By Byron Harvison
The smell of dust, woodsmoke, and sheep shit permeated the September air on our sixth day out on patrol. We had been in Afghanistan since May and were starting to get comfortable with the territory. The first elections were happening and we were tasked with providing security for polling sites throughout Ghazni. The great thing about these particular missions was that, other than entertaining a firefight, you were essentially on an lengthy four-wheeling camping trip. Our six-truck platoon carried everything for an extended time away from the FOB: ammunition, fuel, food—some of our guys even welded up rebar field grills and brought pots and pans, along with flour and rice. Buying a goat from the local market, the vendor processed the animal right there in front of us in less than an hour. We acquired tomatoes and onions for pico and cooked up fajitas with fresh tortillas and steaming rice. This was exponentially better than what was being served at the chow hall.
Our area reminded me of Northwestern New Mexico, my home as a child in the ‘80s. Dad worked in the oil field and wasn’t home much. Because of his relative absence, I have distinct memories of weekends exploring the desert in his beat-up FJ40. We roamed the mesas looking for long-abandoned pueblos and old mines. The scent of hot pinon trees and proliferation of jack rabbits were noticeably absent from my current location. The lack of wild animals in general was strange to me. All I saw were the occasional donkey or camel, some mangy dogs, and hundreds of sheep that looked like their intestines were hanging out of their backsides.
We received orders to meet for a resupply towards Gardez the next day. Needing diesel, water, and maybe a log or two of dip, we radioed in the location for the rendezvous. After driving all night and setting security we looked like a wagon circle in old Western movies, but in Hummvees with .50 cal guns on top. Crews began their sleep cycle with a troop up on the gun, one on the radio, and the others catching shut-eye before rotating. Most of the unit hailed from the Rio Grande Valley, members of the Texas National Guard 3-141 Infantry. The same division my great-great uncle was with when he was killed in France in WW1, and the same battalion my great uncle served with when he stormed the beach at Anzio in WW2. The family history was not lost on me.
Conversations were interrupted by radio chatter. Check-ins from partner-forces—Kiwis in Bamyan and Brits down in Helmand were the most distinct voices we heard. Reports of troops in contact drew our nervous attention. We often heard machine gun fire in the background and the yelled reports from those in direct-fire contact with the enemy. We listened intently before dropping to an alternate net, avoiding crowding the channel of those needing real-time support.
We set security around a collection of boulders. Being a longtime rock climber, I couldn’t dismiss the similarity of the rock to Joe’s Valley in Utah. While we waited for the resupply convoy to arrive, I walked around the boulders scoping out some potential climbing. I figured we were there already, so I might as well take advantage of the situation. The boulders were well-spaced, with nice flat landings. If located in the States, this certainly would have been a frequented climbing destination.
I placed my hands on the rock, crimping the edges with my fingertips. I could have been at Hueco Tanks, or my home crag in Tulsa. I was transported to the world I had left behind. A reminder of good times with friends, and pointless adventures. A time before the persistent anxiety about witnessing the next sunrise. I worked my way up the rock in my clunky combat boots, making familiar moves and feeling my smile broaden with every inch of progress.
Ascending the boulder, my shitty climbing fitness was notable. Winded from holding my breath while making the moves, I sat on top and collected myself. Scanning the horizon, I thought about where I was and what I was doing. Climbing is really kind of ridiculous when you think about it, absent a need to get to the top of somewhere for safety. But the act was, at that moment, much needed in my life. It provided a subtle escape from the pressures of keeping everyone alive and served as a reminder of all that was good back home.
Satisfied that I had set the standard for V1s in the area, I put my body armor back on. The resupply was enroute and it was time to get my shit together. By that evening I found myself high up an unnamed peak, sitting in overwatch to see who was installing roadside IEDs. The stars twinkled in that thin mountain air. I dreamt of home.
