Lethal Minds Journal Stand Alone Edition: The Sandbox Part II
The Sandbox, Part 2 of 3 - Joshuah Landspurg
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Dedicated to those who serve, those who have served, and those who paid the final price for their country.
The Sandbox (Part 2)
Joshuah Landspurg
The following day, I peer at my Ironman Timex watch; it reminds me of what my mind can't recall—another day spent in this dust bowl.
We survey the small village as it we move closer. It has about twenty houses, more like mud huts. You must hand it to the locals; these structures are surprisingly solid and well-built.
As we pull up, military-age Afghan men talk in a huddle. They stop talking when we drive near. They gradually spread out and stare at us. Is it hatred? Contempt? We don't speak Pashto; body language is our only warning. You hate to assume that any of those men have an AK-47 rifle or a vest strapped with explosives underneath their man dresses, but that’s the reality of this place.
One of them yells something at us while they load up in the back of a white single-cab Toyota pickup and drive off. I grip my rifle tighter, thumb ready to click the safety off.
My eyes are numb and tired, as if they have been open underwater; taking off my NVGs is a relief. The Commander dismounts as the morning daylight reminded us that instead of sleeping, we were driving.
The Terp walks over to the Commander and the First Sergeant; they seek the village elder. The soldiers in the .50 cal turrets switch out with a replacement. The smell of sewer and burnt trash smothers this place, and it's not unique to this location. Sanitation services are nonexistent, as seen with the trash rolling across the ground like tumbleweeds in a Western movie.
Princess and I check our communications and ensure everything works as it should. Half the platoon dismounts and provides a 360-degree perimeter for the rest of the grunts to eat and get some rest. A few guys dig into their pockets for their nicotine fix. Any operational talk is saved for inside the vehicles or within whispering distance. When the country is covered in snow, and the operations stop, we’re told that the Tali’s learn English to pick up on our conservations. It seems doubtful, but then again, they did learn to fly planes into our buildings.
The Commander goes back and forth with the village elder in a heated discussion. Through the Terp, we learn he has demands. He holds information on the Taliban and will negotiate when we provide food and medical care for some of the villagers. This country is a large faction of tribes, each looking out for their own survival. There’s no telling that the village elder won't give us up to the Taliban the moment we leave, but that's the risk we take. The unique situation sits with us on every mission, winning the hearts and minds of the locals but ready for violence.
We set up a tent, and the Medic pulls out supplies. He listens with his stethoscope, administers blood pressures, and hands out medications and bandages. Boxes of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) are handed over. We eat and take turns power-napping in the truck. Each of us has been sleep deprived in training conditions, and if we learned anything, it drastically decreases our combat effectiveness, decision-making, marksmanship, everything. I take the much-needed break and pass out in the passenger seat of our Humvee.
Young boys laughing stir me from my slumber. My watch reminds me of my two-hour nap; I’ll take it. I scan this village as if it’s new to me. There are no women here, and I can't spot any except for this old woman being seen by the medic.
One of the army sergeants brought a bag of classic blue ink pens. He pulls out another pen and chucks it away from us, laughing. "Little fuckers will chase and fight after these all day." He wasn't kidding.
Wherever he throws a pen, fifteen boys run like an amateur soccer team chasing after a ball. I can’t help but laugh myself. No kids were getting hurt, but he treats it like he was playing fetch with some dogs. It was then I realize it isn't a game to these boys. Those pens were more valuable than food. These basic writing utensils make their day, maybe their week. With the backdrop of the mud and dirt houses surrounding us, I feel grateful for my accommodations back home.
A dilapidated wooden door opens, and a small, curious girl peers at us before closing it again; it struggles to stay on its hinges.
There’s laughing from the Army guys behind me. What is it, a damn comedy club out here? Princess is passed out in the driver’s seat with his rifle on his lap. I’ve got to know what these clowns are laughing about. I walk over to the grunts.
Army Grunt One: “So after it started burning, what did you do?”
Army Grunt Two: “I’ve got to be honest. I was told to wrap it before I tapped it, and well, I didn’t.”
Another grunt chimes in. “That’s what you get for sleeping with dirty birdies!”
Army Grunt Two: “That wasn’t the worst part. I went to see the medic at the hospital, and I told him about the burning. He then pulls out a Q-tip the size of a pencil and tells me it’s going up my pee hole.”
Another grunt interjects, “Probably looked like the Excalibur against your dick.”
Army Grunt Two: "Fuck you, Joe, and let me finish. Okay, so the medic tells me it's going in my pee hole and walks out of the room. So naturally, I took it upon myself to bury it in there and get it over with. I pull the thing out, and there's a tiny bit of blood on it; no big deal other than it hurts like hell. The medic returns to the room and asks me what I'm doing. I tell him I did what he told me to do. The medic holds up a little silver packet of lube and shakes his head."
Army Grunt One: “You went in dry?!” The entire group erupts into laughter. We draw the glances of the Commander and First Sergeant; that is all we need to quiet down.
Army Grunt Two: "Come to find out, it wasn't the clap. All the weightlifting supplements I took made me feel funny down there." There was more laughter.
Army Grunt One: “Gordo, tell them about that time in boot camp.”
I understand why they call him Gordo. The short, chubby Mexican with that south LA accent says, “It’s more gross than funny, but whatever, foo.”
An older woman peers around from a mud hut. She’s covered from head to toe, except for her eyes. They tell a story I'll never be able to hear. Our connection is disrupted when a man pushes her with such force that I see her feet fly up out of view. He points, then yells something in Pashto. The goons I roll with have some crude humor, and we're rough around the edges, but the treatment and suppression of women in this country give us another reason to hate this place.
The Sergeant still laughs and throws pens as the boys run around the village. The Commander yells, "Air Force," and motions me over. He pulled me aside and asked about an ISR UAV asset (Information, Surveillance, Recon – Unmanned Aerial Vehicle). I tell him, I'm unsure; let me check with Princess. The Terp receives odd mannerisms from the village elder, and he feels something is wrong. He relays that to the Commander, which has him concerned.
I asked the Commander which route would be taken home and the time frame. "We'll take the southeast egress and step off at 1800 hours," he said.
I wake Princess so he can request this UAV asset to recon our egress home. He's all over it. Princess opened his door and yelled, "Jay!” until I turned around. Princess gives me a thumbs up and nods, letting me know we’ll have the route observed. I relay that to the Commander. Princess returns to his nap. I return to the guys while Gordo is in the middle of his story.
“So eh, I hadn’t shit for like four days.” The pudgy grunt says. “I was, like, really backed up. Boot camp food, I don’t know.”
The giggles have already started.
“The drill instructor put me in charge, helping while we were in the pit, eh, just sighting in rifles. Well, then it hit me, eh, that if I don't hit the head, I'm gonna shit myself. I run over to the only Port-a-John and slam the door. It’s overflowing to the lid, no TP, and now I can feel something leaving my ass cheeks.” One of the guys offers Gordo a cigarette and lights it up for him.
“Thanks homie. So eh, I didn’t know what to do. I waited until the Drill Instructor turned his back and was helping someone. His name is Savage by the way, total prick eh. I ran over to the Drill instructor’s bathroom and find an actual running toilet. I rip my pants down so fast eh. I fired everything in there quick, probably blew an O ring in the process. I go to wipe and there’s no TP and all I see is a box of clear lunch lady gloves on the ground. I thought about not wiping but I’m not a psychopath. I grab a handful of clear gloves, wipe and try to flush in a panic. I guess gloves don’t flush good. So, I run back to the firing line before Savage sees me. This is where things get really fucked eh.”
Gordo takes another drag before he continues. "So, Savage eventually goes into the bathroom and screams for me to meet him there. The man is scary, eh. He asked what the fuck happened, and I told him I don’t know Sir. Savage told me to get two privates to put on those lunch lady gloves and pull my shit and the gloves out of the toilet.”
A collective “Noooooooo” leaves the guys.
“Yep,” Gordo says. “I froze eh, couldn’t speak up. So, I went and grabbed the two youngest guys and supervised them pulling everything out. Not one of my better moments. I watched them scoop a week’s worth of my shit out with their hands.”
The laughing continues as the grunts trade stories at the intersection of comedy and depravity. It's late afternoon, and we get the encouraging words from the First Sergeant, “Load up asshats, we’re going back.” His various names for us are terms of endearment - his love language. The Commander and First Sergeant are making their rounds, telling everyone to stay vigilant. They say we're taking a different egress home. The glances shooting back and forth between the soldiers express everything that cannot be said.
Princess pauses, then turns to me, “Are we rolling out on the same route that smoked those guys last week?”
“I’m not going to bullshit you. Probably,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Why don’t we just take the road we came in on? We know it’s clear.”
“News flash fucko, I don’t make the decisions around here. Some officer who got his undergrad in underwater basket weaving thinks it’s smarter to go home on a different route,” I say.
“Sounds like a dumbass idea.” As Princess lights up a cigarette, he extends the smokes and Bic lighter to me. Might as well, least dangerous thing out here.
“I’ll let him know,” I reply, inhaling the Marlboro light. “The Commander must have some new intel. Our previous route could be compromised.”
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This ends Part 2 of 3, The Sandbox (19JAN2025)
Part 3 of 3 released next Sunday.
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