Blog: Braving Beatley

CAMP HANSEN, AFGHANISTAN - I left Camp Hansen packed into the back of an MRAP and headed outside the wire for the first time.

The inside of the vehicle was nothing but tan metal, LED lights, and numbers, and a couple screens that I couldn’t really see. The Marines weren’t too thrilled to be driving me to PB Beatley, or if they were they certainly didn’t act like it.

The relationship between the media and the military is certainly love-hate. A lot of these guys assume you have an agenda, and you have to earn their respect it wasn’t just going to be handed out.

The driver looked at me, my bags in tow, and shrugged his shoulders. He helped me load them in the back and then pointed toward the back seat. I climbed in.

“Can I shoot video on the way,” I asked.

“Uhh, yeah I guess, just don’t get any of this,” he said pointing to a plethora of computer monitors beeping and flashing in front of him.

“You got it.”

I pulled out my camera, and the guys in the MRAP stopped talking. I could tell they were weary, but I had a job to do.

The ride along Afghanistan’s bumpy dirt roads was eye opening. I had seen the level of poverty in Kabul, but in rural Marjah, that looked like Vegas.

Mud Walled Compounds dotted the landscape here, kids stood around staring and mouthing for candy as we drove by. Their dirty faces stood out in stark contrast to their well kept clothes.

At some point it hit me, these were the same roads the Taliban planted IED’s in. I had been so focused on recording everything I could, I forgot to take a second to understand the danger I was actually in. Though I knew these vehicles were built to withstand an IED blast, the thought of it was still unsettling.

I sat in the back hopping in and out of my seat with the bumps in the road, we turn down a winding road and arrive at one of those mud walled compounds.

“This is it,” I thought, gazing at the structure I had traveled 7,000 miles to see, “This is Beatley?”

The Camp stood proud in the dimming sunlight, its tan dirt walls, set apart by Marine made guard towers in its four corners.

I hopped out of the truck and grabbed my things from the back. Though I had left one bag at Hansen, I still struggled to carry it all on my own.

I lugged it through the gate, past the guard standing by the barbed wire just inside with a weapon in hand, and dropped it into a cloud of dust as I entered the center of the compound.

The middle was totally open air, with several tan tents strewn across what would be the lawn. To my left there was a door, and then two rising archways under which sat large boxes of water, and a makeshift table off in the back corner.

Several Marines stood around talking, looking at me as if I was glowing green. Capitan Sacchetti greeted me as I walked in, as did a couple other people whose names would come and go.

“Chris,” the Capitan asked.

“Yes sir,” I replied.

“Finally, we’ve been expecting you, did you have a nice trip,” he asked.

“Long,” I said.

A small scruffy man stood angrily across the way, he looked none too pleased to see me either. I hadn’t expected an open arms reception, but I had hoped for at least a smile.

The Captain motioned toward the back, and said I could put my stuff in that tent. Not sure which one ‘that’ was, I walked to the very last one and poked my head in.

It was dark inside, the hunter green walls dotted with pinpricks of light. Overhead multicolored Christmas lights hung draped across ceiling installed extension cords. Pictures of naked women were in no short supply either.

“Hi,” I said to the few Marines inside, “I think they said there was a bunk in here.”

“Yeah,” said one guy, “We’ll make room for ya.”

A couple other guys scurried over to a makeshift couch, made by leaning one cot, against the wall behind another, and helped to turn it back into a bed.

I sat down my things and headed back outside. The Capitan said they were getting ready to go on patrol, I didn’t want to miss this.

Sacchetti sat out by the door leading down inside the compound.

“What’s in there,” I asked him.

“Communications stuff, Cheetah Computers, that kind of stuff.”

He looked me up and down, and called over the scruffy, angry looking man who introduced himself as Sgt. Holton.

“Sgt. Holton, he can’t go out with jeans on can he?” “You got another pair of pants?”

“No, this is all I brought.”

“Sgt. Holton get him a pair of pants, and oh, looks like he’s gonna need boots too,” he quipped, “If you’re going out with the Marines, you should look like a Marine you know.”

“No, I don’t want that,” I responded, “I should look somewhat different,  I’m not a Marine, and if I am outside the wire people should know that.”

“Ok,” he said, looking more and more puzzled by the second,” Well you at least need some pants.”

They brought out a small, which may have fit if I stayed in Afghanistan for another year, but as of now, they were a no go. I obliged them and took them back to my room. Sadly they didn’t have any boots for me to wear, so the 100 dollar pair I’d bought specifically for this trip would have to do.

I hurried out, and lined up with the squads getting ready to head out on patrol. I got behind a tall, strapping guy, he looked like a Marine’s Marine. I fiddled with my camera as we started walking outside the gate, he looked back at me, gave me a once over and smiled.

“You gonna make me a famous?”

“I’m gonna try”

We walked along the same dirt road I’d just driven in on. 15 Marines, decked out in their gear, and me black t shirt, bullet proof vest, jeans, and a camera. I stuck out alright.

We got to a point and split off, one group went down one road, and one the other. We were setting up checkpoints to see if they could find the enemy they believed shot two of their Marines earlier in the day.

“Check everyone that comes through,” the Capitan said, “Everyone.”

“Let’s move,” said the guy in front of me.

“I’m Chris, by the way”

“What’s up man, I’m Coscomb.”

We walked down the road a little ways until the Marines picked a ditch to set up in. Afghan National Army guys were with us too, Coscomb put them toward the road, and we stayed back to assist if needed.

I pulled out my camera, attempting to be quiet, and trying not to move, I’m sure I just looked awkward. After a minute or two of lying in the ditch, Coscomb was up moving around, talking, I realized this wasn’t exactly a stealthy operation.

I started moving around a little bit, Coscomb and I talked about Jacksonville, and its plethora of tattoo parlors and strip clubs. He was from the Midwest and joined the Marines a little late.

He stood little more than 6 feet tall, medium build, with a gentle giant personality that you wanted to like but could tell he meant business if he needed to. Coscomb looked like he was once the bad kid in school, but one that was determined to get on the right path, glimpses of tattoos snuck out from underneath his uniform sleeves as he moved from position.

I got up to walk around, scouting out some different camera angles and –

“Watch where you step,” Coscomb yelled.

My heart stopped, my feet froze, I had become so consumed with talking to this Marine, with working, that I wasn't thinking about IED's at all.

Coscomb went back to peering through his scope at movement in the distance, I still hadn’t moved.

He looked back a few minutes later, “Where should I step then?” I asked in a voice that sounded scared enough to make Coscomb laugh.

“I mean, I’m sure you are fine coming back across,” he said smiling, “Just be aware of it.”

Walking back across the road reminded me of that game you played when you were a kid where you tried to avoid all the cracks in the sidewalk, though hitting the wrong crack here wouldn’t break your mother’s back.

I crawled back in the ditch, where I stayed until it was time to go, and continued observing. The sun was setting and it was absolutely beautiful, the burnt sienna sky made silhouettes out of everything in its path, made for great pictures.

A few motorcycles drove by, guys from the Afghan National Army were stationed at Beatley too and were on every patrol. The Marines sent them to check out the bike. The ANA harassed them more forcefully than perhaps they should have, and then sent them on their merry way.

A father walked by, the Marines questioned him, his little boy in tow, after letting him go one of them gave the little boy candy, he smiled bright.

On our walk back, the commander stopped to play ball with a couple of kids at a compound just outside of Beatley.

The kids smiled, and laughed, and threw the ball some more, we were losing daylight fast it was time to head in.

Back inside the PB, a squad from Dakota had come down for some kind of special event. A short stocky guy instantly grabbed everyone’s attention. His name was Cpl. Ian Muller was and he had an accent that implied he was from up North, and a mouth that wouldn’t let you forget it.

It was clear that most people liked him, but if he didn’t like you he was making it clear.

“I hate everybody here,” he said, “I hate each and every one of yous.” Everybody laughed, Muller seemed like the class clown.

“Shut up Muller,” said a Austin Smith, a thin, blonde haired guy with a peach fuzz moustache.

The two guys came together and talked, it was clear even the different PB’s had bonded, these guys were close, I was an outsider, it was going to take some work to get on their good side.

“What are we waiting on,” I asked on of the guys.

“We’re giving a purple heart that’s long overdue,” he said.

This seemed like an odd place and time for a purple heart ceremony, but I watched as 40 or so Marines suited up, and filed into formation. Their orange dust tinted faces brightened by the light of an MRAP positioned to take the place of sunlight that disappeared under the horizon.

All of them looked tired, worn from a long day of patrolling. Two men had been shot today they were emotionally exhausted as well.

“Marines to be awarded and promoted, center, march,” commanded Sgt. Holton.

The formality of it all was striking, in a place so remote, so dangerous, the time to honor these guys was still found. It felt like many of the purple heart ceremonies I’d covered before, but the location was wildly different.

LCpl. Sean Martin had been in Afghanistan in 2009. On August 10^th of that year, he’d stepped on an IED, and survived.

Later he’d tell me about his reasons for coming back here, going back outside the wire, but at this point I was astonished. I can’t imagine the guts it takes to see your life almost literally go up in smoke, and then returning to the same place to continue the fight. Though, I’m not a marine.

The ceremony wrapped up and the guys from Dakota suited up for the long walk home. Muller popped in the tent to take a few more jabs at his friends from Beatley, before heading out with the rest of his group.

Things settled down and I started sorting through the video I’d shot earlier in the day. I couldn’t remember the name of the guys I’d been on patrol with, but figured it out from video of the back of their helmets. Everyone looks similar in uniform, so it was tough to tell now, without sunglasses or helmets, just who I’d been talking to.

“Who is Coscomb?” I asked out loud.

“That’s me,” he said. It was the guy who’d turned their couch into a bed for me, he looked different now, a beanie on his head, cleaning the dust off of his computer.

“What’s up?”

“I need to interview you, if that’s ok?”

“Oh no,” he laughed, “yeah that’s fine.”

The interview felt like a 20 minute glimpse into his soul. Here was a guy that had no reason to trust me, to be honest with me, and for some reason he was. I felt like if I could get somewhere with this guy, I could make headway into the rest of the camp. I was tired of being 'that reporter,' I needed these guys to take me seriously.

Coscomb talked about how he’d messed around after high school, he’d felt like he was getting nowhere. Joining the Marines was a chance for him to prove to himself, he had what it took to take on anything.

I instantly respected him, and you could tell the other guys did too. He was older than most of the other grunts, but aside from that he was clearly wiser, life experience does wonders here.

His maturity was something the younger guys looked up to, and leaned on from time to time.

I asked for his rank one last time before I finished writing.

“Staff Sergeant?”

“Yeah”

I started tracking my story, or putting my voice into it, with the Marines looking on. They liked my ‘reporter voice,’ which anyone who knows me knows I am not a big fan of.

“Fields of poppy lined the streets leading up to Camp Beatley,” I said into the microphone, the red record light lighting the faces of the entire tent just watching, “It’s an area Staff Sergeant Joshua Coscomb knows all too well.”

Everyone started laughing, I knew I’d gotten it wrong, but there was no turning back now.

“Damn Coscomb,” someone yelled.

“Next time Sgt. Holton tells you to do something, you just tell him he’s talking to Staff Sergeant Coscomb,” cackled another.

“No, no, no,” Coscomb said to me, laughing too, “Not me, I thought you were talking about Sgt. Holton.”

“I’m just doing what I can for you Coscomb,” I joked.

After the laughing quieted down, I finished, “It’s an area LCPL. Joshua Coscomb knows all too well,” he nodded in approval.

It took me a few hours to put the piece together, it had to be right. I didn’t want it to be a generic, “Profiles of Courage,” kind of thing. It needed to be gritty, raw storytelling.

The test would be in the morning, when these guys would watch my work and judge for themselves, the thought of it was a little intimidating.

I finished up the story and sent it in for the 6:00 show, I needed to get some sleep, tomorrow was going to be a long day.