The Devil Dealt the Cards: One Female Soldier’S Account of Combined Action in Afghanistan

By Sarah M. Jackson

"The Devil Dealt the Cards" is an emotionally engaging series of intimate stories derived from months of living among the natives on a small Afghan Army post called Gamberi Garrison. Captain Jackson, a female logistics officer, and her team find themselves tasked with training Afghanistan's greenest soldiers, while simultaneously living on a violent crossroads near the Pakistan border. Her personal recollections vividly portray the excitement, frustration, and danger of combined action in Afghanistan, all while covering nearly every dramatic theme imaginable. This heartwarming account illustrates how one small band of hardworking Americans, aided by their Afghan counterparts, transformed a neighborhood and forged bonds of steel between people of two opposite cultures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499059250

Book preview

1

Departure Day

It was mid-July. A pleasant breeze tossed the few stray hairs that had escaped from my soldier’s bun. The warm sun felt good after so many chilly nights. I sat staring at the rugged peaks of the Hindu Kush Mountains surrounding me, many summits still covered with a beautiful layer of pristine snow. The daily grind did not usually afford me such views, and I savored the moment. Today did not feature the same old routine; this day was very different. I patiently waited on the tarmac of Bagram Airfield, sitting atop the four large bags that held all my belongings. My husband sat next to me, also on top of his four bags. We waited in silence while the butterflies in our stomachs danced. I was moving again—for the third time. This time, I was destined for a small Afghan base near the Pakistan border.

A small helicopter emerged in the distance; the taxi for my upcoming destiny was finally arriving. The thumping sound from the rotors grew louder, matching the beat of my pounding heart. Upon landing, the crew hastily made room for us, and we climbed aboard, squeezing in like sardines among the other passengers. I silently said good-bye to Bagram and a life that was familiar. Despite already living in the country for seven months, my true Afghan adventure was just beginning.

The chopper was loud, and the wind hissed through the cracks in the doors. The strong gusts made us rock in the air, awakening all the unpleasant symptoms of my motion sickness. As we steadily climbed, I watched our small black shadow dance against the uninhabited ground, plugging quickly eastward. The landscape became more barren and desolate as we flew, the land naked and exposed. Only a few sporadic weeds littered the otherwise rocky dirt floor. Occasional villages came into view, outlined by tall mud walls. Gaunt herds of goats and cattle surrounded these towns. Surely, those animals could not survive on only those few weeds, but what else was there?

This forty-five-minute helicopter ride flew us deeper into the heart of the violence but also the solution, transporting us into a much different world than that of the large NATO fortresses to which I had become accustomed. If our troops were to make a difference, we had to get closer to both our allies as well as the enemy, removing the separation created by the barriers of armor, distance, and safety.

Gamberi Garrison was an Afghan National Army post inhabited by roughly three thousand Afghan soldiers, with many more expected in the upcoming months. David and I would be joining an already present team of American soldiers providing logistics mentorship to Gamberi’s two support units. Neither David nor I had any experience with combined action, and full immersion would serve as our crash course on everything Afghan.

The pilot shouted a two-minute warning over his shoulder. Seemingly out of nowhere, dozens of tan K-span buildings appeared sitting neatly side by side, an oasis of development on an otherwise barren plain. We soon felt the solid ground beneath us again, and my queasiness instantly relaxed.

As David and I stepped outside of the small chopper, a blast of hot air and dust hit us in the face; sweat was immediate. It was one hundred twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, contrasting sharply with the cool alpine temperatures of Bagram. Heat rained down from above as well as radiated from the grassless ground below. There was not a tree in sight, only tan sand, tan buildings, and tan hills in the distance. Welcome to the desert.

Guard towers and high rock walls topped with barbed wire surrounded me, resembling more of a prison than a base. Perhaps, in this case, they were nearly the same thing. Thousands of strange men with strange uniforms, strange languages, and a strange set of customs milled curiously around me. They would be my neighbors, friends, and coworkers for the remaining five months of my deployment. Acquiring their trust, cooperation, and friendship would be imperative to our mission as well as my own safety.

At the time, I could not comprehend the magnitude of the challenge that was suddenly laid before me—one that I was not particularly prepared to tackle. As a sustainment brigade, we originally deployed to provide logistical support to other coalition troops. We were trained to forecast and deliver supplies, not educate Afghans on basic soldier skills or logistical concepts.

Most of us never dreamed we would live on a secluded Afghan Army post outnumbered thirty-three to one. Our students did not speak our language, nor did they know how to read or write. Primarily, they came from very poor homes without conveniences such as running water or electricity. Their life’s main focus was to survive in a world characterized by extreme poverty and violence. They had no experience in logistics, nor did they particularly care to receive any. Many had not yet driven a vehicle, much less possess the knowledge to fix or maintain one.

I was a female officer working in a country that did not value professional women. None of our team had any previous experience in training Afghans, nor did we possess manuals or publications that fit their army or equipment. The task was immense and complicated, and I was left with little guidance. The phrase winging it never applied more to my life than the moment I landed on Gamberi Garrison. There was no magic solution or special formula to fit this equation, no writing on the wall; this was something we would have to figure out on our own.

2

Uncle Sam Calls

My journey to Afghanistan began nearly a decade earlier as a high school student sitting in the second row of government class. It was early on a normal Tuesday morning, and the second period of the day had just started. Mrs. Fergerson was beginning her lecture on the intricacies of our judicial system when the principal knocked on our door and whispered something into her ear. Immediately, the perpetual scowl that usually occupied her face melted into worried anticipation, a change in countenance that warranted our full attention. She quickly turned on the television where we all witnessed our country’s worst nightmare unfold. A large passenger jet plowed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York.

Minutes later, another jet crashed into the South Tower and secured the fact that this was no accident. A surreal scene unfolded in front of us as large plumes of smoke engulfed both towers and stretched high into the sky, sending out a distress signal for the whole world to see. Within mere minutes, the massive towers collapsed, killing those already inside plus the heroic rescue personnel who had rushed in to help. Images of the scarred remains of the Pentagon came in too; the west side’s smoking, crumbling walls proved a highly coordinated attack. News of another jet crashing in Pennsylvania meant the scheme was even bigger.

My classmates and I sat dumbfounded, glued to the newsreel for the rest of the day while many fellow teachers and students desperately tried to reach loved ones in New York and Washington, D.C. Even then, the event felt more like a beginning than an end. It was a day that changed everything.

The destruction of that single day was mind-blowing. Nearly three thousand people died a horrible death within a span of minutes, and even more succumbed days later. Millions of toxic particles were released into the atmosphere, infecting and slowly killing more. Dozens of iconic buildings were severely damaged, if not destroyed. The injuries were psychological too as America’s sense of security was now shattered. This extremely successful, large-scale attack on our own soil was a complete surprise. Air travel would never be the same. Children born post September 11 lived in a completely different world, forever touched by senseless acts of extreme terror. These brutal acts, carried out on innocent civilians whose biggest mistake was arriving to work on time that day, continued to beg the question—why?

Soon, America learned that this materialized hate had a birthplace in a faraway land whose cold mountains, vast deserts, unsecure borders, and stagnant economy made an ideal home for our new enemy. America cheered when President Bush initiated the War on Terror and pledged to bring Al-Qaeda to justice, embarking on the longest military campaign in American history. The Taliban, a terrorist group native to and operating in Afghanistan, harbored Al-Qaeda and refused to break ties, therefore invoking the wrath of the United States. The United States and NATO members combined forces to create the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF). ISAF commenced operations with aerial bombings of Al-Qaeda and Taliban camps followed by the insertion of ground forces, which would eventually include me. The death toll, born on that awful September morning, continues to rise as the violence in Afghanistan rages on.

Four years later, my fellow Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) cadets and I raised our right hands and were commissioned as second lieutenants in the United States Army. A day later, we graduated from the University of Virginia. Thousands of students, soon to be alumni, crowded onto the lawn to hear the keynote speaker, Virginia Governor Timothy Kaine, give his address. He spoke words that I would never forget. Governor Kaine challenged us to be open to adventure, discovery, and surprise. He asked us to embrace the people we did not know, accept challenges we did not fully understand, and live out stories whose last chapters were not yet complete. Little did I know that within four years, David and I would fully comply with and exceed all his challenges.

Graduation was a joyous time, full of sunshine, tears, smiles, and good-byes—a calm before the storm of our military lives began. At the end of the day, our group of brand-new lieutenants took off our pretty dresses and suits and prepared our minds for a different kind of profession. Within a few months, we spread like seeds in the wind, reporting to army bases all over the world.

A couple of years later, David and I, now husband and wife, reported to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where we were both assigned as platoon leaders of logistics companies under the same brigade. Fifteen months later, David received orders to lead a team of thirty Riggers to Kandahar, Afghanistan, in order to establish aerial delivery support to that region. The deployment would last at least twelve months. He kissed me good-bye on June 21, climbed onto a bus, and was out of sight. We had been nearly inseparable since our second year in college, and seeing him depart was one of the saddest days of my life. My heart ached to be with him again, and it wasn’t long before I had an opportunity to fix it.

My company’s brigade headquarters received orders to deploy to Afghanistan in November; they were headed to Bagram Airfield. David was over three hundred miles away in Kandahar, but it was closer, a lot closer. More importantly, deploying now aligned our deployment rotations, ensuring that I would not leave as soon as he returned. I petitioned for a spot on their team, and Major Parker, the brigade operations officer who had been especially impressed with my performance as a platoon leader, offered me a job on his team. But it wasn’t a job at Bagram. Not only would I be deploying, I would lead a small team to Kandahar Airfield, where my new responsibilities would primarily consist of tracking convoys and serving as a liaison between NATO troops and our brigade headquarters. Originally, brigade leadership had requested for a captain to fill this position, but Major Parker argued on my behalf, knowing that I had more incentive to do well and keep my job than anyone else. The brigade leadership sided with him and took a chance on this new lieutenant.

The deployment ceremony was an impressive event full of music, food, and decorations. Homemade signs with our names drawn on them adorned the walls of the hangar. Hundreds of family members, friends, and coworkers packed inside to shake our hands and see us off. The atmosphere vaguely reminded me of cheering fans at my high school basketball games, but instead of excitement spawned by competition, a serious sadness hung like a cloud over the large group. Children cried while clinging to their parent’s neck, begging them not to go. Spouses attempted to conceal their sorrow, trying to remain strong for their offspring’s sake. Within minutes, they would begin the struggle of balancing all household duties alone.

After a prayer, the National Anthem, a short speech, and thunderous cheers from the crowd, we turned on our heels and proceeded single file onto the tarmac and up the stairs to our plane, carrying the same risk, pride, and tradition as many other American soldiers had before us. As I turned around for one last look at America, I contemplated how unique my situation was from all the other soldiers around me. Today, they would put half the globe between them and their family; but I, on the other hand, was going to see mine. I took a deep breath and entered the plane that would take me far away from everything I knew. All I possessed was my M4 rifle slung on my back, an assault pack, a rucksack, two duffle bags, and a youthful enthusiasm that believed I could change the world.

After thirty-six hours of travel, we finally arrived at Manas Air Force Base, Kyrgyzstan, after stops in Iceland, Italy, and Romania. Manas, not too far from the capital Bishkek, was cold and crowded with an intense Soviet aura. Here, we would stage before entering the combat zone. The previous long flights made us weary and ready to stretch our legs, sleep, and get some fresh air. We spent our time recouping from the jet lag and preparing our minds for what we were about to enter.

Two days later, we said good-bye to real milk and safety and boarded a C130 Hercules. I was familiar with this type of aircraft from my time at the Army’s Airborne School and came prepared with earplugs, warm clothes, and Dramamine.

The four engines roared as we lifted off the runway. The next stop—Kandahar Airfield. The plane was loud and cold with little insulation, but I stayed warm through a combination of gloves, hat, and fleece in addition to my body armor. I refrained from drinking water as there was no bathroom on board either. Views from the few windows that existed showed dominant snowcapped mountains for as far as the eye could see, a landscape characterized by desolation and extreme cold. The almost five-hour plane ride ticked by slowly. We sat in isolation as the loud hum of the engines made it impossible to talk, thinking of the significance of this trip.

For most of us, this would be our first time in enemy territory, and we took comfort in the steely composure of our veterans. With the help of Dramamine, my nerves began to relax, and I dozed off to sleep as we quietly entered the combat zone. For the next year, I would reside in a strange and dangerous land, where people I had never met before wanted me dead, where we were hunted like animals, where I would have to remain constantly on guard.

A hot blast of air hit my cheeks as I exited the doorway, not what