Enemy rockets had struck a coalition compound at the Afghanistan location and flames were threatening some 90 buildings.
Jameson is not a fire fighter. The Robins Air Force Base airman, a member of the 689th Combat Communications Wing on base, was deployed as an operations superintendent. But this was an emergency.
When he arrived on scene, flames were leaping 60 feet high and smoke was billowing to the heavens.
Jameson's job was to direct heavy equipment operators in building a firebreak to limit damage and to ensure that firefighters had a way of escape.
"I never thought I would be a fire fighter," he admitted Thursday afternoon. "But I told guys to start knocking down buildings."
The buildings at the site are B-Huts, largely plywood and vulnerable to any stray spark.
On about his third or fourth foray into the flames, Jameson and a cohort saw something that shook them to their knees. Directly in line with the surging fire were two crates of munitions -- one filled with shoulder-launched missiles and the other with grenades.
He knew that havoc would result if the explosives -- both very sensitive to fire and heat -- could not be removed. Peering through the smoke, the Missouri native could see what appeared to be a way of escape. Then, just as suddenly, the way was blocked as a burning building collapsed.
The 18-year Air Force veteran knew his chances were slim. He also knew he had to try. Some 50 people were in the area responding to the fire and most would be killed or injured if the munitions erupted.
Another check of the area exposed one final option -- a narrow, 150-yard path between two burning buildings. That's all the clearance he needed.
Jameson and his cohort began to drag the 250-pound crates down the narrow corridor ... hoping but not sure they could make it.
Fire fighters outside the flames saw them.
"They knew they couldn't get in to help us," the communicator said. "So they did the only thing they could do and began to spray water directly on top of us to keep us cool."
Some how, energy, determination, desperation paid off. The two emerged from the flames, dragging the munitions to a safe location.
His boots were melting. The hair on his arms had been singed. But at least 50 lives had been saved.
For his heroics, Jameson received the Bronze Star Medal for Valor on Thursday.
In presenting the award, Col. Joseph Scherrer, 689th commander, called Jameson "exactly the type of senior non-commissioned officer we strive for in the Air Force."
He said the brave airman did not seek the limelight, but he represented fellow communicators in an honorable way.
"In a small way, we all share in this award," Scherrer told the scores of airmen assembled for the awards ceremony. "He represented us in the finest traditions of combat comm."
Master Sgt. Milo Gibson, 51st Combat Communication Squadron first sergeant at Robins, was deployed to Bagram at the same time as Jameson. He was some 200 yards away as his fellow airman was struggling with the munitions. His life was in jeopardy although he had no idea of it at the time.
"I'm honored to be in the presence of a great airman," Gibson said Thursday. "He did what every airman would, should do. But who knows how my night would have ended if he hadn't done what he did."
Jameson was a bit overwhelmed by the attention he received.
"It's a huge honor, but I did what anyone would have done," he explained to a host of media covering the awards ceremony.
He said his training was key. "We practice and exercise a lot," he explained. "You learn that if you keep your priorities straight while the chaos is going on around you, then things work out pretty good."
He said he doesn't think about the event very often except when he uses his barbeque grill.
"I guess it's because the smells are very similar," he said.
His main consolation is a basic one. "No one was seriously injured," he pointed out. "So it was a good event."