NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (30 page)

Eventually, we started passing the motorcycles which had zoomed past us earlier. The incline was incredible at this point. We were driving into the sky. We came to a plateau and passed through another small village of mud brick compounds. A few shipping containers were used up here for storage and housing. The Afghans had started using shipping containers for everything. They created store fronts and storage units. They combined and modified them into housing for their families. Soldiers complained about living in those cold structures. The Afghans thought them luxuries.

Once we progressed to the other side of the last village, we came to another incline. Atop this hill was the Soviet fort. We halted about half way up. It was much too steep to proceed further in vehicles. I jumped out of my Hummer as it lurched back. I was nearly knocked to my feet. The drivers of the vehicles all jumped out and placed chock blocks under the wheels to augment parking breaks.

I waited to see if anyone shed their body armor. No one removed theirs, so I kept mine. The Soviet fort was another thirty yards up the slope. A group of shepherds escorted a large flock of sheep past us. Turbaned Afghans mixed in with a hundred or so sheep were moving up the mountain on their way to only God knows where. I supposed they were taking them to market to have their wool sheared or to sell them for meat. Wherever they were heading, there was no grazing ground that I could see.

I turned and attempted to run up to the fort. I got about twenty feet and had to stop. It was too steep to run up that hill with my body armor on. I had thrown my Kevlar into the Hummer earlier. Everyone else kept their helmets. Honestly, I didn’t see the threat. I guess it was the distance from FOB Whiskey. I made it to the top and entered the fort. Crumbling mud brick walls encircled a central outpost. There were gun positions strategically located to command the heights and the road that ran by below.

This fort commanded views of the road heading into Chaghcharan. This was the main artery for travelers journeying from Iran, Herat, Badghis, and all points north and west. It continued east to Bamian and Kabul. Babur Khan had traveled this path on his journey to accept lordship over Kabul as he was laying the foundation for the Mughal Empire. I imagined Babur’s personal guard sitting on this hill at watch ensuring no bandits waylaid them on their journey to Kabul. According to Babur’s journal, the snows were higher than a man’s shoulder at the time. I could only imagine the hardships of passing this way through those snows. Camels and horses froze to death. Men fell along the way not to be found until the spring thaws.

We wandered about the fort for an hour or so. The sun began its decline into the western foothills of Ghor and sprayed purple and pink hues across the valley. We could see FOB Whiskey in the river bed nestled up against Chaghcharan. Out in the west, the mud brick homes were painted all the colors of the rainbow by the setting sun and the dusty haze created by gusts of wind coming off of the mountains. The Hari Rud looked like a silver line from these heights.

By the time we got back to camp, we were enveloped in darkness. Night comes swiftly on the roof of the world. FOB Whiskey was bedding down for the night. My time in the mountains was almost at an end. The next morning would be my last in Chaghcharan.

* * *

Mirwais and I rose early to eat breakfast and prepare for our last session at the PHQ. 1LT Jones met us in the chow hall. We ate a hearty breakfast. The Coalition bases did not have the American breakfast to which I was accustomed. We ate a Continental breakfast—fruit, cereals, boiled eggs, meats, and cheese. Many Americans do not like this kind of breakfast. In my travels across Asia, I had grown to enjoy these breakfasts. A cup of coffee, fruit, cheese, a croissant, and a couple of boiled eggs did me just right.

We gathered up for the drive to the PHQ—Mirwais, 1LT Jones, 1LT Grant, SFC Smith, our supporting cast of Lithuanians, and myself. I was always saddened when leaving a place in which I’d enjoyed myself. 1LT Jones gave the convoy brief. We jumped into our vehicles. Fifteen minutes later, we entered the gates of the PHQ.

Colonel Barakzay met us in the parking lot. It was the first time that he’d done that. He wanted to give me a tour of his logistics operation.
Assalaam alaykum. Ba khair asti, Khub asti, Jor asti
, David, and clasped my hands. “Peace be with you. How is your health? Are you good? Are you well?”

“Hello, brother! Good morning.
Assalaam alaykum!
” We exchanged man hugs and he led me up to his office.

Instead of giving the final class, we spent the morning chatting. The first conversation was a bombshell for me. “David, I will convert in March after the end-of- year inventories. This is the best time to convert, as we create everything new at that time. We archive our old books and create new books. I will use that opportunity to convert.”

“Colonel, if you can get that going, I will come up in the spring to assist you in the process. Between us, I’m sure we can make it happen.”

I was surprised. Before, Colonel B had been adamantly against using the new system. Suddenly, he’d seen the light. As we sat there talking, he called all of his men into his office, and he called me up to the front of the room. “David, please come stand with me. We want to present you with a token of our friendship to you.” He unrolled a rug from behind his desk. It was the carpet of the Minaret of Jam I had seen earlier. Yesterday, I had told Mirwais to pick it up for me before we left Chaghcharan. “David, we are grateful to you for coming to us and sharing your knowledge and expertise with us. We know that you have come a long way from your home. You have shared dangers with our people and with us. We will always be grateful to you and all of the Americans who have come here to help our nation.” We shook hands and Colonel B gave me a hug.

I was nearly speechless, but they expected something from me. “Colonel B, fellows, America wants a peaceful and successful Afghanistan. A nation that can stand on equal footing with the nations of the world. I have always felt privileged to be a part of the effort to bring this goal to fruition. Everyone with whom I work, whether they be Afghan, American, Italian, British, or Canadian wants this to come to pass. My goal here is to work myself out of a job. With your hard work and diligence, I hope that this will come to pass. This is why I hit so hard on the corruption issue in my course. As long as corruption stains the national security forces of Afghanistan, the national honor of Afghanistan is stained. Afghanistan needs you. Your people need you. If I can be a small part of this effort and help in some small way, I am truly gratified.”

With that, we said farewell. Mirwais and I departed the province headquarters for the final time. We’d had a good stay. The mission in Afghanistan is all about small steps. If we can make small cracks in the foundation, someday we may be able to reach a tipping point. The class had gone well enough, given that we had to cut and tailor it for the time allotted to us. Colonel B had committed to conversion. Getting them to verbally commit is half the battle. Some of them feel honor-bound to keep their word. I’d told Colonel B that I’d send certificates up to them through 1LT Jones.

The next morning, Mirwais and I lucked into a courier flight. It was a civilian airplane that usually carries mail or VIPs. We flew back in the comfort of huge, comfortable leather seats. The aircraft had big windows out of which I could take photos. Best of all, it was fast. We sat back and relaxed. I stared out the window the whole flight. As we passed over Jam, I snapped a picture of the minaret. Unfortunately, that was the closest that I ever came to it.

No Greater Love

Early Fall 2009

Back at Camp Stone, I spent many an evening and early morning perched atop the Hesco barriers near my hooch. From that vantage point, I could see miles in any direction. At dawn I would gaze at the sun casting orange hues over the mountains to the east or watch as the pink dusk erased the landscapes around the camp at sunset. Looking out to the vast plains at the base of the mountains reminded me that there was a world outside the dusty, gray camp walls. It felt like a prison in there at times. My co-workers and I often compared our situation to the stranded denizens of
Gilligan’s Island
. Yet we’d consciously chosen to maroon ourselves on this particular uncharted island.

I often stood atop those walls and meditated. Sometimes, I’d take my camera to try to capture the spirit of the land. Other times, I watched traffic pass on the Main Service Road (MSR) and daydreamed about roaming the countryside unmolested, unhindered. What I’d have given to have had the opportunity to drive off into the west, cross the border into Iran, and drive straight to Persepolis. I felt certain that I could have survived out in the wilds of western Afghanistan.

Folks on the MSR were usually traveling to and from Herat or south into the wastelands of Farah, Helmand, and Nimruz. I often saw military convoys returning from training or an operation. On one occasion, I spotted a bus full of ANA soldiers driving southeast towards Camp Zafar. Two tan ANA Ford Rangers followed close behind. Further down the road, I saw a white sedan pull off from the side of the road in a cloud of dust. It had been waiting there; the occupant watching, waiting, biding his time until the bus was about two hundred meters away on the other side of the road heading in his direction. At that moment, the sedan shot out onto the road with tremendous speed, aiming straight for the ANA bus.

There were probably fifty or sixty soldiers on that bus. I thought, oh fuck, it’s a suicide bomber. I couldn’t look away. I was mesmerized by the tragedy unfolding in front of my eyes. I prayed to the gods. “Let them get away. Please, let them get away.”

Suddenly, one of the ANA Rangers that was trailing the bus swerved around to the side of the bus. It picked up speed and rammed the white sedan. The explosion was enormous. The bus slammed on its breaks just as the Ranger and sedan disappeared in a gigantic fireball.

The second ANA Ranger pulled around the bus and stopped a few meters from the burning Ranger and sedan. Two ANA soldiers got out. They grabbed a couple of soldiers from the bus and set up a security perimeter around their fallen comrades. One of the soldiers pointed at the bus, and then pointed at Camp Zafar. After that the bus drove off towards the camp. Ambulance sirens sounded off in the distance and an ambulance appeared at the Zafar gate and continued out to the explosion site with a security escort.

Eventually, the whole camp got wind of what had gone down. People lined the Hesco walls trying to see what was going on. I walked back to my hooch horrified by what I’d just seen.

Two days later, as I was riding out to see the ANP, we passed the explosion crater. It was fair sized. I estimated it at ten feet in circumference. As we passed it, Captain Jonny asked me, “Dave, did you hear what happened?”

“Nah, but I was standing on the Hescos when it happened. I saw what went down.”

“Yeah, but, the real story? That was a company of ANA returning from a training exercise. The bus was trailed by the Afghan commander and platoon sergeant in one Ranger and the first sergeant and executive officer in the second vehicle. When the commander saw the suicide bomber’s intent to hit his soldiers in that bus, he jammed on the gas and rammed the sedan to keep it from killing his soldiers.”

“That’s some hardcore heroic shit. They should re-designate Zafar in that cat’s honor.”

“Yeah, I agree. The commander was communicating with Zafar the whole time. He told them before he rammed the suicide bomber to tell his wife and kids that he loved them.”

“Man, that’s heroism there. What’s that Bible passage? ‘No greater love has a man than that he lay down his life for another.’”

“Yeah. That dude was full of love. He saved some sixty odd lives that day.”

The Boys from Farah

October–November 2009

Farah was the road to hell. It was a violent province where the Taliban and bandits roamed with impunity. They set up roadblocks and demanded bribes. They captured or kidnapped police if they caught them out on the road. Convoys of supplies meant for the ANA, ANP, and Coalition Forces were regularly interdicted and hijacked. Improvised explosive devices were more common in Farah than in Badghis, Ghor, and Herat provinces combined. Exiting and entering the FOB in Farah was almost guaranteed to bring you under fire.

When I started my “Farah Plan” in the fall of 2009, I realized that it was a dangerous place but that didn’t bother me. I
knew
I’d be okay. Call it a sixth sense, if you will. It’s that feeling that I’ve always had that things would work out. The other guys were scared to death of the place. An Army guy told me that I was crazy for wanting to go down there but I wanted to see the place. It was one more joyride through the valley of death.

Unfortunately, I was never able to get to Farah. I planned four separate courses in Farah during my time at Camp Stone. The Farah commanders cancelled each course due to manning or security issues. It pissed me off. I cursed and stomped and rumbled about in my office. Even though I wanted to go, I was always a little relieved each time the class was canceled. I’d call Mirwais, “Dude, Farah is cancelled again. We get to live another month.”

“Good. I hope it always gets cancelled. Not even the police feel safe down there.”

“Mirwais, there’s an old saying. ‘If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain.’”

I arranged a two-week workshop at Camp Zafar for the Farah logistics crew. Farah came to us. They were an interesting lot led by Noor Ahmad who had attended my second course at Camp Zafar. The man was quiet and unassuming at first. I overlooked him when I first met him. He was too clean-looking, too bookish. I figured one of his clerks was his boss. I’d have never thought that he was THE MAN. As time passed, though, I noted how the others deferred to him. I also started learning the Afghan police ranks and took note of the fact that he was a full colonel.

Rank didn’t mean a whole lot in Afghanistan. There were generals who had as much authority and prestige as a second lieutenant. There were majors to whom everyone deferred. This colonel was a quiet guy. If you paid attention, you noticed that he was in charge of the room. He was also a sharp dude. When he spoke, the rest of the Afghans in the room took heed. There were no smart remarks directed at him. Others in the class would cut each other off. When Noor Ahmad was speaking, there was dead silence and nods of approval. It was quite impressive.