I don’t know how to shut off the TVs at the gym. CNN just happens to me. Yesterday, the blather about the border wall stopped long enough to allow an advertisement for a restaurant featuring a divine-looking pie. It’s a forbidden treat as I cling to my New Year’s resolution to cut my weight.
Walls, pie, sweat, and weight loss. It reminded me of Afghanistan.
After a week at Bagram Airfield, I was surprised to be ordered on my company’s advanced scouting team to the cities of Herat and then Farah.
“You sure you want me?” I wasn’t really the advanced-team kind of soldier. “Pack your s–t,” they said. “You’re going.”
After a long, tense journey, I was relieved when we were safely behind the perimeter walls of Herat compound.
The base building gleamed — two stories tall with marble, colorful tile and dark woodwork. The place offered luxuries such as real bunks, flush toilets, and hot showers. Its chow hall provided the regular Army fare as well as traditional Afghan food.
Best of all, it featured a shining chrome-and-glass refrigerated case in which, displayed and available 24/7 as a war priority, was delicious pumpkin pie.
Pie Heaven.
Not for the first time, I wondered how some soldiers were blessed to be stationed there while I was sentenced to primitive conditions in Farah. But after two weeks of pulling guard duty and enjoying sweet pie, my fellow soldiers and I made the long, difficult journey to Farah, there to occupy the small mud-brick Afghan “unsafe house.”
Sweating in that pieless place, I quickly dropped 50 pounds — I had been overweight — as we began to run missions and learn more about Afghanistan.
“We need to make a convoy run—” our captain said after a month of filth and small rations.
No eye contact. No sudden movements. Be cool. Maybe he won’t pick me.
“—to Herat.”
Pie Heaven!
A drive to Pie Heaven required six hours across the desert and along the bumpy Ring Road. It was a hot, arduous journey, and we remained alert for trouble.
But it was all worth it once we sat down in that air-conditioned chow hall with a sweet Coke and a cool slice of pie. No ration limits. No flies crawling on our food. Just pie. At the end of the long trail, as much pie as we could eat.
“Reedy, you skinny motherf—-r!” Pfc. Herbokowitz tugged the sleeve of my uniform, which was now far too big for me. “How’d you lose so much weight?” Herbokowitz had been at Pie Heaven since early June. His thicker cheeks and tighter uniform showed it.
“N’pie ’n ‘arah,” I mumbled, my mouth full of sugary goodness.
My squad would return months later to pick up a female soldier from the Herat airport. We needed a woman to search female Afghan guests for an Farah base-opening ceremony. By then, our uniforms were faded and our boots broken in. We’d settled into the war in Afghanistan.
That night at Pie Heaven there was a farewell party for a woman from State, including Afghan food and man-dancing. We’d seen this before, Afghan men taking turns solo-dancing before other men.
What we hadn’t seen was an American Army major in shalwar kameez taking his turn trying to man-dance Afghan style, the Afghans hiding laughter. When he finished, he flopped down at my squad’s table, wiping his sweaty brow.
“Wow, sir,” I said through a mouthful of pie. “You’re a maniac. A maniac on the floor.”
Our lieutenant nearly spit pie through his nose. The major only gasped. “Thanks,” he said, oblivious of our mockery.
“More pie, Reedy?” Pfc. Weigand offered a new slice.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
We left the next day. I never saw that place again.
Even now, 15 years later, when my stomach rumbles, I still remember the shining chrome, the smooth, curved glass of the display case, and the sweet taste of that pie.
The wonder of Pie Heaven.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
