How to survive a minefield?
Part one:
Hell has a particular level,
where the smell is an overwhelming combination of methane, rancid goats, and light campfire smoke. If you end up there, look down. On the ground, white streaks of Barbasol shaving cream mark a “possible” path as it moves from tree-lines to green-fields and mud-homes to dirt-roads. Follow the white-streaks and you will reach the sound of whining, as a person with a metal detector hovers it above the ground. Behind him, is a strung-out equidistant row of well-armed uniformed people. Stay with them.
Now move, with an uncanny slowness as numerous tributes of hasty bonfire smoke hang-high in the air signaling to others. Then quickly manifesting, disappearing, and whispering through holes in mud walls; They orbit around you like demonic farm children. Burning through you, on their giggling faces is a predatory cat-like gaze. All wince, from a random explosive ‘crack!’ inherent to the region. Suddenly, a ringing snap! goes by you from a direction; Keep looking down!
Now look up, the kids are gone. One hundred yards away, sits a line of lush trees in front of an irrigation canal with chest-high murky water. Staggered in the tree-line is more of your uniformed friends in a dark atmosphere that stands alone in time. From this group of strangers, their Lead man with a metal detector, stops at a small foot bridge going over the resting irrigation water. Matching the scenery, the foot bridge is made entirely of sticks supporting light brown dried mud with no hand rails. The Lead man hovers the metal detector over the first step on to the bridge and scans it slowly from side to side. Feeling assured, the Lead man begins to walk across the bridge and makes it three steps. “Crack!” and a flash of light. The overpressure, noise, and moving earth of the shock seem like staring into the face of God as your vision browns out from the speed train of dust. You lay semi-awake on the ground and a screen of white overtakes you. You stagger to a knee, as you see a panicked uniform comrade run directly towards the blast in fear of his Lead man. “Splash!” as a big blur smashes the water after rocketing from above. “Crack!” and other smack of dust. Arising slowly and with a massive headache, your foggy brain begins to understand the true horror that you are now a part of. Suddenly, a voice in your head speaks, “From this point on, I need you to start fighting your tunnel vision and please focus! What you are witnessing is a local punishment for breaking the rules.”
The man directly in front of you points in frightened finger and quaveringly processes through his thick Hispanic accent, “His flesh is flopping like chicken skin”. You can’t take your eyes off of it. A shot glass of endorphins sinks to your stomach and makes reality hit. You look in that direction as you hear the blood-chilling screams of a uniformed victim with two men, one per leg or what’s left of them. One has a bloodied face with a cheek wound the shape of an ‘S’, a result of a bootlace propelling from the explosion. The other is frantically trying to tighten a tourniquet around the shredded pink muscle fibers as infectious dirt dusted over his open wounds. The man was correct, his bloody mop-like flesh did “look like chicken skin”, freshly butchered before packaging, as it flopped over the jagged bones of his “shortened” legs. In the gore, everyone seems to scream the same name repeatedly, “Corpsman”. The voice chimes in again, “Fight the tunnel vision and keep watching”. The victim is now screaming due to the tension of the tourniquet. He agonizes, “Take it off it fucking hurts!” Shakey nerves cause you to breathe deeply and in a rapid fashion; Taking in that fresh smell of metallic blood, chemical residue, and greasy-goat-dirt. In the distance pure silence, only being masked by the sound of the man’s screams and the barking of unintelligible orders. No. The smell never leaves even if you make it out. “Keep looking, you need to see it! This is what happens when you break the rules,” says the voice. Left of your screaming friend is a panicked young man sitting in the fetal position. He has gone internal from watching two others gruesomely struggle and fail to pull the limbless torso of a childhood friend out of the stagnate blood-soaked water.
Speaking of children, they are back to taunt and throw rocks. An eternity will pass and the insects will chirp. Then you hear the humming chop of salvation as the helicopter enters the scene and the children will disappear. When the helicopter descends, it is followed by a volley of rockets attempting to take it down. Suddenly, the Lead man with the metal detector, sweeps alongside of you. He hands you the metal detector, shaving cream, and says: “Good luck, I will see you in seven months”.
You wonder, “What is this level of hell?”, as you drown in panic failing to wake-up from a living nightmare.
Regally walking on all four legs to greet you, is a seven-pound white cat with piercing blue eyes and a fluffy tail.
On its left paw is a sterling silver women’s watch that stole the scene with its glistening reflection. The cat moved gracefully along the tree line as it stopped at a chunk of human flesh and sniffed. Turning its head in disgust, it prances over to your Hispanic friend directly on the path in front of you. The cat stated in a young British accent, “I see you brought me another slave”. Resting on a knee with his rifle, “Yes, your Majesty,” replied your friend. She strolls up to you casually and sits on her hind-legs directly at your feet. The cat slowly looks you up and down. As you stare at this anomaly in the mist of chaos, the cat opens its mouth and says in a charming voice, “Welcome to Sangin!” She carried on, “The meat is tainted once it’s been pressure-cooked in explosive. I am starved, do you happen to have any ‘Tuna’ fish?” Staring dumbfounded at a talking cat you rationalize that the cat is a figment of your imagination or the result of a traumatic reality break. You return a confused look and she fires back to your Hispanic friend, “Another defective one!” “Let me catch you to speed young man”, said the cat. “Whatever choices you have made in your life have now sentenced you to a temporary hell and you must survive for seven months. That means for seven months you will be forced to walk in a minefield and try not to get mutilated. Look around, the whole place is a minefield.” “How are you talking to me?” you get out. “First off slave, it’s your majesty! Plus, I have been around a long while and make it a point to mingle with my proletariat,” replied her majesty. “What is a minefield…your majesty?” you ask. The cat said, “An area with explosives that are hidden and stepping on one, will most likely be fatal”. Looking confused at the cat, she restates even slower, “There are bombs in the ground and if you step on one, you will die.” “Where your majesty?” you respond. The cat shot back, “Correct! I should start from the beginning”. She began to narrate as she conjured the following visions your mind:
The year is 2011and you are in the northern Sangin District of the Helmand Providence, in the Taliban’s Afghanistan. You are in a historic battle with the 1st Marine Division.
With an amputation rate exceeding 23%, some Marine foot platoons brake psychologically and wear a tourniquet on every limb. Here, the literacy rate is 1 in 30, the children do not go to school; Kids are simply another mouth to feed and hand to work the field.
The foreign fighters, come for a seasonal Jihad and quickly learn fatal lessons from the Marines about direct fighting. With no regard for Afghan life's, these demon-rats would revert to the same motif. The data is overwhelming and as every person whom survived my kingdom can bear testament:
The Afghan war was against children.
Flyers distributed to local nationals.
The primary tactic of insurgent fighters, was to employ local children for explosive emplacement.The white cat began to rhyme,
"IEDs come in threes, can you spot the IEDs?"
The pistol grip of the machine gun is resting on one side of the IED’s pressure plate, exposing it out from the dirt. Lucky day. The person taking the picture was standing on one. The Marine in the picture was kneeing on one. Fortunately, the farmer had flooded his field prior, soaking the homemade explosive and rendering it inert. The machine gun was blown in place, spinning off into the distance, but still functional.
How did these dirt-farmers defeat all the 1st world’s money, weaponry, and technology?
If you want to beat high-tech, go low-tech. Victim operated low-metallic signature explosives are cheep and sophisticated. Often consisting of two wooden boards, with two foam pieces wedged between, and two thin copper wires barely separated on black carbon rods. The boards are then carefully wrapped in plastic and tape for water-resistance. Then usually buried directly on top of a yellow jug of homemade explosive. The power source, consisted of several low-voltage batteries linked and taped together. If done correctly, the power source would be offset the approximate distance of a sweeping metal detector.
Black carbon batteries rods are of value only for IED making and come from the extracted cores of D-cells. Accomplished by burning batteries in a fire and ripping out the carbon rods with pliers when cooled. Afghans burn all trash, but in my Kingdom, to discover black carbon rods is unsettling.
Children are majority of victims.
Psychological Operations Flyer circa 2011. In translation, mentions nothing about the Taliban, explosives, or children getting injured; It roughly translates in Phasto: “If you need medical assistance, go to American base and contact phone number”. Paper flyers, a marketing pillar of survival in a mine field. Tried and true in many wars before, these were memes before memes were trendy. If you stopped grimacing and just look at the photo, you will notice that the child is not hurt; The power of the paper flyer.
Getting these kids to corporate was not easy.
Children covered their faces, when collation forces pulled out a camera. At some point, an adult taught them to hide their faces. Plus, kids subconsciously attempt to hide their guilt by hiding their face, aka “Urban Masking”.
As soon as a camera was pulled out, the kids on top covered their faces and hid in the vegetation.
Some children become hostile when a confronted with a camera.
How do you get these kids to not want to kill you?
Sangin is a level of hell haunted by Black Eyed Children of the Corn.
When strolling daily through a minefield, there are numerous rules that you must quickly learn or “cancel Christmas”. The psychological toll of operating in such an extreme environment is beyond measure. Daily thoughts of unease creep in the mind when tying your boot lances. Thoughts such as: “Is this the last day with my legs? What if I did step on one? Would I be a single, double, or triple amputee? If I loose my legs, will it be above or below the knee? One leg or two? A foot or leg? What if I loose my dick?”.
It wasn’t thoughts of death as much as fates worse than death. In a heated tactical debate about looking at the ground vs. “head-on-a-swivel”, one Marine Lance Corporal stated:
“I can recover after a sucking-chest-wound but I can’t never live a normal life with no legs!”
When the cat was finished, she replied, “Have you learned the rules?”, “What rules your majesty?” you respond. The white cat paused for a second, “I see you are a little slow, best not cast my pearls at swine then.” “Wait! Your majesty”, you reply, “What are the rules!” The cat looked to her left and paused then turned her back to you while fixing her eyes on the scene and said, “One man stepped on a mine and the other ran up to help him. Never run towards a victim in a minefield”. You said rules. What are the rules your majesty? “I guess that’s fair, but do I care about fairness. I am a cat,” said her highness. “Fine, I will only give you todays lessons that you failed to see.
However, the first day’s rules are free, the rest you have to earn.” The White-cat checked the time on her watch and stated, “Remember these rules Yank”:
1. Use shaving cream to mark the cleared path and stay on it.
2. Keep dispersion or you will end up with an ‘S’ in your face.
3. Never run towards a victim.
4. IEDs come in threes.
5. Bring tourniquets.
6. Avoid choke points, like trail heads and bridges.
7. Follow the White Cat
Click here for: How to survive a minefield? part 2
