Embedded journalism from the front lines of
Afghanistan & Iraq ~ by Mike & Carlos Boettcher

In daylight the mountains that surround Lowell took on a new, more dangerous significance. While at night they stood as singular, monolithic entities, the sun revealed them to be a mass of trees and valleys, stone wrinkles and ridgelines that provided ample cover to anyone who cared to attack the base, which, I was assured, was often.

I had known before coming to Lowell that it was under frequent attack, but the sheer volume of action it saw shocked me: COP Lowell is the most attacked post in both Iraq and Afghanistan, taking a staggering amount of indirect and assorted small-arms fire. Bullet holes riddle the sandbags and hesco walls that provide cover for the soldiers within, spilling dust and grit that floats over onto every surface in the COP with each gust of wind. The latrines had to be rebuilt because of battle damage, and the new showers had to be brought in when the old ones were destroyed by RPG fire.

Lowell did not spring fully-formed from the aether, it was originally a hunting lodge for the Afghan King, a retreat in the wilds of Nuristan. Looking around, I wonder what the king would think of his house now, filled with foreign soldiers crammed into every possible room, guns at every vantage point. I am assured that when NATO forces first arrived at the house it was beautiful, perched on the rocks overlooking the river, surrounded by gardens in perpetual bloom. If I look hard I can see the beginnings of that beauty, my mind filling in the blanks as I look at the rock walls and stunted growth, imagination adding meager flesh to a ghost of a memory. But there are new tales to tell.

Every stone in Lowell tells a story: of hard fighting, sleepless nights, and the men responsible for both. Those men are the soldiers of Apache Troop, 6-4 Cavalry, 1st Infantry Division; scouts, sent to guard the quiet house in the loud valley. For a year they have lived a sort of half-life defined by gunfire, explosions, but most of all, camaraderie. They work at night because daylight is dangerous, grabbing what little rest they can during the daytime hours. Their lives are filled with the certain knowledge that at every day, and at all hours, they are being watched; the mountains surrounding them make sure of that, high places giving shelter to the enemy.

Still they fight, side by side, against an enemy that has had thousands of years of experience in repelling invaders. They call Afghanistan the Graveyard of Empires, where so many conquerors have met their match. But these men are not conquerors, and their mission is beholden to no empire. They are soldiers of the United States of America, and their mission is one of protection: for their homeland, for the Afghanis on whose soil they fight, but most of all, for each other. Because out here, as isolated as they will ever be, that is all they will ever have, and need.