NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (29 page)

The PHQ was a small compound with five white buildings. We drove into a central parking area filled with a dozen green ANP trucks and dozens of people milling about. Police soldiers were standing around smoking. Civilians were waiting to have their petitions or legal documents signed. Afghan contractors were delivering food.

We jumped out of our vehicles and everyone heaved off their body armor and Kevlars. We threw them into the vehicles. Only the security team maintained their full protective posture during the visit. I gathered up Mirwais and 1LT Jones and we headed up to meet Colonel Barakzay.

Colonel Barakzay was the logistics commander of Ghor Province. He was fairly new to the position. The old guy had been pushed out into the hinter regions. The former logistics commander, Colonel Sayed, had been too honest for his own good. He had complained to 1LT Jones and previous mentors about the province commander’s habit of selling fuel on the black market. Within a very short time, Colonel Sayed was sent to Saghar District, which lies across one of the smuggling routes to the former Soviet Central Asian republics to the north. Drugs and guns were the main items smuggled. There wasn’t much in the way of roads up there. Rugged vehicles, mules, or camels crossed those paths and nothing else. There was no way to fly out there as there were no airfields. The wind and mountains made for dangerous passage for a helicopter.

Colonel Barakzay had a reputation as a man with whom one did not trifle. He was short, well-tailored, and well-groomed. His men seemed cowed by him. When we walked into his office, 1LT Jones introduced us and Colonel Barakzay bade us sit in one of the square backed chairs lining his office. He offered us tea and called for his officers. A large, plush red and cream colored carpet lay in the center of his office. The colonel’s desk was at the far end of his office. Documents were scattered about on top and stacked two-feet high in an in-box. The place had a well-used look. ANP propaganda posters were hung along the walls, showing photos of smiling ANP officers and soldiers in training along with warnings against selling daughters or beating wives. There was even a poster about the ignominy of corruption. The place had a musty, unwashed, sweaty smell to it that was common to most Afghan offices.

As the guest of honor, I was given the chair nearest the colonel’s desk. After introductions were made, we discussed how to proceed with the course. I gave the colonel the down and dirty of our course, which would be conducted for two hours in the mornings over the next three weeks. To do this, Mirwais and I would have to re-arrange everything and hit the important points first. If we managed to get to the rest, great. If not, we could always come back. I wanted to visit this place again anyway.

Colonel Barakzay and I chatted. He handed me a little green can of liquid caffeine. It was delicious. I was like a crackhead for these things afterward. The colonel noted my preference for these drinks and I was never offered tea again. Every time I came into his office, he immediately handed me a Caribou coffee.

I had no real authority as a mentor. Any authority that I did have stemmed from charisma or expertise. Everything hinged on how I projected myself. This was the same for every mentor in Afghanistan who didn’t have a gun or a purse to fall back on. I had neither. I had to seem professional and knowledgeable. If I pulled off the act, I could influence change. If not, the Afghans would ignore me.

After the usual small talk about family and America, I brought up the fuel problems as diplomatically as possible. “Colonel, I’m told there is a problem with fuel in the province. What can you tell me about it?”

“We have had difficulties with our men selling fuel in their vehicles. We have taken steps to stop it. There is only so much that can be done. We cannot arrest all of our officers.”

“But Colonel, your fuel supplies are finite. You have to protect this resource so that you can accomplish your mission and secure the area.”

“Yes, David, this is true. But as I have said, there is only so much that I can do as the logistics chief.”

“Well then, Colonel, how can we help you solve this problem? I can only show you how to account for the fuel properly. How to issue and control it. Neither 1LT Jones nor I can sit here and count fuel as it’s given out. What about the fuel trucks that are siphoned off here in the police storage yards? Can we not secure them better? What about the possibility of relieving the officer in charge of fuel storage? He must know something about the shortages and pilfering.”

“David, we can look into that but only the Commandahn can relieve the fuel officer. I do not have this power.”

“Can we talk to the General then? See if we can push him towards a decision.”

“We will see, David. There are no guarantees here in Afghanistan. We are a different people than you Americans. Our culture is different.”

Eventually, I let the corruption issue fade and Barakzay told me the strangest thing that I’d ever heard.

He started in by asking me, “What do you think about Bill Clinton?”

“I thought he was a cool old Dude. I met him a couple of times when I was in the Army.”

“David, Monica Lewinski was a Jewish plant.”

“Colonel, you’re crazy. How was she a Jewish plant?”

“Clinton was pressuring the Israelis to make peace and give land to the Palestinians. A few months later, Monica Lewinski becomes his intern. Clinton had his way with her. The Mossad planted the evidence with the press. That took all of the media focus off of the peace talks. It distracted Clinton for the rest of his term. The peace talks stalled and the Israelis continued to persecute Palestinians.”

“Colonel, it sounds a bit mad don’t you think?”

“Jews are crafty people. The Jews control America. That’s why you’re here in Afghanistan. If the Jews didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.”

Afghans were always telling me that the “Jews controlled America.” After that bit of madness, we called it a day. As we headed out of the colonel’s office, I looked at 1LT Jones. He was positively beaming. “Well Dave, I’m pretty sure he likes you. You’ve got a way with these guys. I haven’t seen him take to anyone like that. He doesn’t usually sit there and tell tall tales.”

“I think this mentoring thing works best when you respect them enough to be straightforward.”

“Yeah, but, I thought he was gonna have a coronary when you told him to fire his fuel officer. He just rolled with it, though.”

We stopped at the stairs and continued talking. “Now he knows that we’re interested in the issue. He’ll be more careful in the way that he pilfers the fuel. It’ll be more difficult to catch him if you’re of the mind to do so,” I said.

“I don’t know, Dave. I’ve heard it can be dangerous to get investigative. I’m not here for that. Not my job. I’ll report it up the chain. If they want to do something, they can. I’m here to mentor. Don’t get me wrong. I’ll try to influence them positively but I’m not here as an investigative journalist. I refuse to preach morality to men who’ve lived their adult lives in war.”

“You’re right. These guys have been at war for more than thirty years. I feel that I’m qualified to teach them logistics. Morality, though? That’s a different question. I’ve given my opinion on corruption when asked, but, it’s difficult to be too judgmental. Especially considering how fucked up America has been over the years.”

“I can’t argue with that, Dave. It’d be nice to leave something good behind, though.”

“A thousand tiny victories, Lieutenant. A thousand tiny victories. After that, it’s up to them.”

“Well, Dave, we better roll. Don’t wanna miss lunch back at Whiskey.”

We geared up and jumped into our vehicles. As we passed out of the gates of the PHQ compound, turbaned men lined the sides of the roads. Women in burqas huddled in groups. They stopped to stare at us momentarily and almost as quickly returned to their conversations and games. I could smell the naan baking. People congregated and ate lunch together. There were folks standing about everywhere. Gaggling crowds equals safety in Afghanistan. If there were no people in an otherwise busy market area or road, it was time to haul ass or seek an alternative route. On this day, Chaghcharan was out in full force.

We passed merchants selling their wares—rugs, pots and pans, TVs and generators. I saw a nice carpet depicting the Minaret of Jam. Driving on, I spied a butcher shop with freshly slaughtered sheep and goats hanging in its doorway. Sheep heads lay on a table outside the shop. One of the butchers was roasting a few goat heads over some charred wood. I didn’t know if this was for consumption or for the smell. My stomach turned at the thought of eating goat head.

1LT Jones, 1LT Grant, and I conducted a quick after action review, or AAR as it’s called in the Army. We went over the day’s meetings and how to proceed. Jones was notified during the AAR that we wouldn’t have the use of the Lithuanians the next day. They had another mission to conduct. We’d have to figure out how to get our convoy up to five vehicles. In the end, we couldn’t find more assets. Mission cancelled. I was pissed.

Lieutenant Jones sought permission to bring the Afghans onto FOB Whiskey for the classes. I wasn’t privy to the conversation, but 1LT Jones came back in a raging mood. The base commander, a Georgian colonel, would only allow a maximum of four ANP on the base. There were eight to twelve ANP who would be attending the course. That’s one problem with the Coalition Forces in Afghanistan. They’re scared to death of the Afghans. We were supposed to be allies but not everyone felt that way. “Well, Dave, we’re screwed here. There is no way to conduct the class with everyone who needs it. I don’t want to start the course this way.”

“Let’s get Colonel Barakzay over here and discuss issues on our ground. See how he reacts. He may be more open away from prying ears. It’s not the start we wanted, but we can at least feel the old guy out.” 1LT Jones agreed. I called Mirwais over and told him to ask Colonel Barakzay to come to the FOB at 0900hrs the next day. We could at least flesh out the fuel issue more fully.

In the end, the course venue ended up being the province headquarters. Of the three weeks that I spent in Chaghcharan, I was able to get down to the PHQ eleven times. By this time, we had the course down. Neither Mirwais nor I needed time to prepare. All we needed was students and electricity to run our projector and laptop. Give us that and we were ready to go. A few times, I gave the course from memory because the generators were out for the day. The Afghans had run out of fuel.

When we did make it down to the PHQ, the course went smoothly. Colonel Barakzay’s office was our classroom. His officers and non-coms were dutifully attendant when they were able to sit through our classes. No one asked questions, which was rare. For the first three or four sessions, not one person asked a question. They were polite and took notes but not one question. I wasn’t accustomed to quiet Afghans. I thought I was boring them to death or they already knew what I was teaching. Finally, Colonel Barakzay was called away during a session. The class became fully animated.

Afterwards, I asked Mirwais if he noticed anything strange. His reply, “They’re scared like hell of Colonel Barakzay. He must have told them to take notes and don’t say shit.”

“What’s up with that? Is he scared one of them will talk too much? Let out some dirty business on accident?”

“I don’t know, Dave. Colonel Barakzay has a reputation as a hard man. I’ve heard stories that he’s killed or had a few people killed for crossing him.”

“Colonel B is Killer B?!”

I had previously started calling Barakzay “Colonel B.” Much to Mirwais’s chagrin, I called the colonel “Killer B” a couple of times in his office thereafter. It just slipped out.

Colonel B was cool as hell to me. Every morning when I entered his office, he’d pull a Caribou out of his desk and hand it to me. I’d give the day’s lectures and ask his guys a few questions to make sure they were following me. If he stepped out, they’d ask a few of their own questions, but were apprehensive about talking too much. At the end of the class, I’d wrap up with the same speech. “Guys, don’t be afraid to ask questions.” I’d look at Colonel B. He’d sit there smiling. As we left his office, he’d hand me a couple of Caribous. “
Khuda hafiz
, Dave. We hope to see you tomorrow.” I’d return with “
Khuda hafiz
” and a firm handshake. Mirwais and I would walk out to where the convoy was parked. 1LT Jones would be waiting for us and ask, “How’d it go today, Dave?” I’d hold up my Caribous and smile.

One of the highlights of our stay in Chaghcharan was visiting an old Soviet fort that commanded the heights overlooking the town. It was on the opposite side of town and had served as General Nuristani’s hilltop fortress. I was told that it was originally built by the British during the Great Game but I wasn’t aware of a British presence in Ghor during that era. I had talked 1LT Jones into taking me up to the fort. We had no problem getting a convoy. Eight vehicles full of volunteers came along for the visit. Obtaining support for a sightseeing venture turned out to be easier than getting support for our actual mission. Even the FOB command had no problem with our little foray.

We drove out into town, passed through Chaghcharan proper, and proceeded up into the mountains. First we rolled up towards the west of town. There were a few abandoned and destroyed vehicles up there. Relics of the Soviet era left behind as the Soviets fled to the north to the Amu Darya. We stopped at an ANP checkpoint. The views were spectacular. I could survey the whole of Chaghcharan. The community spread across an area of ten miles. Dusty mud brick homes knotted together across the plain surrounding the Hari Rud river.

After taking in the vistas of Chaghcharan and the mountains west of town, we mounted up and headed north. Back through town, across the river, and into the mountains. The road was so steep that I thought we might roll the Hummers. Their engines strained loudly as we were passed by Afghans on motorcycles. We drove through a small Afghan village. Mud brick walled compounds lined the dirt road. The Hummers were kicking up dust as we ground our way up the steep inclines.