Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/812511
A s the convoy of M-ATVs groaned to a stop on the outskirts of Camp Black Horse, Marine Lance Corporal Alex Russo squeezed his 6' 3" frame out of the cramped turret compartment behind his M240 Bravo and surveyed the streets of the capital city. He thought if this place was not hell, it was close enough to smell the smoke. Russo hopped down from the all- terrain vehicle and officially put boots on the ground in the "Sandbox." The incongruous thing was that a foot of snow covered the sand. It was January in Kabul, Afghanistan, where snow can be as common as gunfire. He squinted and shaded his eyes from the fierce Afghan sun as it reflected off the snowpack. His gaze rose slowly from the cluttered streets to the mountainous skyline and then scanned the horizon for trading waterfowl. As strange as this may have seemed, the young Marine could not help himself; it was a habit he'd developed as a kid goose hunting with his dad. Wherever he went, from boot camp to basic training, he habitually searched the skies for waterfowl. In some odd way, it connected him to his home in Aberdeen, South Dakota. In Kabul there were plenty of birds in the sky, but these had 30-foot rotor blades and made a rumble as if the devil himself was flying over. To the Taliban, he was!