The Last Journey
Two patrols on 02 Sept, plus, cleaning up on 01
September
It is now
After
the patrol on Tuesday with Cpl. Dillon’s group, I decided that I would
collate all my thoughts, take a shower, and prepare for the next day, which
would be Thursday. Wednesday I
designated as a day off to get things in order.
It is important in this environment to get on top of things daily
otherwise in very short order one will find himself totally overwhelmed with
just things to do and stuff to try to remember. So Wednesday was one of those
days to just get back on track. It is
also a 
day I learned that in our
neighboring areas, two other companies, Echo and Golf, each sustained some
losses. When that happens here is phone
lines go down until families of those killed in action are properly
notified. The term here used is called,
“
On
Wednesday, I was scheduled to go out on a patrol early in the morning, but the
patrol commander who was not familiar with me yet, said that this particular
patrol had a few officers with it and a visiting gunnery Sgt and really did not
need an additional civilian tagging along.
Lt. Boyle asked me if minded hanging back on this patrol and of course I
complied without hesitation. It was
really appreciated and gave me a chance to also get to know the Sgt who was in
charge of the patrol to get to know me.
It always works out for me if I just remain flexible. I always am and the Marines here completely
appreciate it. After rising early this
day, I grabbed a cup of coffee and photographed the patrol getting ready to
head out. After they left, I began my
plan for the day 
which involved taking a
shower, washing clothes and then writing and compiling all my stories, audios
and photos that had been back-logged.
Later that evening, I was invited by Lt. Boyle to attend dinner with his
Afghan counterpart who is also the XO for the Afghan Army contingent here. That was a great meal and I have really begun
to settle in here at Turbett. It is how I always intend for things to go.
The
patrol that went out that morning happened to draw fire at one point. One round hit the radio that was being
carried by the Captain’s radioman.
It is another one of those many stories that I hear on a daily basis of
a remarkable instance where someone is miraculously spared. If one stays here long enough, you will hear
time and time again old stories constantly updated by new instances of such
things. It would be impossible to
catalog each and every story however, each time I hear of one, I make note of
them mentally. By the end of this day, I
was feeling all caught up on my personal things and was ready for what the next
day would bring. I had noticed this day
upon rising early that the coolness of the morning air was definitely apparent. It had dawned on me that it was now
September. Although the day time
temperatures are still blisteringly hot, the mornings are nice and a hint of a
change of season is in the air.
This
would be the end of
Now
comes the morning of
During
the late afternoon and evening of Wednesday, I had gotten to know Sgt. Mathers
who is one of the squad leaders of 3rd platoon. He was the one who requested that I not
attend the previous days patrol. We
began talking at length and soon we found ourselves talking about everything
from his Boston Red Sox to my NY Yankees.
The rivalry between these two teams is classic and only in a war zone
can two opposing fans become excellent friends.
We spent the rest of the evening talking about the Sgt.’s past and
current deployments. Mathers had
extended his current enlistment just to be able to come to this fight. He needed to do this for his own reasons. Sgt. Mathers is no wimp. He has had duties in 
the USMC after this
deployment and further his education with a goal towards becoming a
Before we both hit the sack,
Sgt. Mathers invited me to tag along on his morning patrol. I readily accepted and hit the sack knowing
an early morning would be in order. To
be invited along by the squad leader who less than 24-hours earlier had put his
foot down and said no to any “media type” person tagging along, to
me is a high compliment. I endeavored to
keep the integrity of my journey in line.
I enjoy being accepted. Seems it
is usually in war zones that I find good fellowship. Only my wife understands.
On
Thursday morning, September 2, I woke up early just before sunrise. I headed over to the command operation center
and grabbed a cup of good, hot coffee to begin my day. The patrol briefing would be soon and I
wanted to get ready and make sure all the morning things that needed to be
taken care of were done. By sunrise the
briefing was being conducted and shortly thereafter, we headed out with Sgt.
Mathers’ squad. This would be my
first patrol in the direction we headed.
We
began by going through agricultural fields that looked a little different than
the ones I had seen earlier. They seemed
more 
manicured at first sight and
the stands of corn we would pass through looked very good, healthy, deep dark
green and producing quite well. We
walked though not only corn fields, but bean fields, okra stands and cotton
patches. But, the hardest thing on this day to negotiate were the waddis,
or what we call the ditches. These
particular ditches seemed much more difficult to cross and on three separate
occasions I landed flat on my ass after trying to leap across like the young
Marines do whom I follow daily. However, no longer will I try to jump small
or large waddis in a single bound. By the end of the day, I had pretty much
injured my right front foot at the bend and have since been favoring it
gingerly. This is the one thing I have
tried to avoid desperately. It is my
first wake up call to realizing I am not as young as I used to be.
We
continued on with this patrol passing through fields, some plowed and some
not. There were also alfalfa fields that
sported a deep green color. We came upon
different farm dwellings that were all made of mud construction. Most all of these places still 
had the dried poppy stems
from the previous opium harvest stacked up along walls so they could be used as
fuel for fires. Anyone who thinks opium
has been anywhere near eradicated here in this part of
As
we strolled upon one farm house the male occupant inside was standing in the
courtyard area like a zombie. It was
explained to me he was high as a kite on opium and could care less about
anything at this particular moment. This
is not an isolated incident; rather, on the contrary much of the area has
similar circumstances. Not only is a
large part the world’s opium supply produced here, it apparently is also
consumed on a scale that for me is yet to be determined. But I am told that many of the enemy are users of hashish as well as opium.
The
morning patrol with Sgt. Mathers’ squad finished up about three hours
after it began. I was not so tired, but
my right foot was dicey. I was a bit
concerned about it. I knew one more
wrong move and I would be in trouble. I
took it easy but felt I 
would be ok. I was not filthy again and full of
sweat. I laid
down on my cot and fell asleep after the patrol review meeting. It was now late morning and the next patrol
with Cpl. Dillon’s squad was going to happen in a few hours. I decided to rest up and see how my foot
would do. I was exhausted. I slept for over two hours, with all my
clothes on as well as my boots.
My
boots are a problem. They were purchased
from Oakley via phone but was a real hassle. They are made in 
by the management of Oakley
that I would be blacklisted from their order department for simply inquiring
about the differences on pricing to the general public for those still going to
the war zones. I needed good boots. I knew I would be on rough patrols with the
Marines. I thought I was purchasing good
boots. What I ended up purchasing was
shitty boots, made in
The
second patrol of the day.
By
The
first part of the patrol was on roads and I was thankful for that. Nothing is done fast, but in the heat, just doing
it is difficult. Each of the guys with
me all have at least 65-
pounds of gear on them. I have about 45-pounds which is considerably
less, however when crossing a ditch or jumping from here to there, that extra
45-pounds hurts if the landing is not just right. We stopped at an Afghan police base and
rested up there for about 20-minutes.
The rest was good but getting started again is always hard to do. Nevertheless, we headed out and proceeded to
go through fields we had just come through.
The cotton was nearly five feet high and was a bit tricky to
negotiate. There were times that the
cotton just wrapped around the legs and pretty much would stop you in your
tracks prior to falling down. I was
behind one of the Afghan cops that we were training and I made sure to keep an
eye on him. At one point we had come
through some very high corn field after having struggled through cotton. I had lost sight of him and realized just how
easy it would be to get lost out here. I
found myself saying in as low a voice as possible,
“hello….hello”. Then I
heard a reply back, “alow…alow”. He had
waited for me knowing I was tangled up a bit.
When I saw him, he had a big smile on his face and I was smiling as
well. Without speaking each
others’ language, we both knew I had lost sight of my way and he had made
sure I would not be lost. That was a
cool experience to me.
We
kept going and came to this really tall patch of marijuana. It was giant as a
matter of fact. I made sure to take a
lot of photos for people I know in the states that just would not believe their
eyes. At one point I was once again
tangled up in foliage only this time it was marijuana. Walking through the fields I had this
familiar smell all over me that I remembered from a lifetime ago nearly forty
years earlier. Some things one just
never forgets. Although I do not now nor
have I for decades smoked marijuana, passing through these giant fields did
have a tendency to make my eyes red just thinking about it, as the old Cheech and Chong album used to
phrase things back in the early 70’s.
As
the rest of the patrol continued, I realized that my foot was going to be
pretty much ok, as long as I did not do extra pushing on it. It still hurts and I know if I am not
careful, I will be in a jam. By the time
we were walking down the street that has the bazaar on it and leads back to the
compound, I realized that doing two patrols in one day is good exercise, but it
is a bit draining. I figured I would not
go the next day and try to catch up. That afternoon, having returned from the
patrol by about
I
went to where our well is and tried desperately to get the water to work. Others had already thought of the same thing
because all of us were filthy and our clothes were about to become discarded if
not cleaned right away. I chose the
latter. However, the well I ended up
using was the well used by the Afghan Army who are on
base with us. This turned out to be a
very good thing. I immediately took over
the job of pumping the well as others filled up their buckets for washing their
clothes and others took showers underneath the flowing water. I really loved seeing how good this well
worked. The Afghans had a good time of
it. I was enjoying it. And I knew if I waited long enough, they
would pump the water for me. Eventually,
the Lt that I had dinner with a couple nights earlier showed up. I insisted on pumping the water for him. Everyone around noticed. I had a big smile on my face. Then it was my turn. I got under the water and just thoroughly
enjoyed the free flowing water over my body.
I cleaned up well and washed my hair.
I rinsed off once and then I did it again because I was really enjoying
it. I was loudly saying in English,
“this is great. I love this
well…” The Afghans knew by
the expression on my face that I was having the time of my life underneath the
flowing water.
After
I finished, I just dripped dried. In
about five minutes you are dry in this heat.
The Afghan Lt came up to me and we talked a bit. He is Tajik but speaks ok English. I reminded him of the other night when I had
eaten dinner with him. I told him that
we communed together and that is a form of fellowship. Then I told him that when we fellowship under
God’s grace we receive the showers of blessing, like the flowing water of
the well we both had just experienced. I
explained to him that I wanted to “shower him with blessings of
water” as a thank you gesture for having me for dinner the other
night. He just got the picture and had a
huge smile on his face. Then, he
insisted that I come for dinner this night which I readily accepted. More blessings.
The
dinner was exceptional with rice, chicken, 
dates, a salsa, radishes,
onions, green chili peppers and a yogurt of sorts. We sat down Afghan style and they appreciated
that I chose to eat as they do. I was
their guest and so was Captain Zepeda.
Later the Afghan commander also joined us. I had been brought into once again the good
place to eat. This was a very enjoyable
experience.
We
talked a bit throughout the night and I kept just thinking inside what a good
experience the whole day had been. I am
in this war zone and I hear of death and injury all around me. I hear helicopters overhead occasionally
firing their hell fire missiles 
and from time to time I hear
explosions in the distance. I know of
some Marines that have been killed in very close proximity to where I am at the
moment. A lot is going on all around
me. I’ve been on patrols and have
had shots fired at me already.
I’ve crossed drug fields as well as corn fields and back
again. I fell down three times today and
tried desperately to not ruin my camera.
I have a sort foot from jamming the front part opposite the heel. I was filthy dirty and now I’m
clean. I washed my clothes in a plastic
bucket and hung them to dry on the ropes holding my tent up. And yet through all of this today, I am
brought 
into a tent of an Afghan Lt
to sit and dine with him on some very good local food. These are things that happen at combat
outpost Turbett in Helmund
province in early September of 2010 among the United States Marines that I am
embedded with.
It’s
a lot to try and describe in words in a few paragraphs, but this is what I
do. I do love being here. It is the hardest thing I’ve done in a
while, but as always, it is worth it.
This
is the end of
Jim
Spiri
mailto:jimspiri@yahoo.com?subject=The
Last Journey
