In Afghanistan: a US soldier's emotional landscape

The infantry soldiers start their missions directly in front of our medical aid tent. They assemble in full "battle-rattle" - armored vests, Kevlar helmets with night-vision goggles, and a combat load of assault weapons, rockets, and explosives. In the past year as a flight surgeon here, I've become accustomed to the air of bravado, determination, courage, and fear as they head out to fight. As the Quick Reaction Force, they respond to local security threats or news of high-value enemy targets. They climb aboard Chinook and Blackhawk helicopters while assault Apaches provide cover overhead. On most nights, the soldiers return unharmed, and it makes me proud to hear their muffled footsteps on the gravel as they shuffle back to their hooches.

A couple of weeks ago, we sent two of those soldiers home in flag-draped coffins. One was shot in the head during a firefight, the other had bled to death from a leg wound. I'd never met them, but standing there saluting while the coffins were loaded onto a C-17 transport plane, I was struck by sadness and loss. The tragedy and solemnity of such a scene can hit you just as strongly whether you support the war on terror or not - and I suspect that there are plenty of American soldiers here on both sides of the issue.

There was once an appealing logic to why we came to Afghanistan. As soldiers, we wrap ourselves in abstractions like patriotism, duty, and serving on the "frontiers of freedom." Sept. 11 moved us deeply so - despite the sacrifices and privations we accepted, and imposed on our families - we came to fight an enemy that wished us ill. We chased the "bad guys" into the mountains. We distributed medicines and foods to villagers who've suffered constant war. We raised our flag proudly, confident of the justice and wisdom of our cause.

But after almost a year here - the third of Operation Enduring Freedom - I see the world differently. The abstractions that once vividly inspired us now seem camouflaged in the emotional landscape of Kandahar. Surprisingly, there is little heroism or drama in the routine of life in a combat zone. Sometimes we engage an enemy in a firefight or, in my case, help treat battle injuries and illnesses. Occasionally, we engage in local projects that would, in a noncombat environment, be termed humanitarian assistance. There continue to be constant rocket attacks and an occasional improvised explosive device that threaten our lives. But what, in our initial weeks here, made us run toward sandbagged bunkers now barely makes us flinch. We continue our routine - we grill burgers, watch movies on portable DVD players, head to the dining tent every Saturday for T-bone steaks and lobster tails. Instead of fighting an enemy that threatens America, it's often tedium and isolation we fight here instead.

Unlike in wars past, in which we knew the enemy - the Nazi, the Viet Cong - we don't really know our enemy, or even those we are "helping," for that matter. We're supposed to hate the Taliban and Al Qaeda. But these enemies are so remote that our troops haven't worked up a fierce hatred of them - and this, initially, was suprising to me. But I haven't dredged up any hatred of the enemy either - nor have I developed any kinship with the average Afghan, despite multiple missions "outside the wire" to provide medical care to locals.

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