Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, was deployed to Afghanistan in May with the 101st Airborne Division. A 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois, he is submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

Life on a combat outpost is a modern day Sparta. Far from the “flagpole,” or larger bases with high ranking officers, daily life revolves around one maxim – training for battle.

Without delving too deep into the existential, the similarities are pointed out by nearly every soldier who has experienced this warrior’s haven.

A common misconception about the legendary “300″ at Thermopylae is just that, that there were only 300 warriors. But each warrior had at least three supporters or future warriors with him to carry and service his gear, his food and his medical supplies. One of the books on our brigade’s predeployment reading list was Steven Pressfield’s “Gates of Fire,” which beautifully illustrates the warrior culture of the Spartans and their stand at the Hot Gates. But I never expected the comparisons to our modern battlefield to run so true.

Despite the relatively small size of many outposts, the population is distinctly separated into warriors and their supporters. Like the Spartans, the warriors serve one purpose – to fight their fight. Whether that be standing watch in a guard tower, patrolling the long-forgotten mountain villages, or firing a howitzer cannon, every day’s purpose is to increase the warrior’s proficiency in his fighting tasks.

The supporters may be other soldiers, but they are mainly civilian contractors or local workers hired from nearby villages. There are Russian contractors who keep the water pumps and generators working, Indian contractors who clean the chow hall and bathrooms, and local Afghans who transport trash, build new buildings and help cook the food.

Like the Spartans, the warriors eat, sleep and train together. They wake up early and conduct missions in the dead of night. Their refrigerators are stocked with scientifically formulated Gatorade and protein shakes; their gear is made from sweat-wicking, flame-retardant material; their weapons allow them to see at night.

To local, rail-thin Afghans, we must seem like prototypical Spartans on steroids. We may complain that our Army rations compare to American prison food. But as a chaplain told me after traveling to many outposts in Afghanistan, “There are no small soldiers.” The local workers’ eyes grow wide with wonder when they enter our sacred temples filled with dumbbells and barbells. Their faces are filled with suspicion as to how pieces of forged iron could grow necks and arms so thick, while these warriors still climb their mountains so vigorously.

Every day the warrior stretches his legs to the rosy-fingered dawn; his food is hot, his laundry is ready to be picked up, and fresh ammunition is descending from heaven on fat, white helicopters. All of the supporters exist to ensure that when the enemy knocks at his door, the warrior’s legs are strong, his fingers are as quick as his wits, and the lead is readily available.

There are parts of Afghanistan that I’m sure can be compared to the fight at Thermopylae (holding off insurgents before the evacuation and closing of the remote Combat Outpost Keating, for example). I’m sure more philosophical points can be made comparing the debate over the 2011 proposed draw down to the decision whether to fight the invading Persians (didn’t they visit Afghanistan?).

But the daily, sweaty, dusty life of a Spartan existence at a combat outpost is fairly black and white: Come back with your shield, or on it.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, was deployed to Afghanistan in May with the 101st Airborne Division. A 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois, he is submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

On a recent “Meet the Press,” host David Gregory seemed to try and pigeonhole Adm. Mike Mullen on the real objectives of the war in Afghanistan. Sparked by the recent striking picture on the cover of “Time” magazine, Adm. Mullen was not to be cajoled away from our mission of protecting the people, which is the central objective in counter insurgency.

But sometimes I think those who are on the outside looking in don’t truly understand what it means to “protect the people.”

There are very strict rules and guidance for shooting large-caliber weapons and ordnance at our enemies in Afghanistan. In this highly complex counter-insurgency campaign, our use of lethal force does need to be weighed very carefully. Being an artillery platoon leader, I deal with these issues daily.

I hoped this week would begin with an uneventful Sunday morning. The sun had barely risen into the swirling gray marble sky. Suddenly in the distance, began the sound of “popcorn” – bullets crackling around the outpost – followed by a low, vibrating explosion.

After experiencing more and more of these scenarios your sleeping subconscious seems to constantly monitor its surroundings, like a submarine silently scanning the dark ocean for enemy ships. This learned Pavlovian awareness makes falling asleep a hard balance for some. Every rock crunched under foot outside and every loud door slammed stands your hairs on end and briefly shuts your focus to fight-or-flight mode.

I grabbed my rifle and sprinted to the operations center. The popcorn subsided and we used our cameras to scan for mortar impacts. There was another low thud. The camera whirled around and spotted smoke rising from the small rock village outside our outpost. It seemed no one was injured and there was no major damage to the buildings. Our Afghan National Army brothers were already speeding in their pickup trucks to the impact site to take care of their people.

There was some intelligence on where the mortar fire was coming from. Years ago, as my soldiers will tell you, our standard response would be to rain our high explosive howitzer rounds on every known enemy position around the post.

But there was possible civilian infrastructure in the area, and the handful of mortars hadn’t hit the outpost. No more mortars were fired. We didn’t shoot at one target.

Here we watch normal Afghans, hanging clothes lines in their yards and kids hitting cricket balls in their fields, no more phased by a mortar hitting their village than an American driving past a fender bender on the interstate. Not until a mortar actually hits in their courtyard can they be seen running for shelter in the nearby mountains.

A fight-or-flight response to danger has no cultural boundaries. Anyone presented in the face of danger will illicit an adrenal response, and it will most likely affect them when the event is over. Sleeping under the constant threat of explosions takes some getting used to.

But this is their reality. The women hanging clothes most likely grew up with the threat of stray bullets killing loved ones, and the kids playing cricket now represent a new generation that has to grow up unphased by mortar explosions.

We as members of the military have a certain readiness response that we train for, to protect ourselves and pursue the enemy. But our cohabiting Afghans have lived in the crossfire of extremism and senseless violence for decades.

It has been a hard pill to swallow for the military to voluntarily put harsh restrictions on its most powerful weapons. But in a war for the people, we need to keep the sheets hanging on the line so that Afghan kids can stop trading in their cricket balls for mortar rounds.

We started out by also reenlisting and promoting my Gunnery Sergeant, SFC Houston. Thanks goes out to SSG Martinez for taking these pictures with my camera. Now I can actually be in a few! Then I simply worked my post processing magic.

This was my first time reenlisting a Soldier. It was definitely an honorable day, and I’m glad I didn’t screw up the oath.

Below our Battalion Commander stands in front of my platoon while the Battery Commander and 1SG finish presenting the CABs to the platoon.

Like I said, I finally get to be in a few!

Lately there has not been much to write home about, so to speak. The soldiers have worn into a comfortable groove with their force protection duties. More and more of them are getting cross trained in different positions to create depth in our battle rosters. But they remain as frosty as ever.

The hardest thing to do right now is find new things to take pictures of.

Here is our COP “pet”. He is both the mangiest, and heartbreakingly sad dog I think I’ve ever seen. There’s a group of birds that swoop down and tease him relentlessly. But he had his revenge when I saw him catch one in his jaws in mid flight.

And here we have Afghanistan’s eternal struggle — barbed wire vs. poppies.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. From there, he will be submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

The real problem with the war in Afghanistan has nothing to do with rogue generals or defunct, grandiose policy. The real problem has nothing to do with finding the Magic Solution and extolling COIN (counter insurgency) to the far corners of Asia. The real problem is whether the U.S. can decide that the cause is worth doing whatever it takes to finish.

We can “win.” We can make Afghanistan a better place for its citizens. We will come home. But it’s going to take time and money. Do we have enough of both? Yes, if we decide to do whatever it takes.

Some say “bomb ‘em to hell!” and others say we should leave them to their own devices.

Despite U.S. presence, life as usual goes on in the Kunar Valley while a thunderstorm rolls over the mountains.

But we cannot afford to lose sight of the reasoning behind the war. Our nation was attacked by a defined group of terrorists, one that continues to threaten violence within our borders. Unlike previous conflicts directed against the U.S., this group is not a recognized nation or formal coalition. But that does not mean we can afford to ignore them.

People should not confuse the pursuit of the utmost legal, proportionate, and moral action against these “new” threats as weakness, or the inability to overcome a nonstate militia movement. Could we use the extreme, violent tactics of Sherman to wipe out all opposition to the iron will of the U.S.? Of course. If the Taliban et al had a recognizable military, it would be decommissioned by the unrivaled force of joint U.S. military might in less than a week.

Could we button up our borders and hang a “closed” sign on the Statue of Liberty? We sure could, and with units like the 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions at the border, Arizona would cease to have an immigration problem.
But we’re better than that. We know the only way to win a moral battle for justice is to take the moral high ground, the classic warfare equivalent of key terrain. The issue is not can we beat the Taliban, but do we have the combined moral wherewithal to do what is necessary in an asymmetrical war of morally right vs. morally wrong.

Regardless of how we got here or why, to think it unworthy to squash a group that bombs its own people, sprays acid in the faces of girls for attending school and uses public hangings and brainwashed human explosives to instill terror is to question all of human morality.

I’m not saying the U.S. has to go in and oust every questionable regime in the world. But there are times in history when a precedent can be set; the pursuit of justice cannot have a price tag. It would be dubious to think during World War II anyone would suggest ways to win the war by spending less, deploying less, and fighting less.

Yes, the U.S. seems to be dabbling in some gray areas, like using unmanned drones for interstate targeted killings. But as the United Nations’ “Report on Targeted Killings” has stated, the international community at large has yet to explicitly state what is black and white in the usage of this new technology and power.

As counter insurgency expert T.E. Lawrence prophetically wrote, learning to fight in this war is like learning to “eat soup with a knife.”

Is the goal of Islamic extremists to have a stable, peaceful Afghanistan? No, it is to destroy Western influence, and the West itself, if necessary. If coalition troops leave Afghanistan will all of our domestic problems go away, and we’ll all be safe and cozy once again? We thought so before Sept. 11, 2001. And the Underwear Bomber is only another example of why we need not think so comfortably from podiums and ballot boxes.

Perhaps it’s not time for people to ask what victory in Afghanistan can do for us, but what else can we do to bring victory to Afghanistan. And in turn, victory for what is right.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. From there, he will be submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

The Army is a culture of validation. We walk around with our resumes on our chest: rank, airborne and marksmanship badges, even the perception of prestigious versus bland unit patches. But possibly the No. 1 validation of a modern warrior is the combat patch.

A soldier wears his unit patch on the left shoulder sleeve to signify the unit to which he belongs. When he has deployed to a combat zone with that unit, he then also wears that patch on his right shoulder sleeve.

Many of the soldiers in my platoon come to our Afghanistan rotation, Operation Enduring Freedom X, able to wear multiple combat patches – a specialist on his fourth deployment, a staff sergeant on his third deployment.

During a short month in Afghanistan, our combat outpost already has been mortared, peppered with AK-47 fire, and rockets have shuddered our doors. But with a blank right sleeve, things seem incomplete. Now it was time for the platoon to be validated in the eyes of our peers.

Our battery commander, Capt. Mclynn Howard, flew to our combat outpost just for the occasion.

My platoon was called to attention. It was the usual 110-degree summer day, the new screaming eagle 101st patch sweating in my hand. I took my place at the front of our formation and saluted Capt. Howard. He saluted back, shook my hand to exchange the patch, and fastened it to the fuzzy, blank spot on my right shoulder. Then we went to each of my soldiers and validated their right shoulders with a new screaming eagle.

It is a great day when a soldier receives his first combat patch. Back home in garrison it tells his peers he has performed his duty; he has done what he signed up to do, and served in a combat zone.

But for many soldiers the true validation is the one given to the enemy, whether he has a patch on his right shoulder or not.

Before the moon rises in the east and blankets our valley with light as the sun does the day, the nights are the kind of blackness that sucks at your eyeballs. The lack of light pollution creates the kind of darkness that forces you to memorize every step to the shower and scan the dirt one foot in front of you with a red-lens flashlight, left and right, like a blind man tapping his cane down the sidewalk.

Then the stars fade through the thick blanket like imaginary light specks after holding your breath too long. The moon rises and the valley becomes visible.

That night, the Taliban decided to have a validation ceremony of their own by landing a few rocket-propelled grenades in our perimeter and putting a few new air holes in one of the soldiers’ huts.

And the next day was Memorial Day. Our flags flew at half mast, thankfully in honor of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice before us and not for anyone during our rotation thus far.

But the new patch on my right shoulder made me really feel part of that brotherhood, the legacy of our Army at war, and to have been validated in this, the next-greatest generation.

The best part about calibrating is that we get to shoot what’s called “direct fire.” Usually we fire “non-line-of-sight,” which means an observer tells us where to shoot, and once we fire we never see the rounds impact. With direct fire, we aim at the mountain side next to the outpost and fire away.

I also had the sections name their guns. Since we are Bravo Battery, they start with the letter “B.” I’d say it definitely helped the morale!

We also had a few soldiers in the brigade killed over the last few weeks. This was obviously very tragic. None of the soldiers were stationed at our COP, but we had our flags at half mast most of the week. Then on the day the families back home were notified, God gave us a reassuring sign.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate at University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. From there, he will be submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

When the suicide bomber and squad of reported Taliban dressed in U.S. Army uniforms used grenades to breach the gate at Bagram Air Field, Afghanistan, the morning of May 19, my eyes shot open. I pulled one ear out behind my Bose headphones and listened intently, as if my hearing could zoom in like a sniper scope through the thick silence and pick out the specific noise.

After a year of firing more than 2,000 artillery rounds as a fire direction officer at Ft. Campbell, Ky, and multiple combined live fire exercises with our infantry units, I was used to the low thud of indirect fire. But now that I was in Afghanistan, something didn’t feel right about the crunching bass booming so close.

I put the headphones back on and closed my eyes. There was another thud. Then some indistinguishable noise. I slowly opened my eyes this time and looked around the half football field-sized tent with aluminum-framed bunk beds stacked 28 deep, seven wide, with barely 18 inches in between. The sun had yet to crest the jagged mountain peaks that surround the base like a bowl. No one stirred.

At this point I figured some shipping containers were being moved across the base, or someone was getting in some early morning training. Only later would I learn that a group of Taliban on a suicide mission would almost get passed U.S.-trained snipers, wounding nine Americans in the process.

Once the official reports got to the tent where more than 300 other soldiers and I were staying, the collective blood pressure rose. Laptops closed, boots were tied, and magazines of ammunition were passed out.

The only problem was the 68 soldiers in my unit had a collective 12 rounds. The other units weren’t much better off.

A few captains in the tent came up with a hasty plan to pull security around our tent with the combined firepower we had until more information came our way. A group of soldiers were given three rounds a piece and sent to the corners of the concrete slab of our domed tent.

We hurried to our positions, and then we waited. And waited.

A few privates carved tic-tac-toe in the dirt. Others sat at a picnic table in their T-shirts and smoked nonchalantly. The sun was hot and a quick wind blew wispy dark clouds from the north over the snow-capped ridgeline.

Soldiers joked about having to stand guard in buddy teams in order to have enough fire power to take out the enemy.

The next tent over was the local national living quarters, which was a diverse as any Chicago neighborhood. But now anyone not in uniform looked suspicious. Their darting looks and the way they walked around any group of soldiers gave away their new uneasiness with our heightened status.

An hour or so passed by. My stomach growled at the noon sun boasting above. I dreaded the thought of the dining facility staying closed more than the actual threat of a suicide bomber sprinting across the street in front of me, past the 12-foot concrete blast barriers, and taking me with him to meet Allah.

Slowly, more buses appeared on the road; the Kiowa and Apache helicopters were no longer buzzing in circles, and we got the word that we were “all clear.”

Luckily, I thought, it was the middle of the night in the states and no one knows that I’m in the middle of CNN’s breaking news. Then I realized that this was my initiation with the real war, and that it fulfilled the stereotype many people experience — war is 10 percent horrible, frightening violence and 90 percent horrible, excruciating boredom.

Here is my inaugural piece!

Lombard soldier ‘excited to get off the bench’

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate at University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. The is the first of occasional reports he is submitting to the Daily Herald.

More than three years after first deciding to join the Army, I will finally be going on my first deployment, to the eastern provinces of Afghanistan. Halfway through college, when things were at their worst in Iraq before the Sunni awakening, I had my own personal awakening to fulfill a boyhood longing of being a soldier.

Now the focus is on Afghanistan. Two years of training in the Reserve Officer Training Corps, Air Assault school, Basic Officer Leaders Course, Field Artillery school, Pathfinder school, the Joint Fires Observer school and a full year at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky in the 101st Airborne Division, and now it’s time to get in the game.

When people ask how I feel about deploying, I tell them it’s a lot like when I played football at Glenbard East High School in Lombard. As soldiers we have raised our hands and volunteered for this task. Deploying after three years of Army training has been like double football practices during hot Chicago summers, practicing after school all week, and finally getting to play varsity on Friday nights.

It’s like the varsity game, if the Army were a sport, but the stakes are much higher. The night before my Army varsity game I meticulously cut my hair the way I’ve taught myself to do over the years. I play my favorite soundtrack of metal songs. My girlfriend and I go out for some American barbecue and a cold Sam Adams.

The final pep rally before my deployment was a weekend of packing up my townhouse into storage with my family, which also happened to fall on Mother’s Day. Just like every good football team has an entourage of coaches, it takes a village to deploy a soldier. The time they spent to ensure my transition to deployment was as smooth as possible is happening thousands of times a day across our country.

The selfless hours families put into packing, every well wish from old friends, and every cold beer bought by a stranger for a soldier in uniform galvanizes the resolve of our deploying warriors.

This is the bosom of confidence with which our families, friends and strangers send off their sons and daughters wholeheartedly to the modern battlefield. I hadn’t had the privilege until now to know the patriotic vein of support that still runs deep in our society.

When my family and I said our final “see ya laters” (not goodbyes), my mom gave me a rosary made with worn nickel emblems and pearl-colored beads tied back together with cotton string. My great-grandmother gave it to my mom when she was in third grade. My great-grandmother’s brother brought it home from his war. Behind choked tears my mom said she was told he’d had it blessed by the Pope, and she mandated I bring it back safely.

We soldiers fight in the moment for the safety and honor of our fellow soldiers. But we continue to raise our hands in the long war for the love of our families, our friends, and every stranger who supports honoring the cause of something bigger than themselves.

I am excited to get off the bench, put on my helmet, and head to the front lines. And eventually, our cheering crowds will push our military team across the final winning goal line.

The Dunbar Cave is now closed indefinitely due to the spreading of White Nose Syndrome in bats. Humans have been identified as carriers so in the interest of the bat population they have stopped the guided tours through the cave.

On the final day before deploying to the Land of the Afghans, Britt and I went on one of our characteristic adventures. In the heart of Clarksville hides Dunbar Cave recreation area. Never missing a moment to snap a few pics, and needing an excuse to break in my new boots, I grabbed the Nikon and we hit the trail.

The flood line from last week’s disaster was visible throughout the park. Giant trees found their way up 25-foot hills and the stone walls were striped with dirt.

Mud and debris from the swollen lake litter the entrance to the cave. These columns chronicle the rising water from last week's flood.

I can’t wait to share the amazing scenes of Afghanistan with all of my Spartzine readers. There is still something missing, I feel, in my photography. Hopefully I’ll be able to figure out that missing link and take my images of Afghanistan to the next level.

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