The Green Zone - Part 2: RTB

Nicknames or abbreviations are used in place of people’s real names. Events are based off of memory. Myself and Leyva recall the name of the PB being “Juarez,” although I am unable to find any actual source documents saying otherwise.

Events are told from memory as best as possible. Research was conducted through 1/7’s historical records to ensure accuracy.

This is part 2 of a recollection of my first foot patrol in Afghanistan. Part 1 is linked below:

The Green Zone - Part I: DFL

Nicknames or abbreviations are used in place of people’s real names. Events are based off of memory. Myself and Leyva recall the name of the PB being “Juarez,” although I am unable to find any actual source documents saying otherwise.

Route 611Steve Kwiatkowski

Cigarette smoke climbs the hot air. Afghan music blaring from an ancient Nokia.

Laughter, cursing, conversations in Pashtu.

This is PB Juarez.

We sit on the ground, leaning on our day packs. Cpl C smokes a Pines cigarette. Leyva talks shit. I awkwardly stuff dip in my mouth.

The patrol leader is talking with the Afghan Uniformed Police (AUP) commander in the main compound. Once the route is selected, the patrol will kick off.

PB Juarez is a bubble of safety in the middle of the Green Zone. An embryo amidst chaos. One large mud compound dominates the middle of the walled area. The AUP used it as a patrol base (PB), and the Marines assisted with patrols as needed. Attached to the main compound is a stable where goats bray, and a large, skinny cow stoically awaits its death.

The AUP are clad in blue uniforms with a blue hat that looks like it belongs in a Soviet Union thrift store. It’s because of the AUP that the feeling of safety is only an illusion.

The Taliban regularly overran AUP outposts in the area. A lot of AUP soldiers also acted as double agents. Of the Afghan uniformed forces, the AUP was most likely to shoot you in the back if you weren’t careful.

Not all of the AUP carried this reputation. One of the first to greet the Baker Co. Marines was Rambo.

Rambo was a local legend.

Every Marine in Baker Company knew about Rambo. He had a reputation for disarming IEDs with zero regard for his safety. Marines spoke stories of Rambo fearlessly engaging the Taliban in firefights. His nickname was well-earned.

We wait. Share cigarettes. Crack jokes.

An AUP soldier approaches Levya with a younger soldier following him like a bashful sheep. The young soldier wears mascara, which makes him look more youthful and feminine.

The soldier looks Leyva in the eye. Raising his eyebrows with a dirty smile, he asks, “Jiggy-jiggy?” Pointing to the boy.

Some of the Marines laugh.

Leyva’s face is a stone wall of confusion. “I… I don’t understand…”

The soldier laughs and repeats the question, this time inserting his index finger into an “O.K.” symbol.

“Marine… jiggy-jiggy, Marine?”

He offers the bashful boy to come forward.

One of the Baker Co. Corporals interjects.

“Get the fuck out of here with that shit!” Some of the Marines who were laughing became serious. “Get the fuck away from us!”

The AUP soldier grabs his companion and goes to the other side of the PB. Away from the Marines.

The Corporal explains to us that the younger soldier was a teenager. A Chai boy.

Chai boys are part of an ancient tradition in Afghanistan1. Also known as bacha bazi (boy for play). When the Taliban took over Afghanistan in 1994, they outlawed the practice. When the Taliban were ousted from power in 2001, the practice made a strong resurgence.

NATO soldiers, including US troops, reacted strongly to these instances of child sex slaves. Cases of US soldiers beating up Afghan soldiers for participating in the practice resulted in adjudication through the UCMJ.

Soldiers and Marines were instructed not to physically intervene. Report the situation and move on.

Not long after the incident, the Patrol Leader exits the main compound. Marines strap their flak jackets back on. Kevlars snap into place. The rush of excitement takes over again.

The Patrol Leader calls Cpl C over. They talk. Cpl C returns, upset.

“Take your gear off boys, we’re not fucking going. We’re standing radio watch.”

Leyva sets his M249 SAW down. She won’t eat today.

The Marines file out of the PB, leaving Leyva, Cpl C, and me to rotate radio watch and man the post on top of the compound.

Standing post can be a healing time. A time for self-reflection. You can hone your internal dialogue.

The first time you stand post, your nerves might carry you through the shift. Whether it’s eight hours, six, or a short and sweet four-hour shift.

Soon, the boredom of war dulls your nerves to a thud.

Post can look different depending on where you are.

Standing post at a nice FOB, like FOB Jackson, meant eight-hour shifts in the day and four at night. You were guaranteed hot chow to be delivered by a rover. Kids threw rocks at you or begged for food. Give them something nice, and you might find yourself with delicious foot bread.

Post at a PB is different. At a normal PB, squads or fireteams are on a rotation. Rest, post, patrol. Due to the remote location of PB’s, post felt more exposed.

At PB Juarez, we were plunged in the middle of the Green Zone like a brown island in a sea of green.

I stood on top of the compound scanning the distant treelines with Leyva’s SAW. I familiarized myself with the terrain. Made sectors of fire and scribbled them down on a sheet of paper.

Because this wasn’t an actual post by Marines, we made our own range card. Detailing targets and points of interest. The only protection I had was the thick mud wall that faced north. To the east, my right, the compound rose another story, blocking my view. Behind me, I was exposed to the world

Thanks to a series of videos we watched in the School of Infantry (SOI), I had a fear of being shot in the head by a sniper while on post. Anytime I noticed myself becoming complacent, I adjusted my position. Looked more alert. I imagined videos of myself getting shot in the head shown to a bunch of PFCs at SOI as muddled Afghan music played over a grainy, low-res video.

My body dropping with dead weight.

Would I feel anything?

Would I notice anything?

Was it painless?

Was it like getting punched in the face? Would your ears ring? Would your vision go black? Numbness? Confusion?

A mortarbike putting along a trail snaps me out of my morbid daydream.

I have a radio with me and report what I see to Cpl C, who’s on radio watch.

“Echo Four Charlie, this is Echo Three Kilo, Over.”

“Send it.”

“One military-aged male traveling west towards the patrol on a dirtbike, over.”

“Roger, copy.”

“Roger, out.”

Cpl C notifies the patrol.

I learn a lot about myself on post. My goals, desires. I question the decisions I made. I wonder about home.

At some point, the boredom becomes too much. Its weight becomes real.

I slap a fresh can of dip and put in a fat pinch.

The nicotine buzz gives me new life. A second wind. Just like the breeze that lazily cools the sweat that’s pouring down my face.

A cow is grazing just below. It takes a shit. I know this because the dead breeze brings the stink to my nose.

I look at the mud wall and wonder how this is even made. I lightly punch it, testing its strength. No wonder these can stop bullets.

Throughout the next three hours, I repeat this process.

Post is uneventful.

Nothing unusual to report at this time.

The day drags on. We rotate our shifts to stand post only twice.

We bitch about how we were brought out here to stand radio watch.

We bitch about the heat.

We bitch about the smell.

Eventually, Baker radios in, they are RTB - returning to base.

By the time they return, the novelty of PB Juarez has worn off. We can’t wait to get back to our mortar hooch on FOB Inkerman.

The sky begins to age with gold. Smoke climbs the air from the compound, in no hurry. The smell of cooked meat makes us salivate.

The Marines from Baker strip gear and smoke cigarettes. We ask our friends how the patrol went.

“Same shit, different day. Nothing happened.”

While we wait for our ride home, the AUP have a parting gift for us.

Tea.

Music blares from Nokia cellphones as Marines excitedly chatter, awaiting food that’s not FOB food.

We wait in line and file into the compound. The patrol leader is sharing tea with the AUP commander in the room. The house smells like body odor and sweat. The AUP happily places goat meat and bread in our hands. Probably one of the goats from the morning.

We sit inside the compound and share our meal. Marines laugh. An AUP shows funny pictures on his phone. They play jokes on the Marines, who return the favor.

For a moment, it’s not war. It’s people sharing a meal. Sharing culture.

One month later, an IED kills Rambo as he’s attempting to disarm it2.

One of the Marines from Baker goes prone on an IED and loses his legs.

I get my CAR. But at the cost of three Marines getting shot, two trucks blown up, and 36 hours of my life that I want back.

This is Afghanistan.