not least, I need to reserve a little space for our engineering officer, Capt. Neville Mosley. Nev made himself right at home before the rest of Crib 7 even arrived, with a wonderfully scathing wit to boot. As the point man for NZ AID operations, and with me backing up USAID, I probably worked closer with Nev than anybody else on the camp. His nuanced understanding of how development operates is spot on (vast oversimplification -- if you give a man a fish, he has a meal, if you teach a man to fish, he can feed himself), hardly a typical military mindset. I will keep up with more than a few of my Crib 7 mates, but Nev most of all, I think.

Now I have to walk the line between being sincere and maudlin -- how to tell this gang what I think of them? Sure, a smartass or a linguistics guru would say I’ve already done that, but what can I say about all of them? Bottom line, we soldiered on, in a pretty tough environment (certainly one of the toughest I’ve ever been in), and managed not to be at each other’s throats. Crib 7 left Kiwi Base, and, more importantly, Bamyan, a better place than they found it, and they deserve their props for that. I want to thank them all for their support and friendship. Kia ora, Crib 7. Peace out.