From The Front Lines

By Lisa Morgan

Afghanistan, August 31:   As our MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle) made its way through the base exit, our vehicle commander radioed that we had cleared the check point, while our turret gunner began his vigilant and systematic sweep of the changing area around the convoy.  In my head I thought, “Just like training”; just like training with the exception that here any scenario was real and there were no actors or blanks in anyone’s weapon system.  Bounding along the dirt road toward our destination, we were aware of the roar of the engine, the constant “click, click, click” of the turret gunners carriage.  Looking past the gunner, whose only visible parts were his legs and torso, the crew had placed only three items on the dash, a testament to their importance.  In the window, were two sheets of paper, one pasted above the other.  The lower was a white procedure card for calling in help in the event we found ourselves under attack.  The yellow card above it, a “9 Line”, the procedure card for calling in a casualty evacuation team in case any of us were wounded.  The final item was a white cross dangling from the dash and bouncing to the rhythm of the vehicles movement.  Two cards and a cross that was all.  A reminder to all our crew and passengers of the potential instant need for an appeal to heaven: “Help us. Heal us. Protect us.”  And so we moved on quiet in the vehicle, save for the occasional radio communication, the clicking of the turret gun, each of us moving together and at the same time alone potentially through our own valley of the shadow of death.

Finally through another check point and onto the relative safety of another base, the turret gunner, no more than 19 or 20 years old, came down from his position and gave us all this huge grin – reminding us all that, once again, our deliverer had seen us safe to another journey’s end and that on this day, only one of the three resources on that dash, perhaps the most utilized, whether posted or not in this combat theatre, had been used that day.

e no actors or blanks in anyone’s weapon system. Bouncing along the dirt road toward our destination, we were aware of the roar of the engine, the constant “click, click, click” of the turret gunners carriage as he continued his search for possible threats and the constant change of scene before us. Looking passed the gunner (whose legs and torso were only visible) the crew had placed only three items on the dash; testament to their importance. In the window two sheets of paper, one pasted above the other. The lower was a white procedure card for calling in help in the event we found ourselves under attack. The yellow card above it a “9 Line” (the procedure card for calling in a casualty evacuation team in case any of us were

Afghanistan, October 7, 2012:  The young Army Specialist had just pulled the chow hall check in duty. On this night, his task for the nation simply included making certain everyone signed in for dinner and scanned their ID Cards. For me, the chair next to him was a great vantage point to greet everyone coming into dinner on this forward operating base. And so began a pattern of greeting people interspersed with hearing about his life and dreams. As we sat together he spoke of learning languages, including Italian from the troops surrounding him, wondering about staying in the Army or going to college or maybe both and coming back in as an officer. In the midst of this, he spoke of the busy-ness of the deployment here and how limited study time had been with him so often in the field.  Like the other day when the vehicle in front of him was “blown up” (the term used here for everything from a catastrophic hit to one going off under you) by an IED (Improvised Explosive Device).  That IED explosion was followed almost immediately by one behind him, and so the convoy pushed forward.  “Then we got blown up,” he said.

“What was that like?” I asked.

He said, “Well, fire on both sides of the vehicle, with us bouncing up like we hit a big rock and all the wind getting knocked out of you like you were punched.” Then he looked at me in all seriousness and said, “Kinda like being in the middle of a video game, except not.”  And with that, he resumed his conversation about going home and dreams for the future.

Hmmm, “except not”.  As I pondered that, I thought, “Sure.  That is a mind trying to make sense, to categorize, to explain, what will be unexplainable when he gets home;  to continue to dream for the future and plan and hope, even while dreams of the past, of near misses and being in the middle of a living video game, ‘except not’, become part of his story and who he is  As they come home, may God grant each young person with so much of life ahead, peaceful slumber, hopeful dreams for the future and understanding arms to embrace them when such fly from them with the memories of the past of Afghanistan.”

— forwarded with permission by Chaplain Frank Riley, LTC, USNR from somewhere near the Afghanistan/Pakistan border.

United States Naval Reserve Lieutenant Commander, Frank Riley was deployed to Afghanistan August 2012.  He left his home, family and a church that calls him “Pastor Frank” to serve on the front lines in Afghanistan as an unarmed chaplain to America’s finest.  Frank, a very dear friend of mine since our college days, has given me permission to share his stories.  They are a stark reminder of everyday life for these men and women.  Please remember them and their families as we enjoy with gratitude, our everyday freedoms in this beautiful country of ours.  It is the only way to truly say thank you every day.

If you have a story from the “Front Lines” of people making a difference in service be it military, volunteer organization, police, fire department or the like, please contact me at lisa@coachellavalleyweekly.com.  We would like to share their story.