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.

Adrenaline shot into my chest as I looked down at my hands. My fingers stuck out like scissors. I looked at Leyva’s hand. Flat like paper. It was the most exhilarating game of rock-paper-scissors I’ve ever played. Leyva cursed.

“Alright, Ski, you’re going.” Corporal C looked into my eyes.

“Roger.”

“Change over into your woodland FROG’s1 and I’ll find out where you’re linking up. Get your shit ready.”

Cpl C, Leyva, and I manned the mortars at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Inkerman. It was supposed to be a short rotation. Our parent platoon, the 81mm Mortar Platoon (or just 81s), was 1/7’s2 Quick Reaction Force (QRF). While they ran QRF missions out of FOB Jackson, a handful of Marines were sent to various FOBs to man mortars. We lived a mortarman’s dream. Three Marines living in a tiny hooch made of Hesco barrier and chicken wire. Our hooch was tucked away in the corner of the FOB, away from the higher-ups. A nice piece of real estate. A true bachelor’s pad.

The view in front of our hooch was breathtaking. The lush, vibrant Sangin Valley stretched out like a green slash in the desert. Our “front lawn” was a gun line with three mortar systems: a 60mm, an 81mm, and “Big Bertha,” the 120mm. On the far side was a hammock made out of canvas. We had a small gym made out of ammo cans and rocks. We had a personal, homemade library. Camel spiders tickled us in the night.

And the best part? We were “OFP” — own fucking program.

It was a nice way of life that was only meant to be temporary. But it was at the very beginning of the deployment. We wanted to taste combat. We wanted our Combat Action Ribbons (CAR) more than anything. While our parent platoon ran QRF missions, we stood post with the Baker Company Marines. Baker Co. let us join their mounted patrols with Joker 1 and 2, so long as they had mortarmen available to replace us while we were gone.

But the three of us wanted more.

Our cushy lifestyle limited our experience of Sangin, the deadliest valley in Afghanistan3. We patrolled from the comfort of up-armored trucks. The Taliban shot at us one time, the bullet pinging off the turret as our convoy travelled on Route 611, the only paved road in the valley.

Our friends in the line platoons of Baker Co. told tales of their patrols. The “real Afghan experience.” Friends from 3rd Platoon told us stories about the Fishtank, a deadly maze of mud compounds where the Taliban ambushed their patrols at close range and didn’t shy away from throwing grenades. IEDs littered the alleyways.

Another friend told us how they got their CAR in the Green Zone. In stark contrast to the Brown Zone, the desert side of Sangin, the Green Zone is heavily vegetated and provides perfect concealment for the Taliban and their IEDs. A PKM opened fire from a compound less than 50 meters away. Bullets snapping and ricocheting off the ground next to him. The way he described what it felt like to get shot at. The feeling of pure adrenaline high that pumps into your body as you return fire. You don’t even notice how loud your rifle is.

I wanted that.

I felt like my worth of service came down to that game of rock-paper-scissors. A platoon sergeant from 1st Platoon, Baker Co. (B1), was looking for one of us to hop on a foot patrol with them. They had room for one more. Since it was our first deployment, Cpl C. let us settle who would go with a game of rock-paper-scissors.

Winner would join B1 and spend the night at Patrol Base (PB) Juarez in the Green Zone and patrol all day.

I won.

I spent the rest of the evening making my preparations. Nerves churned in my belly, like the nerves you get before you play in a high-school football game. I readied my gear. Double-checked tourniquets. My woodland FROGs were crisp and needed salt and Sangin sun to break them in. When I showed up at the meeting point, I tried my best not to look nervous. I had never patrolled with this squad before. And we were about to patrol at night. In Sangin.

I started to question how bad I wanted that CAR.

As things happen in the Marine Corps, the patrol got postponed to the following day. Go figure. I returned to my hooch defeated. The nerves stayed and would sit in my stomach throughout the night. But the platoon sergeant from B1 delivered good news. All three of us could join their patrol tomorrow. An “Armadillo” would pick up the patrol from Inkerman, drive east down the 611, and drop us off to patrol into the Green Zone towards PB Juarez.

Leyva quickly made his preparations. He was like a kid on Christmas Eve. He made sure his M249 was clean. We went over 9-Lines and IA drills4. Sleep would be difficult to come by.

The following morning, Leyva and I chugged Rip-Its and chain-smoked Pines, waiting with B1 to get picked up by the Armadillo. It rolled up like a mechanical elephant of war. Screeching to a halt, its heavy armor plates jostled, and Sangin dust puffed into the pre-dawn morning.

The green 7-Ton had a massive tow-bar that was like a tusk. On the flatbed was an armored seating area. Plates angled inward with small ports for returning fire. There was no top. If the truck hit an IED, you would be launched into your grave.

We climbed into the back and left Inkerman in the early morning twilight.

The armadillo screeched to a halt. Brakes screaming and air brakes moaning as the truck stopped. One by one, we dismounted out of the back and onto the 611. My senses sharpened. The stench of burning trash stained the air. The Helmand sun began its climb, baking the world below.

To my right was the Brown Zone. A cemetery with a lone tree casting its shade on mounds of dirt with bent sticks like sickles, tattered cloths hanging in the dead morning air. It was littered with IEDs.

In front of me, on the paved road, a M-ATV aimed its .50 Cal at traffic. Pausing the locals’ morning to allow us safe passage. A bearded man watched us from behind his steering wheel and through a smudgy windshield as we made our way into the Green Zone.

I followed the Marine in front of me and turned left into the Green Zone. The hot morning sun reflected off trees and foliage like jade glass. Tree lines criss-crossed, bordering fields of poppy. Mud compounds punctuated the sea of green like brown boats.

It was beautiful.

We patrolled ranger file. A single-file snake of Marines. The pointman led with a Compact Metal Detector (CMD). The head of his CMD swinging like a metronome. Squeaking and whining with metal hits. Every so often, he sprayed shaving cream on his left. Stepping outside of this narrow lane meant stepping on an IED. Marines raised rifles, scanning the treeline. Posturing.

A man watched us from a field.

Sweat poured down my face. Stopping every so often to maintain dispersion. I kept my head on a swivel. Scan left, observe the far treeline, look at my feet, place one foot in the same footprint of the Marine in front, scan right, a compound, look down, stay to the left of the shaving cream trail. Step. By. Step.

The Marine in front raised a flat hand.

Stop.

I passed the signal and squatted in my steps. You didn’t take a knee. That’s how you get blown up. Don’t go prone unless you’re getting shot at, it’s easier to set off an IED that way. The Marine at the point was sweeping a potential hit. I scanned the treelines. Sweat dripping as the sun cooked the vegetation into a humid nightmare.

The Marine in front raised his arm. It was time to move on.

The PB was a mud compound. An Afghan Uniformed Police (AUP) manned a rickety post. His ragged blue uniform clinging to his thin frame, his blue hat tilted high on his sweaty head, and his AK-47 haphazardly leaning on sandbags. He greeted every Marine as we stepped through the door-shaped opening through the mud walls and into the courtyard.

It was entering another world.

Marines let their guard down. Afghan music blared from an ancient Nokia cell phone. Marines dropped their pack and gear and lit cigarettes. Leyva, Cpl C, and I found a place to take off our FLAK5 jackets. It wasn’t even the afternoon, and our FROGs were already soaked with sweat.

The Patrol Leader got accountability and told everyone to stand by.

This was Afghanistan.

Next time: The Green Zone - Part II: RTB