Remembering Memorial Day: A conversation

My friend Jeanene asked me to speak on her radio program that she intended to be a conversation about Memorial Day in advance of this weekend’s day of remembrance.

After two months in Afghanistan, three weeks in a Kuwaiti hospital and traveling halfway around the globe, I exhaust easily. And I’ve noticed my emotions are raw. I was concerned I wouldn’t make it through the conversation. I was afraid I wouldn’t be articulate. I was afraid I’d cry. Frankly, at first, I didn’t want to do it…and I didn’t want to disappoint my friend.

It was another opportunity to share stories of the soldiers of the 1/25th Stryker Brigade Combat Team, particularly the soldiers of the 1-5. So I accepted.

It was a thoughtful and emotional conversation not a political one. At the start of the program, Jeanene said: “I think it’s really important to distinguish the concept of war from our recognition of the warrior. Because while it’s meaningful to debate the virtues or lack of virtues for any given war, it’s not OK with me to debate the virtue of the those killed in action….I don’t ever confuse a political action, which is declaring war, with that very scared action of giving up one’s life.”

At :36.40 until :38.58 in the one-hour program, I read the 21 names of the soldiers from the 1/25th who did not return from Afghanistan.

I invite you to listen to the conversation and start conversations with your friends and families about the meaning of Memorial Day.

Below, I’ve included a link and Jeanene’s description of the intention of the program. Thank you for listening. Thank you for remembering.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/coffeepartyusa/2012/05/24/louden-clear-with-jeanene-louden-thursdays-at-230-et

This week is a special Memorial Day conversation with journalist Cheryl Hatch, just back after an embed with an Army battalion in Afghanistan where she documented the lives of soldiers before, during, and after deployment. Her years of being in and out of war zones, plus a childhood of waiting for her father to come home from two tours in Vietnam, have brought forth a body of work called THE COST OF CONFLICT. This insightful collection of images capturing what war leaves behind, combined with her reverence and respect for military personnel and their families, should help set the tone for a thoughtful and meaningful Memorial Day Holiday.

Very superstitious

After two months embedded in Afghanistan and 19 days in a hospital in Kuwait, I was packing to return to the States last week. I was practicing the out-with-the old-in-with -the-new approach.

I threw away nearly everything I’d worn in Afghanistan. My three Hane’s men’s v-neck white t-shirts were irrevocably dirty. I tossed one pair of torn pants and kept the other though they’d grown too big (not a bad thing.) I’d toss them when I could replace them. I’d already lost my favorite wool hat that I purchased at the Farmer’s Market in Newport, Oregon in the fall 2010 when my brother visited me from Germany.

Next, I packed the sweet Donna Karan party dress I’d purchased especially for the !st Battalion, 5th Infantry Regiment ball. I added a couple new dresses and several pair of new shoes, including a gorgeous pair of Michael Kors heels, again for the ball.  (Thanks to Sarah for the shopping excursions and encouragement to “Just try it on.”) After wearing trousers, dirt and body armor, I was looking forward to putting on heels, skirts and dresses again.

When I had everything packed, I looked in the closet and discovered my sweater. My friend Jeanene had given me the sweater in Oregon a few years ago. I always seem to be in denial about the cold and don’t dress appropriately. She bought it for a few bucks at Good Will.

It’s not an attractive piece of clothing. It’s beige, bulky and tattered with holes. It makes me look eight-months pregnant when I wear it.. But it’s warm, made of a blend of wool and silk. And it was so cold in Afghanistan, I wore it all the time.

I wore it on every patrol under my body armor. At the end of my first month-long embed, Spc. Valerie Cronkhite, a medic and member of the Female Engagement Team, remarked that I’d been lucky. She noted that I’d been out on many missions and traveled significantly in Strykers and helicopters and hadn’t had any contact: no small arms fire, no IEDs. We had returned safely from every trip, every patrol. Her comment stuck with me.

On my second embed, the weather warmed and I continued to wear the sweater…at first, out of habit.

One day at Khenjakak, I was putting on my gear for a patrol with 3rd Platoon, Charlie Co. It was hot. I decided not to wear the sweater. I put the body armor over my t-shirt and left the Khenjakak Resort. I took about three steps and stopped. It didn’t feel right, not wearing the sweater. I didn’t want to risk the run of good fortune–not just for me, but for all the soldiers I was accompanying on patrol. It was a strong impulse…so I turned around, returned to the tent and put on my sweater.

I would not have thought I was superstitious. I remember covering the civil war in Liberia and the soldiers wore “gris-gris,” decorative bands of twisted hemp that they said made them bulletproof and invisible. I thought they were deluded…and dangerous.

I had talked with many soldiers about things they carried and rituals they might observe before patrols. (Inspired by one of my favorite books, “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien.)

Sgt. Robert Taylor, of 3rd Platoon, C Co., often carried a Vallon and took point on patrols. He repeated a specific prayer he created before every patrol. Spc. Mazzole Singeo, of 3rd Platoon, C. Co., also carried a Vallon. He said he told himself every time that he’d come back safe and he’d bring his soldiers back to their families. And he did.

Soldiers carried photos of their loved ones. One had a locket with his girlfriend’s picture. Another wore a grandmother’s cross. They carried tokens from their loved ones, tucked in a pocket or wore them around their necks.

I carried photos, too. Of my niece and nephew, so I could look at their bright smiles on the dark days. A photo of my mom holding me as a newborn, to feel all that beaming love when I felt alone.

And the sweater, go figure. I could not let go of that sweater. I tried to leave it in Kuwait. At the last minute, I stuffed it in my duffel bag with the body armor. I tried to ditch it in Oregon. Right now it simply feels wrong, ignoble, to abandon the sweater when it had served me so well.

In the end, when it’s came to following in the soldiers’ footsteps in Afghanistan, I became very superstitious. I’m keeping the sweater.

And, of course, I know it’s not the sweater that protected me. Life wrapped her arms around me and blessed me.

And the soldiers of the 1-5  took responsibility for me and shouldered that burden with good humor (most of the time.)

They took me along with them and brought me back, every time.

Thank you.

Military Moms

Last year I did a story on military moms for Mother’s Day for KUAC public radio in Fairbanks, Alaska.

I interviewed my mother and wives and soldiers of the 1/25th Stryker Brigade Combat Team at Fort Wainwright.

My mother raised four children, often alone, weathering my father’s many absences, including two tours in Vietnam. It’s remarkable how similar her comments and experiences are to the mothers of a new generation of Army wives and soldiers.

The “Arctic Wolves” soldiers returned last month from their year-long deployment in Afghanistan.

The story remains timely so I decided to share it today, Mother’s Day 2012.

Click on this link then press the arrow on the play bar to hear the piece.

http://www.publicbroadcasting.net/kuac/news.newsmain/article/1/0/1800777/KUAC.Local.News/

Christian Science Monitor publishes photos of the 1-5 Female Engagement Team

The Christian Science Monitor published 19 of my photos of soldiers of the Female Engagement Team attached to the 1st Battalion, 5th Infantry Regiment in an online gallery. Check out the images and the amazing work these women do at this link: http://www.csmonitor.com/Photo-Galleries/In-Pictures/Soft-power-soldiers-women-troops-in-Afghanistan. A two-page photo essay will run in the May 7 edition of the international newspaper.

For you camera buffs and photo fans, you might like to know I made all these images with a Canon Elph point-and-shoot camera.

I couldn’t have accomplished this project without a lot of support from a lot of people. First, the women attached to the 1-5 FET team: Spc. Valerie Cronkhite, Spc. Malecia James, Pfc. Jamie Sterna, Pvt. Liliana Nunez, language assistant Mary and Sgt. 1st Class Miriam Lopez. They let me follow them on patrol, during PT and in their tents and during their downtime. LTC Brian Payne, battalion commander, brigade PAO Maj. David Mattox, battalion PAO Anthony Formica helped me get the access I needed to do the project. The soldiers of Bravo and Charlie Companies had my back on patrol.

When I was critically ill and hospitalized in Kuwait, CSM Director of Photography Alfredo Sosa extended my deadline and wished me a speedy recovery.

I completed the project from my hospital bed.  I couldn’t have done it with the assistance of Ali and Sarah. Ali got me a laptop and wi-fi so I could work in the hospital. Sarah sent the original email to Alfredo informing him of my situation; I was too out of it to do it. She came to visit me every one of my 19 days in the hospital and encouraged me to finish the project. Leah and Selma offered hugs and praise.

My parents checked on me every day. And so many people offered love and prayers. I truly could not have completed this project without all the love and support of so many.

I marvel at these young women who walk with the infantrymen and committed their time in the Army to making a difference and pushing the boundaries of what’s possible for women in the military.

It was an honor to walk in their footsteps.

I see angels

In my deep fever, I was able to leave my body and fly. I did. It was a fever float. I distinctly remember flying over Kuwait, over the water, banking my arms, swooping. I flew to the jungle. I dived over the ocean.

In my fever, I was stripped raw, open. I felt my very being exposed, my emotions, my energy, my senses. And I could see and feel the light of people around me.

I’ve been in the hospital two weeks now. It’s only the last two or three days that I actually have a “clear” head. I’ve come out of the fever float. And I remember moments of incredible beauty and grace.

In the early days, I was subjected to multiple tests every day….x-rays, CAT scans, ultra sounds, echocardio.I was poked, prodded and injected. I was wheeled around on trolleys with an oxygen tank attached, clinging and clanging as we went. I’d stare at the ceiling and float.

One morning, I was lying on the trolley staring at the ceiling, waiting for my ultrasound. A tall woman in a black veil followed a trolley out of the room. She was accompanying her elderly mother who just had an ultrasound. She paused as she passed me and put her hand on my chest, lingering just a moment and saying something in Arabic. Then she lifted her hand and returned to her mother, moving quickly down the hallway out of my range of vision.

What did she say, I asked?

She asked for blessings on your health.

Imagine. Caring for her own sick mother, she took a moment to bless a stranger.

On another day, a dark day, I was again in the hallway, facing the ceiling, waiting for a test. During this test, the doctor would take a needle, push it between my ribs and drain fluid from outside my lung. I was too out of it to know I was scared. I was just waiting for another test.

A cleaning woman came to the side of my trolley. She had a beautiful, round dark face. She grabbed the railing of my trolley and smiled at me. She beamed at me with her eyes and smile and held my gaze with hers for long minutes. I felt her pouring her light into me. I saw her pouring her light into me. The words “you are an angel” went through my mind in that moment. I cannot tell you how blessed I felt. She had given me love and strength. She floated up to me then floated away…and I will remember her smile and all that light always.

On one dark day, a doctor from the ICU came to see me. My friend Sarah was visiting me. He said that my team of doctors was worried about my deteriorating health and they might need to take me to ICU. He spoke with a calm, professional tone. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, curly salt-and-pepper air. Handsome. He stood confident though gentle. He explained my condition and what might happen. Then he asked about me. About my work in Afghanistan. He said he’d be interested to see my photographs and stories, to see what I’ve done.

The whole time he was talking he was radiating light. He glowed. He was beaming light at me. I could see and feel it.

After he left, I said to Sarah: He was radiant. He was a radiant being. Did you see it? Did you feel it?

Sarah agreed. Yes, very strong, beautiful energy. Beaming.

Out of the fever fog, it seems strange to read the words…that I could see and feel people’s energy, that I knew people were pouring love and light on me.

Again and again and again, I was the recipient of acts of kindness and caring. The woman who brings my tea each day places her hand over her heart and blesses my health. The cleaning women who sweep and mop the floor around my bed always stop and raise their hands to the sky and offer a prayer for me.

Late one night, I was coughing so hard I started to vomit. A veiled woman sitting vigil at the bed across from me called a nurse to bring me a bowl…such a beautiful gesture in the middle of a lonely night of fever. She stops to see me every day now and asks about my health and blesses me.

These are just a few examples of the many gestures of kindness I have received from total strangers. And then there are friends and family who have burned candles in Oregon, Paris, California and Alaska for me. My family and friends have lifted me up with their unwavering love and care.

In my fever I lived what I’ve always known: we are always surrounded by love and light, always held in it, blessed by it.

And angels are everywhere.

Decompression

Note: I had a number of thoughtful conversations with a soldier from our first encounter at NTC to the two embeds I did in Afghanistan. On my second embed, he had returned from R&R and we were talking about the difficulty transitioning from the “civilized” world to a combat zone and vice versa. I shared my own experiences and he shared his impressions. He said: Cheryl, you have to write about it. People don’t understand. You have to write about it.” I wrote this blog about a month ago. I’ve hesistated to post it because it’s so deeply personal…and yet, I made a promise to a soldier and I’m going to keep it.

I’m sitting by the pool at Sarah’s home. The water feels too cold yet for a swim so I’m soaking up the sun.

I’ve been out of Afghanistan a week and today is the first day I feel remotely rested. It’s the first day I’ve left the house.

I’ve seen the photos of the first soldiers returning home–and I’ve been thinking of my own transitions from war zones to home.

I’m a PADI scuba instructor. I’ve been diving since I was a teenager and there is nowhere I am happier than under the water swimming with fish, sharks and whales, hovering over coral bending in current or just floating and watching the light filter and sparkle in the deep blue.

There are people who think my choice of recreation and profession are reckless. And I’ll admit, I do push the envelope a bit. However, in diving, I always take a safety stop.

When you dive, the gasses builds up in your system, pushed in under the weight of the atmospheres of pressure above you. You ascend slowly and then take a safety stop to out gas, release what was built up, safely. If you don’t…if you ascend too quickly or ignore your dive plan, you can get “the bends” or “bent”….you can get extremely ill or die.

Long ago, probably after my first trip to Liberia, I learned I need a safety stop when I leave a war zone. Too much builds up…the horror, the suffering, the fear….it’s sneaky and it builds up like the gas in a scuba diver.

In Somalia, for example, I would arrive in Nairobi and check into the $10/night room over the brothel in a neighborhood where it wasn’t safe to cross the street in daylight. I’d make friends with the desk clerk so I know I would not be robbed or visited in the middle of the night. This was my way of transitioning. I’d cross from the luxury and ease of my civilized life into the mayhem and madness of civil war.

When I’d return from weeks in Somalia, I would pull out my American Express card and check into the five-star Mt. Kenya Safari Club. I’d lock the door, soak in a tub, order room service for two days and eat pineapple and coconut on clean white sheets. I wanted the pleasure and the luxury to cross back over….to leave the anarchy and bloodshed.

I know the signs of the tough transition: fragile, exhausted, bone and soul weary.

I ache with emotion–it feels like my heart is exposed. I’m not wearing it on my sleeve. I’ve ripped it out of its sacred sanctuary and offered to the bright, searing light of the desert–skewered it on a rib. I don’t want to socialize. I am achingly lonely and I want to be alone.

I have learned the hard way that a safety stop–a decompression stop–is mandatory in leaving war for home.

When my youngest brother married, I caught a plane from Mogadishu and landed in Houston–with no decompression time.

I’d been at a wedding in Mogadishu where the mother of the bride had posted armed guards around the compound to secure my safety so I could join the celebration. While gunfire erupted outside, we painted our hands with henna and giggled.

I stood a day and a half later and a world away at a posh restaurant in Houston to give a toast at my brother’s rehearsal dinner. I was moved by the love in the room–the shining light of love on my brother and his bride-to-be’s faces.

When I opened my mouth to speak, tears spilled from my eyes. I stopped talking and tried to compose myself.

Each time I tried to speak, tears poured down my face. My brother squeezed my right hand, grounding me, tethering me, holdling me in place as I struggled to hold it together.

I coulnd’t. I was bent.

The laughing. Joy. Love. The long table full of beautiful foods. Too jarring a contrast to the bleakness of famine and starvation I’d just left. Dying children and blood spilling from bodies like red latex paint.

Later, my brother would come to my room and sit on the bed where I wasn’t sleeping.

He put his hand on my leg.

“Cheryl, are you OK?”

I will remember the moment until the day I die. I wanted to say “no.” I wanted to say that something is terribly wrong. I’m blank and empty and drowning inside.

I lay there in the dark. I felt the tears knock, knock, knock…and I squeezed them back.

I knew if I spoke, my voice would betray my sorrow. I could not speak the ugliness I carried–not to my brother–not on the cusp of his bright new blessed married life.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”

I knew I wasn’t fine. I felt that all I’d witnessed, what I’d seen and done, what I hadn’t done….I carried it like radioactive waste, like poison inside me. If I spoke of it, if I shared it, I would poison those I love.

I made a choice. It stays with me. Locked in me. I carry it.

Now I know better. And even with all my experience and awareness, I can still come undone leaving a war zone and going home.

I appreciate it when my friends respect my silence, when they notice I don’t want to talk or socialize. I appreciate it when they let me turn my head or flee the room when unexpected tears start to sting my eyes. I am happy for the nourishing food, hot water, hugs and laughter that are offered with abundance.

I don’t know what it will be like for the soldiers. I do know they don’t get a safety stop.

When I think of all those homecoming moments, all that love and ache and longing crashing into the arms of their loved ones who have been strung out with relentless worry for their beloveds over 12 long months.

Yes. The joy. The relief. The release.

And yet, the soldiers will be only days from their last patrol, from the adrenaline of all they’ve lived and accomplished…and what they’ve suffered and lost. Just days from the fear and longing they’ve lived with for 12 long months, too.

They’re coming up from a great depth under extreme pressure.

They’ll need a safety stop.

June

Y ears ago, I was sitting at Sachuest Beach, watching the late afternoon surf roll in. I’d spent all day body surfing. The waves had been glassy and glorious, fun to ride, plenty of power.

I noticed a tall woman with wind-blown white hair, probably in her 70s, tuck a boogey board under her arm and head into the surf. I watched as she caught wave after wave. The wave would drive her onto the beach. She’d pop up and run back into the surf. I recognized that joy; I recognized a kindred spirit.

I rushed over. Wow, you’re getting some great rides. Yes, it’s beautiful today, she said.

I’m Cheryl Hatch. I’m June Gibbs. Are you related to Helen and John Hatch? Yes, they were my grandparents. I’m John Hatch’s oldest daughter. June knew my grandparents and my parents. And she knew my mom’s parents, too. My grandfather, William Shepley, served in the RI House of Representatives years before June served as a RI State Senator.

We talked for a bit then parted ways.

We’d see each other on the beach most days. I would spend my entire day every day at Second Beach. June would come and catch waves in the late afternoon. One day she invited me to lunch.

I always accepted June’s invitations, especially the last-minute ones. It’s a beautiful morning, want to walk on the beach? Yes! Want to get a pizza at Gold’s? Yes! Want to grab dinner at KJs? Yes! Want to see a play at Trinity Theater in Providence? Yes! Want to go to the Cape for the weekend? Yes!

June was spontaneous and sparkling. One October we made an impromptu trip to the Cape. It was sunset. June suggested one last dip of the season. We knew the water would be chilly. We put on our suits and jumped into the water. We jumped right back out. It was crazy cold. And we have that great memory of gasping for glee and taking the plunge.

June always took the plunge. As a politician, as a friend, as a member of her church, June always dived in with gusto. She was a force of nature….a kind, wild force of nature. And I loved her.

She followed my adventures. She was particularly interested in my students, my year teaching in Alaska and my project on the soldiers of 1/25th Styrker Brigade Combat Team and their families. I sent her postcards from Afghansitan and I called a few times. He son-in-law, Eliot, would pull up Google Earth and they’d tried to locate Sperwan Ghar on the map and track my travels. Early in her career, June served as a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy and helped cracked German submarine codes during World War II.

On one of my calls, her daughter, Elizabeth, told me June had been diagnosed with cancer. It was aggressive.

Recently, I told June I was planning to stop in RI and see her on my way home from Afghanistan and Kuwait.

Come sooner, Cheryl, she said.

I didn’t make it.

June died at 3 a.m. on Easter day.

Elizabeth said she and Eliot walked along June’s beloved Sachuest Beach and through the Wildlife Refuge June helped create. At Easter sunrise, two great blue herons lifted off and flew past them. Elizabeth figures it was her mom and dad checking in on them.

Eliot said: I think she’s heading straight for Kuwait to throw her weight around and get to the bottom of things.

I like that idea. With June on the job, whatever’s got a hold on me doesn’t stand a chance now.

Surf’s up, June. I love you.

Homecoming

I was chatting with a 1-5 Army wife recently. I said I remember my dad leaving for war, twice. I remember the separation, the nightly prayers, the impatient wait for letters and the joy when one would arrive.

But I didn’t remember any homecomings.

The wife said that it’s the painful memories that seem to stick with us.

I thought about it. No, that can’t be right. I would remember a homecoming.

So I called my dad.

Hey, Dad, was there a homecoming celebration when you returned?

Cheryl, Vietnam was unpopular.

I know, I know, Dad. I know the community wasn’t supportive. I mean on the military base. Was there a band? And “welcome home daddy” signs? Cheering? Flags waving?

No, Cheryl.

No bands. Nothing. Nothing.

Not even at the base?

Nothing.

What did you do?

I’d have to think about it. The second tour I probably flew into Fort Lewis. Mom was waiting. I went home.

And I went back to duty.

Endings

The lead of a story is crucial. It’s the opening words, the first paragraph that must rouse a reader’s curiosity, take her hand, tug and say “come with me.”

Once I have my lead, I’m off. The story can flow from it. The words from one paragraph pour into the next and carry the reader along.

To me, the ending is just as important. I like an ending that brings a story full circle, wraps the narrative up in a bow and offers it to the reader as a gift to unwrap. I often have an ending in mind when I start though I’m always ready to go where the story leads. Endings change as the story writes itself.

I started the story of the soldiers of the 1/25^th Stryker Brigade Combat Team and their families in the fall of 2010. In Oct. 2010, I watched the soldiers train in mock Afghan villages in Alaska. In February 2011, I took three UAF students to the Mojave Desert and we witnessed “the scenario,” where the soldiers ran a seven-day training exercise at the National Training Center as their final preparation before deployment to Afghanistan in April last year.

I went to farewell events: a potlatch where Alaska Native elders blessed the troops, a private gathering for BBQ and fish fry with a soldier’s family and friends, a church service where soldiers renewed their wedding vows. JR Ancheta and I did portrait sessions for some soldiers and their loved ones. I attended the official deployment ceremony with the casing of the colors.

And then I went again and again to the base where the soldiers said farewell to their families. Lots of hugs, tears and photos. The soldiers would file toward buses. Sometimes family members followed, stood below the windows and waved. A father reached his hands out the window and his wife passed their infant son to him and he kissed him and held him one last time.

I went to Afghanistan in December with JR at the invitation of 1-5 Battalion Commander LTC Brian Payne to spend the holidays with the troops and send their stories home. I returned alone this February and spent another month.

I knew the ending for this story: the homecoming. Military band, kids with “welcome home” signs, flags waving, hugs, tears, kisses, chaos of joy. I knew where the story was going.

Then it took a turn I never saw coming.

I was supposed to in the United States in late March.  I wasn’t.

I didn’t see Dylan meet Ashley in person for the first time.  I didn’t see the FET soldiers return. I doubt I’ll see any of the “welcome home” ceremonies. The whole brigade will probably be home before I am.

I’m in a hospital in Kuwait. I ran a high fever for two weeks. The doctors ran all kinds of tests and asked questions. Where did you sleep in Afghanistan? What did you eat? What local foods did you eat? Were you around any sick people? Were you exposed to any chemicals on the military base? Were you bitten by any bugs? The tests yielded no answers, only created more questions. I refused to go to the hospital.

It’s called a Fever of Unknown Origin, an FUO. I laughed. It reminded me of the R.O.U.S in “The Princess Bride.” And I thought, isn’t it perfect? Even the disease I picked up on my embed has an acronym.

Last Thursday, after I’d endured two weeks of unrelenting fever, Ali, my friend, came home. “Cheryl, look. I would take this decision for my wife, for my sister, for my daughters. You’re going to the hospital.”

I let go. I decided to drift.

My favorite kind of dive is a drift dive. The best drift dives are in strong current along a steep wall of a reef or atoll. I love drifts because the fish love current: big schools of fish and sharks. A diver must be able to maintain buoyancy and monitor her depth. It’s too easy to go too deep with nothing but big blue below you.

So now I’m drifting. I let the doctors run their tests while my body and her fever warriors fight some unidentified and mighty sneaky, fierce invader.

And while they work, I’m writing a different ending for the story.

I’ll leave the hospital fever-free. I’ll restore my health and rebuild my strength. I’ll make it to the 1-5 Military Ball and I’ll watch my students graduate at UAF. The 10-miler, though, is probably a no-go.

After Alaska, there will be time with friends and family. There will be lots of dancing and real drift diving. Time in the ocean, in the surf, with the fish.

That’ll be my homecoming.

V is for Vallon…and valiant

The one image from my two embeds that I can’t get out of my head is the soldier taking point with a Vallon.

The first guy who steps off the ramp–of a Stryker or a helicopter. The guy in front when a patrol leaves base and heads outside the wire.

The soldier steps out and unfolds this collapsable metal detector, not much longer than a lacrosse stick, and sweeps the ground for possible IEDS. The soldiers on patrol will fall in behind him.

As 3rd Platoon, Charger Co. soldiers dismount, Spc. Mazzole Singeo, 1st squad, left, starts sweeping the area with a Vallon. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

At first, I didn’t know what happened with the Vallon. I was usually in the middle of the column or the back. A hit would reach me as “stop” or “hold” and we’d take a knee and wait. Then we’d eventually hear “moving” and we’d carry on.

“When I get a hit on the Vallon, I brush the dirt away to expose whatever we hit–sometimes it’s an IED, battery, metal or a piece of a tractor,” said Sgt. Rob Taylor, with 2nd squad, 3rd Platoon. “But you never know. It’s definitely the least enjoyable part of the job.”

Every soldier I spoke with who carries the Vallon said he does it so that another soldier won’t have to. That part sticks with me, too.

“Everytime we go out on patrol, I always take point,” Taylor said. “I take total control for my squad. Everyone in this platoon has done 300 to 350 patrols. In the beginning, at Maktab, it was a hostile area and we did two to five patrols a day for four months.”

Spc. Mazzole Singeo is a team leader for 1st squad, 3rd platoon, Charger Co., and carries a Vallon.

“If a beep goes higher than a seven, I got to interrogate what’s in the dirt,” Singeo said. “Most of the time I pick up batteries. I need to investigate to make sure it’s safe for the guys to come through.

“I just hope for the best,” Singeo said. “I tell myself I’ll come back. So far it’s been working.

“Being a team leader, I have to bring everybody back, my guys back to their families. It gets tough sometimes.”

Spc. Mazzole Singeo clears a path while other Charger Co. soldiers post security. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

On my second embed, I watched as Charger Co. soldiers walked an IED lane. They sweep through the area to test their Vallons before each patrol. I wrote about it in an earlier post,  “Drill, Baby, Drill.”

After his Vallon detects metal during a drill, Sgt. Jeremy Gray, 26, from Anchorage, Ak., "interrogates" the ground around the area to probe for a possible IED. Another Charlie Co. soldier posts security. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

In the drill and on patrol, if a soldier hits metal and suspects and IED, he goes prone.

“I don’t mean to be rude. To put it blunt, ma’am, it will make your butt hole pucker,” said Sgt. Brody Staman, of the feeling he experiences in the field as he clears the earth around an IED.

“Somebody’s got to do it. And I don’t want my guys to do it,” Staman said. “So as a leader, that’s a responsibility we take.”

Sgt. Brody Staman, 24, from Scotts Bluff, Neb., finishes clearing the dirt around a pressure-plate IED during a drill on Feb. 11, 2012. The Vallon metal detector he uses to search for IEDs is behind him. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

At Sperwan Ghar, 1st Sgt. Westley Bockert created squad competitions to keep training from becoming stale. He created one for the IED training lane.

The U.S. Air Force Explosive Ordnance Disposal airmen planted seven IEDs in the varied terrain of the 100-yard lane. Stf. Sgt. Daniel Willens, 25, from Sacramento, Cali., Tech. Sgt. Mario Kovach, 33, from Pottstown, Penn., and Sr. Airman Corban Stewart, 21, from Millington, Mich., took genuine pleasure in disguising the locations of the IEDS.

The soldiers got 10 poker chips and when the guy with the Vallon or another soldier saw signs of a possible IED, he was supposed to drop the chip.

“If you start throwing down those chips in the beginning, you won’t have any left in the end,” Bockert said.

“If somebody gets hit, you have to casualty evac them,” Bockert said. “Regular patrol. Put the chip down and call the 10-line up.”

The soldiers would have 15 minutes to clear the course and they’d lose a point for every minute they ran over that time.

“No pressure. No pressure, ma’am,” said Pfc. Nicholas Richardson, 20, from Chicago, Il., who’d take point with the Vallon. “It’s what I do for a living.”

Pfc. Nicholas Richardson, 20, from Chicago, Ill., sweeps an IED training lane during a squad competition for Bravo. Co. soldiers at Sperwan Ghar. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

“There’s dislocation in the dust,” Richardson said. “There’s a high metallic signature here. It’s going into the double range.”

Pfc. Nicholas Richardson, 20, takes point sweeping an IED training lane. Pfc. Joseph Rexroat, 20, and Sgt. John Leland, 37, follow his lead. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

“Right now we’re going into a choke point. A metallic hit. Looks like the ground’s been dug up,” said squad leader Sgt. James Morrison, 26, from Alpena, Mich., Morrison was fourth in the line of eight soldiers.

Richardson and most of the soldiers made it through the lane. The last man in the column, Pfc. Rodion Straub, 21, from Sylvania, Oh., stepped on a mock IED.

Bravo Co. soldiers tend to Pfc. Rodion Straub, who triggered a mock IED during a training competition. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

“Get out of here. You’re a memory,” Bockert said to Straub.

After the training run, the EOD airmen and Bockert discuss the soldiers’ mistakes.

“The guys in the back were finding IEDs,” Bockert said. “If you’re in the back and you see this shit, fuckin call it up. “

1st Sgt. Westley Bockert talks with Pfc. Nicholas Richardson about his performance during an IED training drill. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

As I write this blog, soldiers from the Arctic Wolves have begun returning home. Photos on the brigade Facebook page depict the latest homecoming reunions. Other soldiers are in transit. They’ve left their base and they’re biding their time at Kandahar Airfield before they catch a flight home.

And, there are still soldiers who are going out on patrol. I sent a message to Taylor yesterday as I was writing this blog. I asked him if any of the C Co. soldiers were still going out on patrol.

Sgt. Rob Taylor, from Tampa, Fl., 2nd Squad, 3rd Platoon, C. Co., waits for Afghan National Army soldiers to join the patrol outside Khenjakak. Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch

“yes. my squad has gone out everyday since you left,” he wrote. “we are going out today again.”

I asked him to message me when they made it back.

“I am back. I look forward to reading the blog,” he wrote later in the day.

It’s got to be tough to be so close to going home and to get up everyday and pick up that Vallon and walk outside the wire. And to walk behind that solider with the Vallon.

The soldiers would tell me it’s their job. Nothing to do but do it. The soldiers will no doubt squirm at my choice of the word “valiant” to describe them.

I don’t choose–or use–my words lightly. I looked up “valiant” before I decided on it.

Val•iant, adjective

1. boldly courageous; brave; stout-hearted: a valiant soldier

2. marked by or showing bravery or valor; heroic

3. worthy; excellent

Origin: 1275-1325 Middle English valia; Anglo French; MiddleFrench vaillant, present participle of valoir: to be of worth.

Both the modern and the original meaning fit.

It fits, guys.