I’ve never known latrines like this before. Initially Manas AFB, err…excuse me, the “Air Transit Center at Manas,” (sorry uncle Putin) felt like the transient bases in Kuwait. The smells were similar, the tents were the same, the gravel was everywhere, etc. Then the differences started showing up. First it was the jenkem lab they call a male latrine, then it was the foreign militaries walking around (Polish, Georgian, etc.), all in various states of dress… or lack thereof. On my way to chow this morning, I nearly bumped into two NATO soldiers wearing only shower shoes and banana hammocks. Really guys? Really?!?!
So last night around 2AM we finished up with our briefings, grabbed 72 hours’ worth of gear from our main bags, ate a little chow and were headed back to the sleep tent. After being cooped up in a plane for 21 hours and having just finished a bowl of chili, I was off to find an adequate receptacle. After hearing the male latrine tents were sub-par, I decided to try the porta-john. I investigated four porta-johns, all of which lacked the necessary paper-work, before I said, “How bad can the latrine tent be?”
To the left is a picture from our mighty hall of kings, the male latrine tent. Unfortunately, without the smell you can’t fully grasp the true horror of the experience. I’ve been inside porta-potties left baking in the sweltering Kuwaiti sun and this was worse. At least four people reported actually gagging from the stench. I’m not overly squeamish, so I ventured in and climbed the steps to my throne. Don’t let the picture deceive you. The stalls are not big enough to fit a full grown man. They were obviously designed for a more social military. My knees were sticking out from the curtain and I had the opportunity to greet my fellow soldiers as I pushed… Then came the panic. These toilets are fairly shallow and as I wiped, the waste piled up and I couldn’t figure out how to flush (another guy informed me he couldn’t figure out how to flush either, so he left his steaming pile out for the next guy). Eventually I figured out how to rinse then flush the plastic bowl, but the trauma had already burned its place in my mind, no doubt replacing happier thoughts of puppies and dandelions.
Then this morning I took a shower… Holy hell. Below is a picture from inside the shower tent. I went into the tent not knowing what to expect. Some guys said the water was cold; others said it was scorching; they all agreed the pressure was high enough to almost break skin. I went in with an open mind.
As I walked in, I was immediately confronted with naked men almost running from within the showers to grab their towels on the bench. I thought it was odd they didn’t bring their towels to the shower and hang them on a hook outside their stall. Much to my surprise there were hardly even stalls, never mind hooks for towels or a shelf big enough for shampoo. I said screw it, left my towel on the bench, grabbed my soap dish and went in, jumping straight into the six-inch pool of sewage water. Shower shoes were not nearly enough protection. I still fear I may end up with athlete’s foot on my ankle… I was separated by approximately 24 inches of space and a flimsy plastic curtain from the person showering next to me. I immediately wondered, is this other guy American? I hope he doesn’t pee in the shower. Where’s the faucet? No really!?!? Where’s the effing faucet? Oh there it is, a tiny valve on the shower curtain side. I turned it on and was welcomed by some relatively cold but bearable water. I hardly had room to turn around, and the floor beneath my feet felt spongy as if wet plywood could break at any minute plunging me to a naked and embarrassing injury. I was cautious not to grip the soap too hard, but handled it carefully, knowing full well that if it fell, it was gone. I did my business, got out to grab my towel off the bench and dry off.
The conditions of the latrine facilities here have me eager to get to Afghanistan. Once we’re on the ground at Camp Phoenix, one of my first priorities is grab a warm shower… not necessarily to clean myself up from the flight over, but more pressingly, to wash off my knee-deep dance in the cesspool.
SSG Taylor 1165th MPs and SGT Paulin 26th MEB are the only cooks in the military that I know, that actually cook. They work out of a MKT (mobile kitchen trailer) and they feed an entire base three square meals a day. Prior to them coming to Bala Hissar the kitchen only cooked two meals a day and RUMINT is it wasn’t very good. These guys go out of their way to fix a meal. They get sent UGRs (unitized group ration) which is basically food in a bag that you boil and serve. When done this way however, the food can be pretty tasteless. So these guys put their own experience and knowledge of the kitchen to good use, and turn out one good meal after another. SGT Paulin has a cooking background from his civilian career and it shows through his creativity in his meal selections. He can turn a chicken breast into almost any kind of meal imaginable. Every Friday he grills up some steaks, cooked to order and they are comparable to steaks at a restaurant. SSG Taylor is in every morning to cook breakfast. He always has a smile on his face and ensures you get what you want. He made me an omelette this morning, and it was a great start to the day. They both cook for the soldiers and strive to guarantee that we are satisfied. They are NCOs who take care of their men, one meal at a time.
