Afghanistan

© David Kaelin 2013

I have not written all this to complain: I have simply written the truth. I do not intend by what I have written to compliment myself: I have simply set down exactly what happened. Since I have made it a point in this history to write the truth of every matter and to set down no more than the reality of every event, as a consequence I have reported every good and evil I have seen of father and brother and set down the actuality of every fault and virtue of relative and stranger. May the reader excuse me; may the listener take me not to task.

~ Babur Khan, founder of the Mughal Empire

Do not try to do too much with your own hands. Better the Arabs do it tolerably than that you do it perfectly. It is their war, and you are to help them, not to win it for them. Actually, also, under the very odd conditions of Arabia, your practical work will not be as good as, perhaps, you think it is.

~ T.E. Lawrence, The Evolution of a Revolt

I don’t fear death; I fear remaining silent in the face of injustice. I am young and I want to live. But I say to those who would eliminate my voice: I am ready, wherever and whenever you might strike. You can cut down the flower, but nothing can stop the coming of the spring.

~ Malalai Joya, Raising My Voice

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Abbreviations

Maps

Part I

Defense Contractors, Mercenaries, and War Profiteers, Oh My!

Fort Knox, Kentucky

Into the ‘Stan!

Operation Enduring Freedom

Taliban Rocket Show

Fallen Soldiers: The Pat Tillman Story

Balkans Invasion

$35 Haircut Special

Camp Cupcake—The Easy Life

Phoenix Rising

Bombs, Bullets, Insurgents

Part II

The Nights of Kabul

White Collar Mercenaries R Us

Arriving in the Mile High City

The Taliban’s House of Murder

Wazir Akbar Khan and the Chinese

The Kabul Beauty School

Part III

Herat: The Revolutionary City

The Pearl of Khorasan

Tarjomani-Man

Meeting the General

Terp Boot Camp

Training the Afghans

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Masjid Jami

Ghalla Attar

Motorcycles, Politics, and Sex Videos

Kidnappings and Drive-Bys

Major Zahir Arrives

Boy Buggin’ Pashtuns

Chaghcharan

No Greater Love

The Boys from Farah

Land of the Great Conquerors

Epilogue

Glossary

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

This book is based on true events that occurred during my decade of service in Afghanistan as a defense contractor for the U.S. military. I have changed the names to protect those who may be endangered by their continuing involvement with Coalition Forces. This is a very real danger. It is especially true of those brave men and women who serve as interpreters and translators for the U.S. military and Coalition Forces. These men and women, primarily Afghan, place their lives on the line daily in their efforts to drag Afghanistan to a better future.

Other individuals, particularly defense contractors, mentioned herein still work and live in Afghanistan. The U.S. Army and State Department are staffed with many people who hate, or merely dislike, contractors. Any chance they come by to fire a contractor would be seized upon with relish. For that reason, I’ve changed all those names as well.

The U.S. Army denied contractors (and still does to an extent) the right to carry firearms in self-defense. Instead, they leave us reliant on the military personnel who surround us. Some of the men and women with whom I worked disagreed with this policy. These persons offered me the opportunity to have a measure of self-defense at my disposal. Those names were changed as well.

As regards other U.S. military personnel, if I felt that the actions of a given soldier or marine might endanger their careers, I changed their name. Similarly, I changed the names of certain members of the National Guard. I did not work closely with U.S. Air Force or Navy personnel. I retained the real names of colonels, generals, and other high-ranking members of the armed forces, since these individuals have all been cited in the press at one time or another, and, in many instances, quite often.

I have also retained most of the Afghan military officers’ real names. They know the dangers that surround them. They are public figures. Some of these men are as venal as the Taliban and bandits who prey on the Afghan populace. Others are men simply trying to make a decent living and survive with a measure of security for themselves and their families. Even the venal ones befriended me and offered hospitality and a measure of security in my travels throughout Afghanistan. I do not call these men corrupt or criminal in this book. I write of my experiences with them. I leave you to your opinion of their humanity.

Abbreviations

AAFES

Army and Air Force Exchange Service

ABP

Afghan Border Police

ANA

Afghan National Army

ANP

Afghan National Police

ANSF

Afghan National Security Forces

AO

Area of Operations

AR

Army Regulation

BAF

Bagram Airfield

BDE

Brigade

BN

Battalion

CAC

Common Access Card

CDR

Commander of a Unit (company, battalion, brigade, division, or corps)

CFC-A

Combined Forces Command–Afghanistan

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency

CIF

Central Issue Facility

CJTF-180

Combined Joint Task Force 180

CO or COY

Company

COL

Colonel

CONOP

Convoy Operation

CONUS

Continental United States

CPL

Consolidated Property Listing

CPOL

Civilian Personnel Online

CPT

Captain

CRC

CONUS Replacement Center

CSM

Command Sergeant Major

CW2

Chief Warrant Officer Two

CW3

Chief Warrant Officer Three

CYA

Cover Your Ass

DA

Department of the Army

DART

District Assessment and Reformation Team

DCO

Deputy Commander

DFAC

Dining Facility Administration Center

DHQ

District Headquarters

DPM

Deputy Program Manager

DSN

Defense Information Systems

EOD

Explosive Ordnance Disposal

FATA

Federally Administered Tribal Areas

FDD

Focused District Development

FOB

Forward Operating Base

FUBAR

Fucked Up Beyond All Repair

HMMWV

High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

HQ

Headquarters

IED

Improvised Explosive Device

ISAF

International Security Assistance Force

K2

Karshi-Khanabad

KBR

Kellogg, Brown & Root

KIA

Killed in Action

LOGCAP

Logistical Capstone

MAJ

Major

MG

Major General

MOD

Ministry of Defense

MOI

Ministry of Interior

MP

Military Police

MPRI

Military Professional Resources Inc.

MRAP

Mine Resistant Ambush Protected

MSG

Master Sergeant

MSR

Main Service Road

MWR

Morale, Welfare, and Recreation

NATO

North Atlantic Treaty Organization

NCO

Non-Commissioned Officer

NGO

Non-Governmental Organization

NWFP

Northwest Frontier Province

OCS

Officer Candidate School

OEF

Operation Enduring Freedom

OIC

Officer in Charge

OIF

Operation Iraqi Freedom

OP

Operations

PBO

Property Book Officer

PBOSS

Property Book Operations Sustainment and Support

PBUSE

Property Book Unit Supply Enhanced

PEB

Pre-Engineered Building

PFC

Private First Class

PHQ

Province Headquarters

POI

Program of Instruction

PX

Post Exchange

RBWT

Regional Battle Warrior Training

RCAG

Regional Command Advisory Group

RHQ

Regional Headquarters

RPAC

Regional Property Assistance Command

RPAT

Regional Property Assistance Team

R&R

Rest and Recuperation

RTC

Regional Training Center

S4 NCOIC

Supply (or Logistics) Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge

SAS

Special Air Service

SECFOR

Security Forces

SF

Special Forces

SFC

Sergeant First Class

SGM

Sergeant Major

SGT

Sergeant

SOP

Standard Operating Procedures

SPBS

Standard Property Book System

SPC

Specialist

SSA

Supply Support Activity

STD

Sexually Transmitted Disease

SUV

Sport Utility Vehicle

TF

Task Force

TOA

Turnover of Authority

TOC

Tactical Operations Center

TOG

The Old Guard

TPE

Theater Provided Equipment

UAV HMMWV

Up-Armored (and/or Unmanned Aerial Vehicle) High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

UCMJ

Uniform Code of Military Justice

USFOR-A

United States Forces–Afghanistan

USO

United Service Organization

UXO

Unexploded Ordnance

VA

Veterans Affairs

VBIED

Vehicle-Borne Improvised Explosive Device

XO

Executive Officer, usually second in command of a military unit

PART I

Defense Contractors, Mercenaries, and War Profiteers, Oh My!

We’re rarely discussed outside of war zones. We’re the invisible hand that moves the American military. We supply, transport, and maintain the military in the field. We invent new technologies that protect them and make them more lethal. We exist everywhere that our armies operate. Our numbers are vast because we do the jobs that the Army either can’t or won’t. We are killed, kidnapped, and maimed alongside the military. Yet, we have no monuments.

The militaries for whom we work alternately revile us and grudgingly respect us. The American people ignore us at best, hate us at worst, or are simply unaware of us. Most do not understand our capabilities. We bring years of valuable experience with us. Yet, the only thing that matters to many is our price tag.

The history of the defense contractor is long and proud. We traveled with Alexander the Great as he trekked into Afghanistan over two thousand years ago. We transported Wellington’s guns across India. We sailed oceans to deliver troops safely to become cannon fodder on the battlefields of World Wars I and II. We followed the United States Army into Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. We fight and are sneered at and labeled mercenary. In the old days, we were mule skinners and stevedores, mechanics and laborers. In the modern era, we cook meals for our soldiers. We provide security for the troops as well as deliver them their equipment and ammunition. We provide Morale, Welfare, and Recreation (MWR) facilities where the troops can decompress, make a phone call home, or surf the Internet.

We provide intelligence to the Army. General Robert E. Lee learned of Union movements from a civilian contracted to spy on Lincoln’s army … for a price. Leonardo da Vinci taught armies how to build impregnable fortifications and he also built the first self-propelled cannon in history … for a price. Civilians are being contracted as I write this to deploy to Afghanistan to provide security for electric power grids. These men will fight the Taliban and local bandits. These men will bleed and die. Civilians from such diverse places as Romania, New Zealand, Great Britain, the Philippines, and Nepal have been providing convoy and base security since the beginning of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, as have Afghan and Iraqi nationals.

We have been essential to every military since time immemorial. Yet, we are invisible to most of you. When the troops return from the battlefield you honor them. When we return from the battlefield, we are met only by our families. If the troops are wounded on the battlefield, you nurture them back to health and provide them with some semblance of benefits and aid. If we are wounded on the battlefield, no one cares. Oftentimes, the multi-billion dollar corporation with which we are employed tries to deny the responsibility for our injuries and wounds. If a soldier is killed on the battlefield, you honor him and call him hero. If we die on the battlefield, we’re told that we knew the risks and were well compensated, so stop whining.

We go for the money. Most of us will admit this. We acknowledge the risk and commit to the task. We are well compensated. Most of us. Some of us have been hoodwinked, kidnapped, and enslaved. Many of us are veterans of the military and have served in other war zones as sergeants, captains, and colonels. Others never wore the uniform. We do the job because we are hired to do so. We are not the companies that hire us. Our love and respect for the troops is as great as any civilian back home. We do everything in our power to help our soldiers complete their mission, for in most cases we are as committed as the soldier.

We give truth to the lies of politicians when they speak of troop drawdowns at conflict’s end. Why? Because we don’t count. Politicians can truthfully state that they have brought the troops home. They simply do not speak the other side of that truth. That they’ve left thousands of American contractors behind to finish the job. Soldiers get home in time for Christmas because contractors stay on to finish the job.

I know these things because I have been there. I first went to Afghanistan in November of 2003 as a defense contractor. I stayed in the country until February 2010. I worked as a property technician for the United States Army and a mentor and trainer to the Afghan National Police. I spent most of my time in Afghanistan but also traveled throughout Central Asia and the Middle East. This is the story of those years.

This is how it begins …

Fort Knox, Kentucky

Early September 2003

“Hello. Is this Dave Kaelin?” said a strange voice on the phone.

“Um, yeah. Who is this?”

“I’m John Owens from KBR.[1] I’m looking for an SPBS[2] operator and I see that you are qualified. Would you be interested in a job in Afghanistan?”

“Well, that depends on how much money you’re offering.”

“I can’t really speak salary, but it will definitely be six figures.”

“Then, yes. I’m interested.”

“You’ll get a call in a few days from an HR representative.”

“John, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“How did you come by my name and, I assume, my resume?”

“Well, I shouldn’t be telling you. Basically, it’s illegal. But I got your information from CPOL.[3] Keep your phone on. You’ll be hearing from us soon.”

This was a fortunate turn of events. I had tried to get a job as a contractor when I’d left the Army in 2000 but my attempts had come to nothing. Instead, I’d enrolled in university and had been working jobs that were leading nowhere. Now the infamous KBR had come calling. I listened. Who wouldn’t? It was a chance to earn some good money and get rid of the college debt that I’d accrued after I left the Army. KBR had a bad reputation. It was the construction company that had received no-bid government contracts. At the time, it was a wholly-owned subsidiary of Dick Cheney’s evil Halliburton Empire. The political left used KBR and Halliburton as a club to bash the Bush administration. It didn’t seem to matter that Bill Clinton had given KBR the same type of contract in the Balkans while Dick Cheney was the CEO. None of that mattered to me. I saw this as a paid adventure, and I really didn’t think much beyond the possible, but acceptable, danger of working in a war zone. War zone jobs pay well. It was a trade off—big money, big risk. I’d been in dangerous and exotic locales before—the Korean DMZ ’91, Panama ’95, and Egypt ’97. The danger didn’t concern me except for the stress that it would bring my family. It was an opportunity to make more money than I’d ever dreamed of making in my lifetime, and a chance to experience a part of the world that few Westerners are afforded.

I believed I was going to be able to make a difference over there in a way that would never have been possible trudging through as a nine-to-five wage slave in America. Thirty or forty years from now, I figured I’d be able to look back and say “I helped liberate Afghanistan. I helped bring them democracy, freedom, and liberty.”

* * *

KBR wanted me to report immediately. I negotiated a date of September 22, 2003 to start my in-processing in Houston. I had two weeks to settle everything on the home front. Not that there was a lot to settle. I was ready to go the day that John Owens had called me. The only reason that I wanted the two weeks was to give notice to my employers. They had done right by me and I wanted to return the favor.

I was joining what was known as LOGCAP or the Logistics Civil Augmentation Program. LOGCAP is a huge umbrella contract intended to provide logistics support to the U.S. government’s “Global War on Terror.” The contract covers our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as assorted periphery areas of military operation, such as Uzbekistan, the Kyrgyz Republic, and small outposts in Pakistan. Basically what LOGCAP does is to contract out civilians to assist U.S. forces on the ground in these places. KBR had been awarded a LOGCAP contract to support our troops in Bagram and Qandahar, two key American military bases in Afghanistan, which is where I was now heading.

KBR flew me to Houston on the Sunday before in-processing started. I was administered an AIDS test and a short physical that really only ensured that I was breathing and not a drug addict. As we processed through, I met people heading out all over the world. There were folks headed to the Balkans, Romania, Germany, Afghanistan, Kuwait, Iraq—anywhere that KBR had a contract. Some of these folks looked so disheveled that, at times, it had the feel of a homeless shelter. It was as if KBR had scoured the streets and unemployment lines to fill the LOGCAP contract requirements. Some of the positions for which they were hiring had strict qualifications. For instance, my position required five to ten years experience with United States Army property accountability operations and SPBS certification in the use of the Army’s database system for tracking and monitoring weapons and supplies. However, there were also positions such as laborers, dining facility cooks, and the like. KBR could hire anyone for those positions and they did. I met one guy who had been in a halfway house for recovering addicts. He had been addicted to heroin. Yet, KBR had hired him to go to Afghanistan, which is the opium center of the world. (As far as I know, he stayed clean while he was there, but that wasn’t the case for everyone.)

The Army required KBR to administer drug tests as part of the hiring process. The day of the urinalysis was one of consternation for many of the prospective employees in my processing group. Quite a few guys were sweating bullets as they confessed to having recently smoked dope or snorted cocaine. Of course, they kept that information from KBR. Many of these guys had spent the night drinking water and taking goldenseal pills to prevent coming up “hot.” It must have worked. No one in my group failed the test. Later that night, I came upon a few of them smoking marijuana in celebration. Quite a few spoke longingly of the opportunity to score pure opium and Afghan hashish when they got in-country.

During the first few days in Houston, we sat through classes on improvised explosive devices (IEDs), unexploded ordnance (UXO), mines and mine field recognition, as well as an Afghanistan country class where we were briefed on the culture and language, plus indigenous animal threats, and other possible health hazards.

The last piece of the process was inoculations. Luckily for me, I had my military vaccinations card. Civilians who had never been in the military were given upwards of twenty shots. After that, we were issued a chemical protection suit, chemical mask, body armor, and helmet. With that KBR cleared us for deployment. Then we waited for our respective flights to Afghanistan, Iraq, or Eastern Europe. Despite having been told that I was needed urgently for my position, I sat in my hotel room for another week waiting for a flight.

[1] KBR—Kellogg, Brown & Root—is one of the U.S. Army’s largest defense contractors.

[2] SPBS—Standard Property Book System—is a database software system used by the U.S. Army.

[3] CPOL—Civilian Personnel Online—is the Monster.com for government jobs with the U.S. Army.

Into the ‘Stan!

October–November 2003

KBR flew its employees in and out of Afghanistan via Uzbekistan back in 2003. You might spend a couple of hours or several days in the Uzbek capital of Tashkent. When I arrived at the airport, it was like a jump back in time. Tashkent felt like a scene out of a sixties-era James Bond movie. Military clerks behind the customs and immigration cubicles went through their mind-numbing, bureaucratic motions like drab, gray automatons—no smiles, no greetings. “Hand over your papers.” STAMP! STAMP! STAMP! “Here are your papers.” I don’t think they ever looked at me to verify that I was the guy in the passport photo. I tried to engage the dude who was processing me into the country. No dice. He ignored me. I was just a number in a long line of the faceless masses who had started passing through to fight the “War on Terror,” which had suddenly made Tashkent a popular destination for businessmen, contractors, and government bureaucrats.

The airport itself was even more drab, cold, and gray than its customs officials. Men in green and gray uniforms with guns stood about with no real purpose. The building was at least fifty years old, pre-dating perestroika and glasnost. Cheap, imitation marble lined the floors. It was an ugly structure and it was run down. Metal chairs with “pleather,” or fake leather, and padded seating were scattered about in a way that spoke to the traveler: “Keep moving. We don’t want you here.” The baggage carousels were battered and dented, and, on my arrival, had completely broken down. Instead of queuing at the carousel to await our baggage, carts were wheeled in and gnarled Uzbek men in frayed uniforms dropped all of our bags onto the dirty floor.

Once each of us had grabbed our bags, we were led outside where we were instantly surrounded by a teeming mass of poverty-stricken humanity. Men and boys in tattered, filthy clothes pleaded to be allowed to cart our bags to our vehicles. “Sir. Sir, carry your bag. One dollar each bag, sir.” They were insistent. Even if we said we would carry our own bags, three or four of them would follow along with us, oblivious to our repeated “No, thank yous.” As we climbed aboard the bus waiting to take us to our hotel, they pleaded even louder. “Baqsheesh.” “Tip, sir! Baqsheesh, sir!” One dollar, sir!” “One bottle water, sir.”

Only one airline flew into and around Uzbekistan at that time—Uzbek Airlines. The airplanes were rickety, ancient machines. I thought the damn things were going to fall out of the sky. I’m pretty sure parts of the wing fell off an airplane on one landing. The planes that flew us from Tashkent to Karshi-Khanabad (K2) Airbase were worse. I flew into K2 on a plane that had folding seats bolted to the floor. One passenger was holding a chicken during a flight.

Uzbekistan is a former Soviet satellite state. Like its airports and customs officials, it was dark, dank, and dreary. The people looked downtrodden. The economy was dead and jobs were scarce. The hotel in Tashkent where KBR lodged us had lawyers and doctors working as receptionists, bartenders, and bellboys. The bars were full of prostitutes. The first time I stayed in Tashkent, the going rate for a lady of the night was fifty bucks. The rednecks from Texas and Louisiana had run that price up to 300 U.S. dollars within a few months. The price pretty much stuck there until KBR moved its operations to Dubai in 2005.

After a night or two in Tashkent, KBR moved us to K2, which, at the time, was the way station for soldiers and civilians flying into and out of Afghanistan. I was part of a massive influx of new hires for the Afghan mission. Flights were limited. After a week sitting in K2, I boarded a C130 aircraft bound for Bagram Airfield. The flight was smooth running for about seventy-five minutes when suddenly we took a vertigo- inducing dive. The aircraft engines reversed into a deafening burst of combustion. Seconds later, we hit tarmac. I wasn’t certain what was happening at first. The dive was so steep that I thought we’d been fired on. We were in a war zone after all. One second we’re on a steady trajectory. The next we’re being pushed and pulled by the force of the aircraft’s change of direction. I felt a momentary surge of panic as the G-forces turned my stomach up into my mouth.

No rockets had been fired at us. This was tactical night landing—standard operating procedure—in Bagram, Afghanistan. All aircraft flying into Bagram Airfield landed in this manner. A quick altitude decline hugging the slopes of the Hindu Kush Mountains, immediate deceleration, and straight onto the ground. A big bump, a short bounce, and then we smoothed out on a runway and came to a lurching halt. A couple of poor bastards who hadn’t strapped on their safety belts were jerked out of their web seating and onto the floor.

No sooner had the aircraft come to a full stop than a ramp came down, and our tiny pitch black world inside the aircraft was flooded with light. We had arrived. We’d flown over a cascading canvas of mountains to get into Bagram in eastern Afghanistan. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Bagram Airfield is situated in a valley surrounded by the soaring ramparts of the majestic mountain range of the Hindu Kush that straddles Afghanistan and Pakistan. The mountains encircled Bagram like fortress walls. They were the reason for our sudden, terror-inducing decline in altitude. Pilots had no choice but to drop steeply in order to land at Bagram. Of course, the opposite is true on the way out. Aircraft must reach for immediate elevation when leaving Bagram or crash into the craggy, snow covered peaks.

We landed in the dead of night. When the cargo door at the rear of the aircraft opened, I inexplicably started singing an old Army tune in my head, “C130 rollin’ down the strip! Airborne Daddy gonna take a little trip!” Lights flooded the cargo and passenger department. A few airfield officials and a KBR representative appeared in the light. “Mission Top Secret, Destination Unknown. We don’t even know if we’re ever comin’ home!” We were told to unstrap and grab our gear. “Exit from the rear of the aircraft,” a cargo specialist yelled to us. We followed directions but mostly we followed the veterans. The old guys who were returning from R&R. I watched them and mimicked. We followed the KBR representative off of the tarmac and into a passenger holding area. Our identification cards were collected and compared to the passenger manifest. “Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door! Jump right out on the count of four.” They called off our names ensuring that everyone who was supposed to be on the flight was actually on the flight. After an hour of waiting, they led us to our baggage in the cool Afghan air. It was a pitch black night. I pulled a flashlight out of my backpack and twisted it to on. Several clicks brought to life beams of light that sliced through the darkness. Shards of light flashed all around me. Once everyone had secured their baggage, someone yelled “Welcome to BAF!” as we were loaded onto a bus and driven off into the darkness. I sat on the bus and wondered what in God’s name had I gotten myself into, while the Army tunes buzzed around in my brain.

We soon turned onto a main road where there were Afghans working an ancient asphalt machine. The first real road was being laid in Bagram. All other roads, if you can call them that, were sand pits on which vehicles would slide haphazardly with tires spinning nearly hopelessly, fishtailing down the road. The Afghans working the asphalt were the only light source that I could make out in the immediate vicinity. Bagram in 2003 had no lights and precious few hard surfaces. Most of the base was covered either in fine sand or ankle-twisting, fist-sized gravel. As we passed the Afghans, the old timers broke out into applause. Some of these guys had already been in Afghanistan for up to a year. All of us newbies joined the applause as we sensed the significance of asphalt being laid after sloshing around in that sand outside the airfield earlier.

KBR deposited us in transient tents and told us to bed down for the night and report to the building next to the tent at 8 a.m. to finalize our in-processing. The tents were long and filled from front to rear with green Army cots. There were a few people in them already. Men and women coming and going to other places or departing contract. A few other newbies were in there as well. They’d been there a day or two and were awaiting their assignments in the outer base camps in places like Kabul, Qandahar, Jalalabad, or Gardez.

I woke up at 0500hrs. All of the newbies reported to the KBR administrative building that morning. It was the only permanent structure in the immediate area. I was told that it was an old Soviet-era barracks. A leftover from the Soviet occupation. Bagram, which is about twenty-five miles northeast of Kabul, was a major point of entry during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan as well as the main Soviet airfield in this region of the country. From here, the Soviets protected Kabul and struck out to the north and east at the Northern Alliance of Ahmad Shah Massoud~the Lion of Panjsheer. Massoud was a complicated character. He was a major foe of the Soviets in the war of the ‘80s. He helped to defeat the Afghan communist government after the Soviets tucked tail and ran from American stinger missiles. He and other warlords bombed the hell out of Kabul after the Soviets left it unscathed. Massoud became the leader of the Northern Alliance-led United Front that held out against the rise of the Taliban. The Taliban sent assassins to murder him prior to the 9/11 attacks. Taliban and al Qaeda agents, disguised as journalists, successfully infiltrated Massoud’s camp and set off an explosive hidden in a camera as they were “interviewing” him on September 9, 2001. Massoud died shortly thereafter.

When America invaded in October 2001, British SAS[4] and Army Pathfinders[5] were dropped into Bagram. Those guys prepared the way for the U.S. military to move into BAF, which is how everyone referred to Bagram and its airfield. Scattered across the area were buildings that hadn’t been destroyed during the Soviet occupation. KBR HQ was one of those buildings. It was a two-storey, white building about the size of a small gymnasium. KBR had come in and improved the building. The upper floor became offices for the project manager, his deputy, and staff. The first floor they’d made into administrative offices to run the LOGCAP contract. Within LOGCAP, KBR was tasked with every aspect of supporting the war effort in Afghanistan from troop movement and housing to feeding the troops and getting them bombs and bullets.

We spent that first day at Bagram Airfield filling out forms and attending classes. The classes were more in-depth repeats of earlier briefs with a few twists. They annoyed me because most of it was common sense. We were barraged with “Don’t feed the animals” messages. I sat there thinking, “NO SHIT!” Until I came to the realization that they had us sitting there because some real life imbecile had actually made these rules and warnings necessary. Just as that thought whizzed by, the guy briefing told us straight up, “Look, I don’t want to be up here anymore than you want to be sitting there. But, we gotta tell you this stuff because we’ve had people do these things.”

Rule #1: “Don’t attempt to keep camel spiders as pets. They get big. REALLY BIG. The camel spider got its name from its appetite. They grow to be anywhere from six inches to a gigantic two feet in diameter. They feed in groups. Eight to ten of them will attack a camel and sting it with their venom. The venom incapacitates the camel, which then collapses. Once the prey is down, the camel spiders swarm the poor beast and proceed to eat it. Yes, camel spiders ARE carnivorous.”

Rule #2: “If you are digging a ditch and you suddenly notice a viper staring at you, don’t try to beat it to death with a shovel. Another bit of common sense, I know. Only it’s not. Some guy actually did this. He and his co-workers dug a trench about six-feet deep in which they were going to install water and sewage pipes for a shower facility. They took their lunch break. When they returned to the pit, a viper had crawled down into the trench. Instead of calling Vector Control—the animal guys—this guy jumped down into the trench with the viper and starting bashing the damn thing with a shovel. That viper got a hold of him and didn’t let go. It bit him six or seven times. They got the guy out and he miraculously survived.”

We also sat through a few administrative classes, such as how to post to our time sheets as well as the R&R policy. KBR made it compulsory to go on R&R every four months. We were allotted fourteen days on the first and second R&Rs, and a twenty-one day mid-tour if you stayed for a second year. If you didn’t stay for a second year, KBR flew you to your home of record after the twelfth month.

We were also given our “uniform.” It consisted of a baseball cap that had KBR sewn on it. These we had to wear at all times. The contract officer who presided over the original contract negotiations had insisted on these hats as a way to identify KBR employees. He was one of those military guys who hated contractors. Anytime he saw a person wearing a KBR hat smoking or standing around too long, he’d head straight for the project manager’s office and complain.

The last part of the brief was new to me—General Order #1. It was a multi-page order signed by the commanding general of the United States Forces–Afghanistan (USFOR-A) with an encyclopedic list of prohibited actions for U.S. forces in Afghanistan. The gist of General Order #1 is this: No Fucking, No Drinking, No Drugs. That’s how it was briefed, and we were all given a copy to sign and a copy to keep with us. We were also told that we weren’t to fraternize with the “customer.” This was KBR Order #1. By the “customer” they meant anyone who was not KBR.

American forces were the only personnel who were prohibited from drinking alcohol. This was a manifestation of American puritanism mixed with the cognitive dissonance that is American political correctness. The U.S. military “big wigs” had convinced themselves that Afghans do not drink. Reality, however, never stopped a politician or an American general from making broad assumptions. I also never understood the sex thing. People were going to meet. They were going to hook up. They were going to have sex. That’s what people do. The generals drank and, if half of the rumors were to be believed, generals fucked in the war zone as well. There is an old Napoleonic maxim: “Never give your men an order that you cannot enforce.”

I never bought the “respect the culture” slogans. That seemed just one more bit of military hypocrisy. Brits, Romanians, French, and Germans had bars and restaurants all over Afghanistan that served alcohol and pork. The American commands bristled against the ISAF[6] policy on alcohol. That puritanical, politically correct U.S. attitude towards alcohol caused friction between the various Coalition partners. As one Brit put it, “You Yanks know how to put on a war but you don’t know how to enjoy one.”

After in-processing was completed, we were sent to the front of the Admin building to wait on our sponsors to show us where we’d be working and sleeping. I was the last one to be picked up. A guy named Jimmoh came by and told me to chill for the rest of the day. I was surprised and a little disappointed. I was information starved.

“HUH?! Just chill out?” I answered. Jimmoh was a short dude with a long ponytail running down his back. He looked like he was in a Biker gang. “So, Mister Jimmoh, what should I do for the rest of the day?”

“Not Mister Jimmoh. Just Jimmoh. And I don’t care what you do. Your supervisor will come check on you tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Well, okay. Not what I’d expected. But whatever.”

I had no idea what was going on. So, I wandered around and checked out the base. I stopped one guy and got directions to the Post Exchange. The Post Exchange, or PX, was the store operated by the Army and Air Force Exchange Service (AAFES). It always had plenty of DVDs, cigarettes, and CDs but was usually out of shampoo and soap. While at the PX, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the Green Bean (ghetto warzone version of Starbucks). While I was sitting there, I heard people talking about the bazaar. I asked a guy next to me, “Dude, what is the bazaar?”

He looked at me like I was a Martian, and then said, “Newbie. Got it. The bazaar. It’s a big-ass Afghan flea market. They sell everything. Old firearms. Carpets. Bootleg Rolex watches. Tons of gems. They’ve got all kinds of shit there. They even bring in a two-humped camel that you can pose with for a photo.”

“Sounds wild. How do I get there?”

“Just head straight down Disney until you see a minefield on your left. The bazaar is right across the street from the end of the minefield.”

Disney was the main road that ran down the middle of Bagram. It was named after Army Specialist Jason Disney who died when heavy equipment fell on him in the early days at Bagram Airfield. The bazaar was at the end of Disney off to the left-hand side directly across from a minefield. Actually, it was surrounded on three sides by minefields.

Afghanistan is one of the most mined countries on the planet. The Soviets laid mines. The Mujahideen laid mines. The Taliban laid mines. In Bagram, the Soviet-laid mines were used to protect it and other strategic locations from insurgent Mujahideen, while the Mujahideen (Muj for short) and the Taliban-laid mines were used to deny access to the airfield. BAF is the obvious entry and staging point for an invasion. Obviously, mines didn’t work against the Americans. The U.S. military was able to move right in, remove mines from the airfield, and make it operational in a matter of hours. We, the U.S. military, are skilled mine removers. We simply send in an Aardvark and roll over the mines. Blowing them in place. The Aardvark is a huge armored mine removal vehicle. It actually looks like a gargantuan aardvark. The U.S. landed a couple of these massive machines, cleared the immediate area around the airfield, and started landing troops and supplies. In a few short days, we had possession of one of the most important pieces of real estate in Afghanistan.

I was a little freaked out about walking past minefields, but I was bored out of my mind. The bazaar would, at the very least, give me a couple of hours’ worth of diversion from the tedium of waiting for my supervisor to show up. I started down Disney towards the front gate of BAF. As I was meandering along, I noted that every compound within BAF had its own ring of defenses. Hesco barriers were thrown up with machine gun emplacements pointing towards Disney all along the way. Hesco barriers are large modular cylinders that are used to provide cover from enemy attack. They’re usually filled with sand or gravel and sometimes topped with barbwire or gun emplacements. The idea of multiple compounds within BAF seemed strange to me. If it came down to insurgents attacking each of these compounds, we might as well give up the ghost and leave the place. The insurgents would need an army of twenty to thirty thousand fighters to get inside Bagram. If all of these gun emplacements were ever used, it would mean that Bagram had been overrun. It made no sense. I thought it a colossal waste of taxpayer dollars. Paranoia was definitely trumping common sense and tactics.

At the end of Disney, I came to a minefield complete with little red triangles with “MINES” stenciled on them. Out in the minefield was a dilapidated Soviet tank. One of those little buggers that the Soviets used during World War II. It was old and rusty, and the tracks had all been blown off. The tank had been demilitarized by blowing out the end of the gun tube. It was a surreal scene with minefields as far as I could see, and dead Soviet vehicles littering the area.

The bazaar was laid out in the middle of all of this war detritus. It filled an area the size of a football field. I must have walked through fifty stalls. There were pirated DVDs from Pakistan with the latest Hollywood hits. Some of these movies weren’t released in Stateside theaters yet. Bootleg brand-name wrist watches were everywhere. There were tents full of carpets from Iran, Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, and China priced anywhere from twenty-five bucks to a few thousand U.S. dollars. Statues and jewelry were spread about on tables. Glass cabinets full of sapphires, emeralds, tourmaline, and even diamonds were practically around every corner. There were even a few antique Brown Bess muskets and hundreds of other antique firearms. Some of the muskets were decorated with tribal markings. I even saw a Blunderbuss or two. The coolest thing about the bazaar was the haggling. The Afghans’ starting price was usually two to three times value. The target price was at least 50 percent below that asking price.

As I was walking around the bazaar, I felt more than heard an explosion. It shook me to my core and damn near made me shit in my pants. My initial instinct was to tuck, duck, and roll, that is dive for cover. I froze in place as I immediately noticed that no one else moved an inch. No panic. Nothing. Not a reaction anywhere. I was flipping through some bootleg DVDs when the explosion went off. I looked up out of the corner of my eye. No one paid attention to the explosion. To my right, there was a beautiful petite Hispanic gal. She didn’t seem concerned. “Well, if that little bitty gal ain’t gonna freak out, I’ll be damned if I’ll make a fool of myself,” I thought. I went back to sifting through the DVDs, as if all was right in the world. I was freaking out on the inside, though. “What the fuck is going on here and why aren’t these people jumping for cover?” Outside, I was the picture of calm.

Later that night, I found out that the explosion was a controlled detonation or “controlled det.” These “controlled dets” were announced over the “Loud Voice.” The “Loud Voice” was a warning system used to announce alerts, attacks, and controlled detonations to the base. I’d heard the “Loud Voice.” However, I didn’t know to pay attention for things like controlled detonations. When I heard that explosion, my first thought was that we were under attack. Nope, it was just Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) doing its thing. KBR had failed to warn me about controlled dets or the “Loud Voice.” I guess they figured it was more important to talk about spiders and vipers than freakin’ BIG BOOMs blowing my day apart.

The next morning, I was awakened by a guy yelling my name.

“Dave Kaelin? Is there a Dave Kaelin in here?”

I sat up and yelled, “Yeah, right here.”

“Hey, I’m Rob Oliver.”

“Okay,” I answered expectantly.

“I’m your supervisor. Sorry about last night. No one told me you’d arrived. We’ve been waiting for ya.”

Awesome, I think to myself. “Well, looks like KBR is just as disorganized as the Army. Surprise.”

Rob smiled at me. “Dave, let’s get you out of here and into your five-star accommodations.”

“What kind of shit hole are you dumpin’ me in?”

“You’re getting Hooch 21, nine lovely roommates and all the privacy of a prison cell. Pray no one snores.”

A hooch, also known as a B-Hut, is a 10′ × 20′ structure made of low-grade Pakistani plywood. The Army calls them non-permanent structures. They’re intended to last a few years. Afterwards, the Army either tears them down because the need for the base has come to an end or the base has become a long-term affair or a “permanent” base with more hard structures like the Army barracks and offices Stateside. The hooches are open bay. No walls. No privacy. Most of the denizens of “Hooch City” purchased colorful, thin bedspreads which the Afghans sold at the bazaar. Five of these bedspreads hung over 550 (parachute) cord were enough to create a privacy wall. Looking inside the hooches, it was like peering into a gypsy camp. Ten people in each hooch cramped inside 60″ × 108″ curtained cells. Despite the makeshift cloth walls, there wasn’t a lot of privacy or personal space. I could hear the guy next to me breathing and on more than one occasion, I rolled over and elbowed the guy in the next cell.

After I deposited my bags in my hooch, Rob took me to the office at which I’d be spending twelve hours a day for the next year. He sat me down and explained the contract details. We were tasked with taking over the Bagram Property Book Office. At that time, there was a group of California National Guard soldiers running the office. All of them had attitudes about being deployed. With that in mind, they weren’t exactly performing their duties in a professional mindset. The officer in charge was an Army warrant. He had deployed with an Army sergeant first class and four Army specialists. The sergeant first class, a guy named Ortiz, spent most of his time complaining about being away from his wife and kids. He hadn’t been opposed to taking that monthly National Guard paycheck during peacetime, but when the call came to be deployed to war, he balked. “Dave, it’s not my job to save these idiots from themselves,” was how he put it to me. It’s not that I disagreed with that sentiment but he’d enjoyed the peacetime pay and benefits while he could. To balk in times of difficulty, i.e., war, was tantamount to cowardice after getting fat and happy on the Army dime in peacetime.

My job as Rob put it was to get on the “Box” and make it my own. The Box is what we called the Army’s property inventory and control software system (SPBS), which was used to track all equipment in an assigned area. It was a stand-alone unit meaning that it was not connected to the Internet or to the Army’s central databases back in America. We were the primary means of overall accountability for the combat mission in Afghanistan. We were to take over the mission from the military and provide a professionally-run property accountability and asset visibility operation. That meant we had to ensure that all of the units’ combat equipment stayed on hand and provide the commanding general of the Combined Joint Task Force 180 (CJTF-180) with complete visibility of all assets on the ground. I had to keep track of thousands of rifles, pistols, missiles, assault weapons, Hummers—any authorized combat equipment—and ensure that each one was on hand and functioning properly. Rob would transmit this data once a month or so to the commanding general via a military liaison or in-person. I knew where all my units were and had a listing of all authorized equipment on hand or on requisition that I updated consistently.

If a unit did not have its complete complement of combat equipment, it was our job to liaise with the general staff (G4-Logistics) of the Task Force and with the Department of the Army[7] to expedite that equipment to the unit on the ground. The guys on the ground didn’t have time to wait on the Army bureaucracy. If they didn’t have the equipment, they couldn’t fight the war effectively. Rob and I were one of the cogs in the large bureaucratic wheel of the war machine.

One of the most important pieces of our mission was ammunition accountability. The Army ran through ammunition in Afghanistan like a fat man drinks water in the desert. It’s a constant flow. My job was to ensure that ammunition was being properly controlled and that none of it was lost. A stinger missile lost on the battlefield is a huge deal. One stinger can bring down a Chinook full of up to forty Special Operations soldiers. No one wanted to be the guy who allowed that to happen. Rob and I were one of the checkpoints in the road to prevention of that kind of tragedy.

Once I was firmly entrenched in the position, I did my best to ensure that we brought no unnecessary madness to the processes. I was always mindful of a maxim of Nathan Bedford Forrest: “Get there firstest with the mostest.” If I was slowing the combat guys down, the infantry, artillery, and Special Forces guys who were out there fighting in the hinterlands couldn’t fulfill that maxim. That might contribute to mission failure or worse. My ineptness or incompetence might contribute to the unnecessary death of a soldier or marine. That wasn’t something that I wanted on my conscience. I took that attitude with me to every position in which I served in Afghanistan.

In most contracts we worked 12/7s meaning twelve hours a day, seven days a week. It took time to get used to these long days. Unlike most of KBR, I sat behind a desk with a computer. I spent a lot of time screwing around on the Internet. When a customer came in, I helped them. If there were no customers or documents to process, I cranked the tunes and read a book or surfed the Net for news or whatever. There was no Facebook to while away the hours in 2003, though I did spend a lot of time on Kentucky Wildcat websites arguing over the qualities, or lack thereof, as regards Tubby Smith and “Ball Line D.”

After Rob gave me the rundown of the office and filled me in on the Army team, he introduced me to people around the office. Rob was the first guy on the ground for our piece of the contract. He was a retired Army chief warrant officer. The guy was more knowledgeable and more professional than any warrant with whom I had worked in the Army. He was a pretty humble fellow with a quick wit and ready smile, but skinny as hell. Afghanistan didn’t help in that area at all. If you liked eating greasy fried chicken every day of the week, the Bagram dining facilities are wonderful places. If you were accustomed to good food and variety, you were probably not going to be eating at every meal. I think Rob skipped a lot of meals.

Rob was easy going, didn’t stress over bullshit, and kept the KBR bureaucratic turds off of my back. More importantly, he maintained excellent relationships with the Army guys with whom we had to work. Because of Rob, we always enjoyed outstanding rapport with our military counterparts. He even got on with guys that he hated.

I wasn’t like that. I let it out. If I didn’t like you or thought you incompetent, you knew it. Which brings us to Chief Warrant Officer (CW2) Lansing. I had a love/hate relationship with this guy from the moment that I met him. When Rob introduced me to him, I immediately thought to myself, “Fuck! It’s Fire Marshall Bill!” The guy resembled and sort of acted a bit like the insane character portrayed by Jim Carrey in the ‘90s TV series In Living Color. He looked like he was on the far side of seventy years old but he was probably in his mid-forties. He was a pain in the ass, and he didn’t particularly like the idea of turning over his operation to a bunch of “greedy fuckin’ contractors.”

Lansing’s crew consisted of five of those California National Guard guys. None of whom were exemplary soldiers. They were all bitter about their deployment to Afghanistan and like many a National Guard soldier, they were ill-trained and out of shape. They wanted nothing more than to be home in the States, and for this nightmare deployment to be over. That attitude showed in their work ethic, their customer service, and the general organization of the office. The place was a bloody mess. Afghanistan is dusty. Everything and everyone gets dirty despite your best efforts. That said, have a little pride. The office was a cave when I arrived. There was no real filing system. Documents and equipment were stuffed in any hole that was open. Finding anything was a challenge. If I asked for documentation, it took hours for them to locate it. After a few days of working in their lackadaisical lunacy, I screamed, “Fuck, dudes. This place is a pig sty!” That didn’t go towards making me popular with “the team.”

[4] British SAS—Special Air Service—is the equivalent to U.S. Special Forces.

[5] U.S. Army Pathfinders are specialists in navigating foreign terrain and establishing safe landing zones for U.S. military personnel.

[6] ISAF—International Security Assistance Force—is led by NATO and provides security for the whole of Afghanistan.

[7] Department of the Army—formerly War Department—is a military department within the U.S. Defense Department. The U.S. Army falls under the Department of the Army.

Operation Enduring Freedom

November–December 2003

On September 11, 2001, a group of Muslim extremists hiding out in the mountains of Central Asia reportedly launched an attack on the United States by hijacking four commercial airliners. These extremists were supposedly guests of the Taliban, the erstwhile leaders of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. Following these attacks, President George W. Bush demanded the Taliban hand over al Qaeda and its leader, Osama bin Laden, who was considered the mastermind behind 9/11. The Taliban refused. In November 2001, the CIA and Special Forces (SF) teams linked up with Rashid Dostum and other commanders of the Northern Alliance who had been fighting against the Taliban since 1996.

The first American combatives into Afghanistan were Navy Seals, Army Special Forces, Air Force Combat Control (Air Force Special Ops), and CIA Special Operations commandos who carried in millions in cash. They also brought laser guidance systems that were used to guide smart bombs and missiles at Taliban targets. What most of the U.S. public doesn’t know is that many Taliban commanders were bribed into deserting. While the air campaign bombed Taliban units out of existence or into submission, U.S. and Afghan operatives enticed the enemy to switch sides with offers of cash and immunity. Many Taliban commanders decided that they’d rather take the money and live than continue to be bombed into oblivion. Afghan warlords have always been quick to abandon a losing cause. After being targeted by massive bombing runs by U.S. military, the Taliban fell back swiftly. They were not willing to fight against aircraft from which they had no defenses. The last stand of the Taliban occurred in a building on a U.S. base in Qandahar. That building is fittingly named “TLS” for the “Taliban’s last stand.”

The plan to invade and occupy Afghanistan was initially code-named “Operation Infinite Justice.” The “Muslim street,” already outraged by George Bush’s crusade remarks earlier in the year, protested. “Only Allah could provide infinite justice,” was the cry of the mullahs, imams, and people in the Arab world. Bush caved and, with little fanfare, the operation was renamed “Operation Enduring Freedom.”

Afghan, U.S., and Coalition forces rolled up the Taliban within a few months after taking Qandahar. Bush had tried to outsource the war to the Afghans but failed to provide covering forces to block the escape of al Qaeda. This allowed bin Laden, Mullah Omar, and other high-ranking al Qaeda and Taliban leaders to ride out of Afghanistan on horseback. These men were aided in no small part by Pakistan’s intelligence service, the ISI (the equivalent to our CIA or the Israeli Mossad). At the time, some intelligence sources had put bin Laden minutes ahead of U.S. forces at the border of Pakistan.

Back in the 1980s, Pakistan had worked with the Mujahideen against the Soviets. At the time, the United States and Saudi Arabia had brokered a deal with Pakistan’s ISI. The CIA and Saudi intelligence would provide funds to the Mujahideen, which would be funneled to them through the Paki ISI. That gave the Pakis the power of life and death over all Muj groups in Afghanistan.

The Paki ISI is run by Islamic fanatics who, back then, were diverting CIA and Saudi funds to the Kashmir insurgency to the north. Pakistan was also training irregulars in the Northwest Frontier Province (NWFP) and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) to beef up the Kashmiri forces. Meanwhile, another dynamic was taking hold. Saudi Arabia had been funding Wahhabi mosques and madrassahs in the same regions—NWFP and FATA. These institutions of Islamic learning and worship taught students called “talibs” the more fundamentalist Saudi version of Islam. Talib is Arabic for “holy student” or “student of Islam.”

The war against the Soviets and the wars between Mujahideen leaders in the post-Soviet era had produced tens of thousands of Afghan orphans. These orphans were raised in the Wahhabi madrassahs. The Wahhabi strain of Islam had earlier produced the Muslim Brotherhood, al Jihad, Abu Nidal, and al Qaeda as well as dozens of other terrorist organizations bent on imposing the Islamic ideals of fundamentalist Wahhabism on the Muslim world.

Mullah Omar, the leader of the Taliban, and the Paki ISI recruited youthful talibs from the Saudi-funded Wahhabist madrassahs of the NWFP and FATA. These men became the core of the Taliban and would eventually conquer all of Afghanistan except the extreme northeast. Eventually, the Taliban provided a safe haven for Osama bin Laden and his group of terrorist thugs. Allegedly, the 9/11 terror attacks were plotted in southeastern Afghanistan.

By the time I arrived in November of 2003, the Taliban had been defeated and were fighting an insurgency against the Afghan government led by President Hamid Karzai and against U.S. and Coalition forces that would wax and wane over the next decade. The insurgency is mostly former Talib commanders and warlords who had not surrendered after the fall of the Taliban. They are a rearguard, of sorts, who are awaiting the return of Mullah Omar. To this day, Mullah Omar remains in hiding. Mixed in with the insurgency, at different periods of time, was a potpourri of characters, such as Hekmatullah Gulbuddin and his Islamic Party, various bandit kings, Arab al Qaeda fighters left behind by Osama bin Laden, as well as Jihadi fighters filtering in through the porous borders between Afghanistan and the neighboring countries of Pakistan, Uzbekistan, and Iran. Iran was betting against American resolve and has supported the insurgency to varying degrees since the beginning of OEF. The Iranians remember Vietnam wherein America won the tactical battles but lost the overall strategic war because of a lack of political will and decisiveness.

Once the insurgency kicked off, American leaders decided that the best way to fight it and to prevent Afghanistan from becoming a viper’s nest of Jihadi terrorists would be to put into place a viable Western-leaning “democratic” nation that could act in concert with America and Europe politically, economically, and militarily. The Jihadis and Taliban were betting that American, and world, resolve to see through the mission of nation-building would wane. Despite America’s best and worst efforts, democracy in Afghanistan would never truly get off the ground. Afghans voted but they voted for pre-approved candidates. The warlords still ran Afghanistan (and still do in 2013).

George W. Bush talked a good game concerning human rights. Barack Obama gave equal lip service to these ideals. In the end, though, the grand speeches were an orchestrated spectacle designed with the intent to hoodwink the American people into a long war in Afghanistan. Human rights were surrendered to cultural and political expediency from the day that the first warlord was bribed to switch sides and fight against their Qandahari masters. We traded the lofty goals of women and minority rights for support from the same warlords who had only months earlier fought with the Taliban. Enduring Freedom would become an epic fail but in November 2003 that was not yet apparent.

I arrived in Bagram about two years after the U.S. military’s “liberation” of Afghanistan. I hadn’t worked property accountability, or SPBS, in years and at first was a bit nervous. Would I remember anything? I didn’t want to come across as an idiot in front of Chief Lansing and his posse of tools. I needn’t have worried. As soon as I got on the “Box,” it was like coming home. Becoming accustomed to typing again was another story. I was woefully slow at first. I’d never been fast on a keyboard but soon enough I was back to my usual sixty words per minute.

Success! I’d bluffed my way back into the system. I was amazed at how much I remembered. Having left it in 2000, the Army was three years gone for me. I hadn’t worked Property Book since 1998. This job required that I know a veritable encyclopedia of Army regulations and assorted other local standard operating procedures (SOP). Again, it was like coming home. After a month, I could remember most of it. Reading the regulations and local SOPs brought me back to familiarity with everything else. Soon, I was telling the Army how to do their business and they were listening.

Within a couple of weeks, senior logistics sergeants major and warrant officers were coming to the office and asking me about the regulations. It was an eye-opening experience. When I left the Army, I was a staff sergeant. That’s a middling enlisted Army rank. At first, I didn’t feel qualified to tell these folks how to do their jobs. I held back. Soon enough, I was just throwing it at them.

“Dave, we had to leave a Hummer out on the battlefield and blow it in place. How do I get this piece of equipment dropped from the books?”

“Well, Sergeant Major, you have to submit a form 2765 attached to a Report of Survey and it has to be signed by an 0-6 or above.”

Simple procedures like that but it never ceased to surprise me when a senior non-com or warrant had no idea what the hell they were doing.

At first I railed against the seemingly pervasive ignorance and lack of attention to detail in my customers. Over time, though, I came to see my role as a mentor and I set about to show folks the zen of Army logistics. Unfortunately, I wasn’t always patient. I threw in biting sarcasm at times, causing at least one Army staff sergeant to cry. The NCO creed says, in part, “No one is more professional than I … competence is my watchword.”[8] Despite having left the Army, I still thought that this was a fine tenet by which to guide oneself. Incompetence offended me.

The KBR contract with the Army called for a five-man team. Rob was the boss and he had room for four “data entry technicians.” Ortiz, my Army counterpart, was unreliable and got in the way. After two weeks of working with him, I wanted him out.

Rob sensed my worsening attitude towards the Army guys in our office. “Dave, do you think you can handle the customer flow by yourself?”

“Definitely. If it means getting Ortiz out of the way, I’ll work eighteen hour days.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to the bosses. Let’s go for the TOA next week.”

Technically, we should not have conducted the turnover of authority (TOA) until we had at least one more data technician on the ground. It would mean some long days and some trying times before we got the rest of the team on the ground, but I didn’t care. Long hours weren’t as bad as having Ortiz around. One hitch with the transition was that Fire Marshall Bill still had to be involved. By Army regulations, contractors couldn’t sign off on documents that involved funding or monies. Nearly every document that crossed my desk involved funding of some sort. Fire Marshall Bill had to sign all of these documents. We were stuck with him until he rotated back Stateside with his unit. With most of the pressure off of him and on Rob, he started to loosen up.

Early on, we had issues with some of our customer units. They’d come in to clear their accounts with us and they would be missing equipment. This was expected since we were in a war zone but the Army had started a quasi-war time accountability system. Not all losses could be written off. One Civil Affairs Unit lost fourteen up-armored HMMWVs.[9] I don’t know how the hell you lose fourteen Hummers, but they did it. It took two months to find them. A Special Forces group had “borrowed” the vehicles and was using them for missions. Typical SF. Those guys stole from everyone. If they couldn’t get something legally, they’d not think twice about pilfering.

That Civil Affairs Unit was missing a whole slew of other equipment items as well. Everything from 52” flat-screen TVs to night vision goggles and a weapon or two had disappeared. Much of it was never recovered and the Army wrote off about two million dollars in losses. Some units didn’t bother to clear us at first. They’d simply disappear from Afghanistan. I’m sure that a lot of those TVs and DVD players made it into some homes back Stateside. We also found random containers in Bagram with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment inside. We’d inventory everything and issue the equipment to the unit that found it. That kind of thing, while not a regular occurrence, was not as rare as one might’ve thought. More waste went on in Afghanistan than I care to remember. Military commanders at Bagram used the war as carte blanche to spend.

Another problem we had was equipment finding its way into the local bazaar or to the bazaars in Kabul. There was one story that made its rounds in the media at this time. Some journalists had purchased memory sticks at the bazaar. When they got to their offices and plugged them in, they found classified data on them. Everything was on those sticks—battle plans, manning numbers, troop dispositions, social security numbers. All levels of classified data were discovered.

That wasn’t the worst of it. The Army discovered at least one Hummer at a bazaar in Kabul. All manner of weapons were found at bazaars all across Afghanistan. They even found a Ma Deuce (M2 .50 caliber machine gun) out there. One problem was that soldiers lose equipment constantly. If they didn’t report the incident, it could be months before the loss is discovered. The property accounting system was loose when we first went into Afghanistan. Equipment accountability and supply discipline were severely lacking. When soldiers or commanders lost equipment, they more often than not wrote it off as a battle loss. Even when it clearly was not.

It was at this same time that I became aware of the effort to create a National Afghan Security Force consisting of a national army and police force as well as a limited air force. The effort started with the Army. This newly-born Afghan National Army (ANA) needed vehicles for its soldiers. Several hundred heavy duty, souped up, tan Ford Rangers complete with roll bars were purchased at the expense of Joe Taxpayer of the good ol’ U.S. of A. Almost immediately, these trucks started to disappear. Many of these brand new Ford Rangers made their way onto the black market. About thirty of these vehicles were eventually found on car lots in California.

Running parallel to the loss of equipment was the drug issue, which affected all of the Coalition Forces, both civilian and military. Drugs were ubiquitous in Afghanistan. The Taliban sold them. The Afghan National Police sold them. Random dudes on the streets of nearly any Afghan city sold drugs. Opium and hash are the primary market but heroin, cocaine, and whatever else you want to shoot up, smoke, blaze, or snort can be found as well. There were a few deaths from drug overdose in the ‘Stan. Some guys were fired for showing up to work blitzed.

One incident was always suspicious to me. A guy who worked out religiously, ate healthy foods, and happened to be sleeping with someone else’s wife was found dead of an overdose. He was in one of those surreal triangle relationships that seemed to happen in Afghanistan all the time—two married men fighting over a married woman. A few days after a fight between these two men and the woman involved, this brother didn’t show up to work. His supervisor went to check on him, thinking that he’d probably overslept. He found the guy dead in his bed with a needle in his arm. People who knew him were vehement that he was not a druggie. I always thought he was murdered. Since he was a contractor, the Army really didn’t care. The incident was swept under the rug and quickly forgotten by the authorities.

In many ways, KBR tried to model itself after the Army. I’m surprised that we didn’t have formations each morning. Some sections actually did have shift formations. My section was much too small for anything so formal. I showed up when I showed up, which was usually ten or fifteen minutes late. Trying to be Army-like wasn’t the only irksome KBR dysfunction. KBR had a security section that acted like Soviet political commissars. These guys were jokes. Basically glorified rats. They would walk around looking for safety violations and “hat violations.” Back up a truck without a ground guide, they’d write you up. Walk around outside of KBR village without your hat, they’d write you up. Not displaying your ID card, they’d write you up. They would check our living areas for contraband while we were at work, and sometimes thieved while they were there. A few of these guys were fired for property theft. They’d conduct room searches and take what they wanted. Laptops, iPods, cameras, and other items would mysteriously disappear if you had left them unsecured. Some of the security guys were caught drinking the booze that they’d confiscated. I know of one instance where one security guy was caught selling the drugs that he’d confiscated.

[8] NCO—non-commissioned officer—is a senior enlisted member (corporal through command sergeant major) of the Armed Forces.

[9] Up-armored HMMWVs—High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles—have mounting and firing capabilities for grenade launchers and various kinds of machine guns.

Taliban Rocket Show

January–March 2003

I had just bedded down for the night. Cozily wrapped up in my warm sleeping bag and fleece blankets, headphones serenading me after a good, hard workout. I was dozing quite nicely, comfortably drifting off to sleep, when …

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

At midnight, the Taliban struck. There were a series of loud explosions as rockets hit somewhere in the darkness. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my body armor and helmet, and lit out for the bunkers. Apparently, the Taliban wanted to help us celebrate New Year’s. A special fireworks display for the Americans at BAF. BASTARDS! It was my first rocket attack in Afghanistan. My cherry was officially busted. I was freaked out. I had that sick, nauseated feeling of fear and dread in my gut. I’d read about the attacks in Qandahar and those in Iraq, so I was expecting more explosions, more incoming. I was expecting casualties. Would there be an attack on the base? Would a horde of suicidal maniacs storm us? What was coming next?

Nothing came next. We sat in the bunkers for three or four hours. Supervisors took roll call and counted heads. KBR headquarters reported into the BAF tactical operations center (TOC). There were no casualties. Just a few concerned looks and some scared newbies like me.

That was the first of many rocket attacks that I would experience in Afghanistan. While at Bagram, we were hit once every six to eight weeks on average. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. It was rare that the Taliban or insurgents or whomever the Coalition had pissed off that week hit anything of value. Usually a single rocket would scream in and hit the middle of nothing in the middle of the night. The “Loud Voice” would sound off. “THIS IS NOT A DRILL! ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK! BUNKER! BUNKER! BUNKER! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” They seemed to always attack at night. Right about the time that everyone was settling down for a good night’s sleep. It was as if their goal was nothing more than to piss us off.

There were, of course, casualties out in the field where the real fighting was going on. BAF, though, was a relative oasis of peace in the midst of the storm. The warlords made too much money from construction contracts and the weekly bazaar to let the cash cow that was BAF be endangered. Eventually the Task Force command element caught on to this funding relationship. When BAF was attacked, the bazaar was shut down for a couple of weeks. Closing the bazaar pissed everyone off. Operation Enduring Freedom was relatively boring for most people. Places like BAF were seldom in any real danger. The Taliban didn’t have the manpower to put together a large enough force to endanger BAF. They’d need air support. They’d need tanks and artillery. The Taliban had the capability for guerilla warfare only. Harassment, as deadly as it could be, was their only recourse.

Another challenge faced by the Taliban was that the Coalition was excellent at triangulating the point of origin of their attacks. Coalition response times are incredibly swift. Once a rocket is launched it takes three to five minutes for Coalition Forces to hone in on the geographic location from which the rocket or mortars are launched. Artillery response is nearly instantaneous, as are the quick reaction teams dispatched to interdict, kill, or capture. If the insurgent is anywhere in the area within that three-to-five minute window, they’re as good as dead.

That left the Taliban with a decision. Stay and guide their launch with death staring them down, or set a timer, aim as best as possible, and head for the hills. Amazingly, the Taliban chose life. Usually they’d lean a rocket against a rock, improvise a timer out of batteries or some other mechanism, and then un-ass the AO (area of operations). They needed luck to hit anything but they’d have needed more luck to get out alive if they stayed on too long to aim, gloat, or scream “Allahu Akhbar!!!”

* * *

A few weeks later, the Taliban attacked again. This time, I was in my office. I had stayed late to finish up some work and to catch up on Kentucky basketball news. I was sitting at my desk inside our office deep within the Supply Support Activity (SSA), which was located in a large Soviet hangar that had survived the Soviet withdrawal and subsequent Mujahideen wars. Afghan blackbirds screeched loudly in the rafters above and my CD player thrashed out Metallica on blast. I didn’t hear the explosions or the resultant sirens.

Once I’d finished catching up with the home front, I called it a night, locked up, and started back towards my hooch. Leaving the hangar, I had to pass through the stockyard to get to Disney, which I’d follow in the darkness to KBR village. The blackbirds chirped away to a deafening crescendo in the rafters. Loud noises such as explosions usually quieted them so I suspected nothing out of the ordinary. The stockyard was a maze of shipping containers. The same twenty- and forty-foot containers that you see on huge ocean liners. It was a cold, wet night. Slush and ice covered the ground from the recent snow. Bundled up in my heavy Kentucky jacket with my head snuggled up to my chest against the brutal winds of Bagram, I wasn’t paying attention to the path in front of me. I was more intent on the icy road before me than on the situation around me. As I meandered through the storage container-created labyrinth, someone jumped out from the shadows brandishing a weapon. I found myself staring down the barrel of a 9MM Beretta pistol.

“What the hell?” I yelled and then looked straight into the wild panicked eyes of Chief Lansing.

“Dude! What the heck are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s you, Dave.”

“Yeah, it’s me. Get that thing off me. Don’t they teach you Army guys weapons safety anymore?”

“We had another rocket attack, Dave. I was checking the stockyard for intruders.”

“Chief, if the intruders are this far inside the compound, you’d better have a squad with you because we’re in deep shit.”

“Well, it’s my job as the senior officer on site.”

“That’s all good and dandy Chief, but next time, be careful. Your scared ass might have shot me.”

“Well, it’s over now. They just called ‘all clear’ over the Loud Voice. Where were you anyway? What are you doing here so late?”

“I was cyber surfing. Checkin’ basketball scores.”

“Alright, Dave. Be safe out there. Don’t fall into any holes. We won’t find you ‘til the morning.”

That was a distinct danger at Bagram at the time. There was limited lighting and Disney was lined by a drainage ditch. People fell into it all the time. I was walking to the PX one night when suddenly, I was three feet down with bloody shins. You could walk with a light but it had to be either blue or red. A white light was a beacon for a sniper. Even so, I saw plenty of guys walking around with bright white lamps shining from straps on their foreheads. Usually, it was either a civilian contractor who’d never been in the military or a Coalition Forces member. The guys from Egypt, Jordan, and a few other places knew nothing about tactical discipline. I’m surprised that the Taliban hadn’t picked a few of us off yet. Anytime I was surrounded by mountains or hills, I was nervous about snipers. Bagram was surrounded by mountains. It was the town after which BAF was named, and it was close enough that a sniper could station himself on a rooftop and choose his targets at leisure.

As a result, I became a bit skittish about silhouetting myself in open areas or in windows. When I was in Chiang Rai, Thailand in 2011, I walked outside for a smoke. I lit my cigarette and unconsciously began surveying the hills that surrounded my resort for sniper positions, ensuring that I had a place to duck and cover. Apparently, a decade in a war zone makes one a bit paranoid.

I never had the “pleasure” of receiving small arms fire while at Bagram. However, on a few rides into Kabul, we took small arms fire near the Kabul Airport. Eventually, the Coalition Forces or the U.S. military went into the hills surrounding the airport and cleared out enemy combatants. After that, it was relatively safe in Kabul. The only thing that one did have to fear was improvised explosive devices. A couple of friends were killed on the road to Bagram from Kabul by roadside IEDs. I drove that road alone in a thin-skin Toyota Hilux a few times and never received a cross look. Then again, I always felt safer alone than in a convoy. Convoys, especially military convoys, were targets. They attracted enemy attention.

I did have a chance to venture out early on. Fire Marshall Bill asked me if I wanted to help him inventory a cargo of non-military vehicles that had just arrived. “Dave, some trucks just got jingled into the other side of the airfield. Can you come help me drive them back to the SSA?”

I didn’t know the answer. The other side of the airfield was technically “outside the wire.” I was told that we weren’t supposed to go out there. Outside the wire meant that the location was beyond the confines of base defenses, so protection from any Taliban or insurgents was limited. “Let me ask if I can do that?” I responded. I walked down to Rob’s office and said, “Chief wants me to go to the other side of the airfield to help drive back some trucks? Can we do that?”

Rob shrugged, “If it’s part of the job, you can do it. Go for it.”

I was about to go outside the wire for the first time. As we drove over there, I was nervous but excited. The area where the trucks were arriving was a huge field that had been recently de-mined. There were dozens of old, leftover Soviet aircraft from the ‘80s there. Soldiers had climbed all over them and covered them with graffiti. “Kilroy was here,” “I love Mary,” and half a dozen other slogans were spray painted on the largest of the aircraft. Supposedly, they’d not been de-mined yet. Rumor was that a soldier had been killed as he climbed over one of the aircraft and set off a mine. I wasn’t keen to get too damn close but I was looking forward to checking them out.

It took about twenty minutes to reach the convoy of jingle trucks. In Central Asia, the owners of long-haul rigs decorate their trucks with chains and paint pictures or calligraphy all over the cabs. Some of these things had so many chains and other items dangling from them that they made a jingling noise as they rolled down the road. Hence, the name “jingle truck.” I don’t know who coined the term. Everyone called them jingle trucks including the Afghans. Each truck had a flat bed with a truck loaded on to it. A forklift operator was in the process of offloading the trucks. There were ten vehicles that needed to be driven back onto the base.

The first problem that we ran into was that all of the tires were flat and every battery was dead. Someone had taken all of the valve stems out of the tires and drained the batteries of acid water. We had to call maintenance to come out and repair the vehicles. While we were waiting, Chief and I inventoried the vehicles. We annotated VIN numbers, makes, models, and other useful information. When we finished, Chief signed for the vehicles from the drivers. As soon as he signed, the Afghan convoy leader walked over to us.

“Mister, I have valve stems if you need them.”

Chief looked at him suspiciously and asked, “How much are you charging?”

The Afghan dude smiled and said, “Five dollars each.”

I started laughing. My first real experience with Afghans and they were running a scam on us.

Chief replied, “Five dollars each truck?”

The Afghan actually managed to look offended by Chief’s question and then answered, “Oh, no! Five dollars each valve stem.”

The Bagram maintenance crew showed up a few minutes later. They had everything we needed to get the vehicles back to base. Chief all but told the Afghan guy to screw off and to shove the valve stems up his ass. Within a half hour, the trucks were up and running. One wouldn’t start and had to be towed. We drove the others back to Bagram proper.

I was a bit disappointed in the vehicles we had received. They were all old green Air Force trucks that looked like they’d been buried in a graveyard for thirty years. I swear one of them was from World War II and held together with bubble gum and finger nail polish. This was how the United States was equipping its elite fighting force. Of course, this was before they started the mass movement to get our military equipped with UAH HMMWVs and ultimately, the MRAP.[10] The vehicles before us were all thin-skinned and not one of them was trustworthy. They were issued with the proviso that they not be used off base. I don’t think any of them lasted much longer than six months.

A couple of weeks later, I was sitting with Rashawn at the Bagram Central Issue Facility (CIF). Rashawn supervised the CIF, which was the storage and issue point for theater-specific gear that soldiers were given to conduct their mission in Afghanistan. CIF issued desert tan winter boots, cold weather parkas, and “polypro” undergarments. When new Army uniforms or other specialty gear came out, the CIF facilitated the issuance of those as well. Rashawn and I were sitting in one of the containers used for storage when an Army major walked up on us. The guy seemed agitated.

“Why won’t you issue gear to my soldiers?”

Rashawn gave me one of those “Here we go again” looks and told the major, “Sir, all issues have to be approved by the PBO.[11] Without his signature, I can’t issue anything. If that’s a problem, you’ll have to talk to Chief.”

“I don’t give a damn what Chief says. My men are going out on mission tomorrow. No contractor is going to make my guys go on mission without proper gear.”

“Like I said, sir, you’ll have to obtain approval from Chief. It’s not my decision.”

“Look, you idiot. You goddamn contractors work for me.” With that, the major started poking Rashawn in the chest and backing him into the container.

I jumped in, “How about I get Chief and you can talk to him?”

He ignored me. Almost screaming, the major continued, “You fuckin’ contractors are always dickin’ everything up. I don’t know why the Army thinks we need you sorry fucks.”

“Rashawn, don’t do anything stupid. I’m going to get Rob and Chief.”

I quickly walked over to the office. “Chief, Rob … you guys better come with me now. There is some asshole major poking and screaming at Rashawn. If we don’t get there quick, Rashawn might knock out the ignorant bastard.”

Rashawn was a short dude who was built like a bulldog with huge shoulders and biceps. He was a retired U.S. Army sergeant first class and had a quick temper. He and I had gotten into a few arguments. In one of them, I thought for sure that he was going to swing at me. He didn’t but I hadn’t been cursing at him, poking him in the chest, and backing him into a corner.

Chief and Rob walked out to the container. Chief asked, “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Your fucking CIF contractor won’t issue my men their gear.”

“Did anyone bring the documents to my office for signature? I haven’t had any requests today.”

“My supply sergeant told me that he’d done everything today. He said that he couldn’t get the gear from your contractors.”

“That’s correct. If he hasn’t brought the docs to me for approval, my contractors will not issue gear to anyone. Have your men follow the proper procedures and they’ll get the gear they need.”

The major stormed off. It turned out that his supply sergeant had come to the CIF and asked for gear. Rashawn told him the procedures that he needed to follow. Instead of going back to his desk and filling in a few lines on a document, the supply sergeant complained to the irate major that the contractors at CIF had refused to service him.

Chief lodged a complaint against the major for his belligerent behavior to no avail. The whole incident was buried and forgotten. If Rashawn had knocked the guy out, KBR would have asked him “aisle or window?”

[10] MRAP—Mine Resistant Ambush Protected—vehicles are designed to survive IED attacks and ambushes.

[11] PBO—Property Book Officer.

Fallen Soldiers: The Pat Tillman Story

April 2004

John was a friend from my Army days. We were in TOG—The Old Guard—in Washington, D.C. together. I’d left D.C. to head off to Egypt to be part of the Multinational Force and Observers, the peacekeeping organization tasked with acting as a barrier between Egypt and Israel. John was infantry and sometime after TOG, he had gone on to Special Forces, alternately known as the Green Berets. When I ran into him in Bagram, he was wearing civilian clothes and had a full beard. I asked him what he was doing in Afghanistan. He told me that he was Civil Affairs and then asked me if I wanted some booze.

“Dude, when did you go SF?”

“I didn’t say shit about SF.” I always get a chuckle out of SF types. In the rear, they’re a bit too freakin’ obvious. They try to be all Secret Squirrel. It rarely works. We talked about the good old days in D.C. and he asked me again, “So, you want some booze or not?”

That’s one of the boons of being SF. Those guys always had booze.

A few weeks later, John showed up again and asked, “Dave, did you hear?”

“Hear what?” I asked.

“Pat Tillman got killed.”

“Shit John! Everyone’s heard about that. I heard last night. They say it was a Taliban ambush. Up near Khost.”

John shook his head, “Taliban my ass. Dave, don’t believe everything you hear.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I can’t say but it’ll come out soon enough.”

I jumped up from my chair. “Dude, you can’t leave me hangin’ like that. What the hell are you talking about?”

John crossed his arms and took a deep breath. “Dave, they’re going to make him out to be a hero. Probably give him a medal or two. I’m hearing that they’re going to posthumously promote him to sergeant. But the truth will come out and it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“What do you mean?

“Can’t say right now. You know how the Army is. They’ll throw up propaganda … smoke screens. Pat got fucked and they burned all of the evidence!”

“I can’t argue that one. The Army is FUBAR HQ,[12] man. That’s why I got the fuck out but I still have no idea what the hell you’re talking about?”

“Can’t say, brother. I’ll bring you a bottle of JD tomorrow.”

Pat Tillman was the NFL player who famously enlisted in the U.S. Army a few months after the Twin Towers fell and whose death was notoriously fabricated into heroism by General Stanley McChrystal and his cronies in the Pentagon. These guys claimed that Tillman was killed by enemy fire. The Army brass made everyone involved maintain silence and put Tillman in for battlefield commendations, posthumously promoting him for bravery in an action fully concocted from thin air by his chain of command. Later, it came out that Tillman had been killed by friendly fire, i.e., by U.S. soldiers in Tillman’s own platoon. Unofficial records of the autopsy allegedly show that Pat was triple tapped to the forehead and that the rounds were in a sniper-like close shot group. A “triple tap” means three rounds in a tight-shot group. A shot like that is difficult. It suggests a professional sniper of the sort that are only extant within elite military and paramilitary groups. Meanwhile, there were rumors that a CIA team was accompanying Tillman’s platoon the day he was killed, giving rise to legitimate questions surrounding Tillman’s death. There are rumblings in the conspiracy theory underground that Tillman was murdered by the CIA because he was about to become a potent symbol for the anti-war movement. Tillman had contacted Noam Chomsky while he was on mid-tour R&R. He supposedly wanted to share his views and experiences on what he had seen in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Chomsky is one of America’s most outspoken war critics. Good old Noam’s been going strong with his anti-establishmentarian (anti-West, anti-Israel, anti-war) quest since the ‘60s. The theory goes that Bush, and his henchman Cheney, didn’t want Tillman to become a rallying point for the anti-Iraq war crowd. In this fantasy, the CIA was in on the hit and triple tapped Tillman while he was out on patrol. After the hit, the CIA made up the Taliban ambush to cover up their alleged treachery. It’s a crazy sounding theory. Personally, I don’t put anything past our government. America can be, and has been, a treacherous nation. We have been known to eat our own.

I thought the Army screwed the pooch on Pat Tillman early on. There’s no way that Tillman should have been enlisted. He should have been encouraged to go for Officer Candidate School (OCS). The guy might still be alive and he’d probably have saved lives. He had leader written all over him. An enlisted Tillman was a waste of talented leadership. I’m not surprised that they got the guy killed. The Tillman military episode was a tragedy in waiting from the day he enlisted in the Army because Army leadership was and is inept. If they wanted a public relations bonanza from his enlistment, they should have made the guy a lieutenant and sent him into Iraq or Afghanistan as a leader of soldiers. “Lieutenant Tillman, the platoon leader,” would have been inspirational. Private Tillman was laughable.

Tillman enlisted in the military to fight in a war (Afghanistan) in which he believed but served under a president for whom he did not vote. He then went off to Iraq to fight in a war that he came to believe was being illegitimately waged. These were acts of selfless service and patriotism. Not ugly nationalistic jingoism, but the selfless patriotism of a person who loves his country. Once he’d been in the Iraq conflict and saw the insanity of it, he supposedly planned to come out against the war. Yet, he was willing to defer going public until after he left the military. This was leadership exemplified. The guy made Bush, Kerry, Clinton, and that whole merry band of miscreants who serve as political leaders in America look like fools and cowards. He was a leader and one of the few true heroes of this era. His death came as no surprise to me. The Army is nothing if not a bungling bureaucratic machine of ineptitude.

A day or so after Tillman’s death, his body was delivered to the airfield to be flown to the States. The act of taking the bodies of soldiers killed in action (KIA) to the flight line for the homeward journey is called the “Fallen Soldier” ceremony. It’s heartbreaking, but many of us at Bagram made it a point to participate. The tactical operations center would e-mail out the ceremony times base-wide. The route was always the same. Starting at the BAF morgue, the body would be loaded into the back of a vehicle. The vehicle would drive at a stately pace. Soldiers and civilians would line the sides of Disney and the road to the flight line. As the vehicle carrying the body passed, soldiers would salute. Civilians removed their hats and placed their hands over the hearts. There were always tears flowing in these moments. Units sometimes came out in formation to attend. The body or bodies of the KIA(s) would be offloaded from the vehicle and then loaded into the rear of a C130 or C17 for the return journey to their families.

It’s a deeply personal experience to see a fellow countryman driven off in this manner. The long goodbye, I called it. It seemed that there was at least one of these ceremonies a week at BAF. It got to be too much after a while. After you’ve watched a guy whom you knew in life being driven by in a casket, it can be depressing.

The day that they took Tillman’s body out, there were no gaps along the road. Everyone on base turned out, or so it seemed. It was a sad day and already the rumors were flying that something fishy was afoot concerning his death.

Due to the hard work of the Tillman family, the U.S. government was forced to investigate the events around the Tillman battlefield death. The investigation revealed high-level officials in the Bush administration were aware from the beginning that Tillman’s death was the result of fratricide. The Army from the top down to the company command lied, and General McChrystal engaged in a massive cover-up in an attempt to profit from Pat’s death. A few years later, I watched the Tillman documentaries and read about the events surrounding his death. Tillman deserved the medals and the promotion. He stood up waving off his comrades as they shot at his team. He covered the guys who were with him and made sure they stayed under cover as he attempted to save them from the incompetence of his own platoon. His actions that day were those of a warrior who risked his life for his fellow soldiers. Perhaps a First Lieutenant Tillman acting as platoon leader would have avoided that fate and saved the lives of others as well. We’ll never know. The Army was too ignorant, unimaginative and its leadership lacked the foresight and common sense to have made such a thing a reality.

[12] FUBAR—fucked up beyond all repair—is a military slang term.

Balkans Invasion

Early Summer 2004

When I first joined KBR at Bagram, there were a few employees from the Balkans area. These were folks whom KBR had employed on contracts in Bosnia, Kosovo, and Albania during the Clinton campaign against Milosevic in the mid- to late-1990s. Those contracts were still ongoing at the start of Operation Enduring Freedom.

A few of the local national employees from the Balkans were brought over to work in Afghanistan. The early hires were test cases because after a few months there was an influx of employees from the Balkans. At about this same time, KBR started tightening up on its rules. People were constantly harassed and a few were sent home over silly rule violations that had been overlooked in the past. Most of the folks being fired were Americans. When an American quit or was fired, the replacement was nearly always a person from somewhere in the Balkans. If KBR could find a way to put a foreign national into the slot, that was the preference of the management team.

I was never worried about it. My position stipulated U.S citizenship and secret clearance as requirements. KBR had to hire a U.S. citizen for my position. Even so, I watched as the contract workforce slowly became Eastern European. The preference for hiring employees from the Balkans was based upon wage and salary considerations. It was entirely profit driven. The average American worker was hired for 80,000 to 100,000 U.S. dollars per year. KBR could hire an employee from the Balkans for one third of that salary. The company was guaranteed 250,000 to 400,000 U.S. dollars per position by contract. KBR could pocket a significantly larger amount by hiring Eastern Europeans instead of Americans.

Eventually, KBR started hiring Indians. Most of them were from the south and east coast of India, such as Kerala. They paid these guys even less. The average Indian made around 20,000 U.S. dollars per year. KBR also saved money with the Indians by sardining them into B-Huts by the dozens. They gave these guys a green army cot and a few feet of space. These were unsanitary conditions. The Indians didn’t complain—20,000 U.S. dollars per year for these guys is “Slum Dog Millionaire” money. A few years in Afghanistan and the Indians built a house and retired. There was usually enough money to pay a bride dowry, if they weren’t already married.

This was all going on while American jobs were disappearing and continued right through the 2008 financial meltdown and beyond. When I left Afghanistan the last time, the big contract companies were hiring Kenyans for a whopping monthly wage of 500 U.S. dollars. In the meantime, they’re pocketing a couple hundred thousand dollars per position and Americans are out of work back home.

$35 Haircut Special

Late Summer 2004

Prostitution wasn’t rampant on the bases in Afghanistan. However, it was present. The Army and Air Force Exchange Service (AAFES) ran a beauty salon at the Post Exchange complex on BAF. All of the girls who worked there were from Bishkek in the Kyrgyz Republic or K2 in Uzbekistan. Some of them were beautiful. Some … well, not so much. At the AAFES beauty salon, one could get a haircut, a manicure, pedicure, or a massage. Women went in there and came out waxed and dyed. For sixty days in early 2004, one could also procure the services of a gal for more base pleasures, like blow jobs. All one need do was walk in and ask for the $35 Special. I suppose you had to know who to ask to get that service. Of course, it was illegal.

At about the same time, the Army found out about a pretty, young airwoman servicing the troops for fifty bucks a pop. Simultaneously, she was engaged in an adulterous affair. Her married beau became incensed when he found out that the object of his extra-marital obsessions was prostituting herself. An extreme (and unwise) public argument ensued between the two, which exposed the affair to the chain of command. The resulting investigation revealed extracurricular activities of the young woman when her chain of command searched her room. In Afghanistan, the authorities do not need a search warrant. There’s no due process. One surrenders all rights upon entering a base. The military can pretty much do as they please. A right which they exercise excessively at times. While searching her room, the authorities found a package with over fifteen thousand dollars in fifty, twenty, and ten dollar bills. They also found several boxes of condoms. This gal had only been there for ninety days.

It took a while for the Army to finish its investigation on the young woman and her consort. A friend of mine was part of the investigation team. “Dave, she confessed everything. The girl actually advertised through her customers. Word of mouth. She would leave a sock outside her door. If the sock was on the door, she was busy with someone. No sock and you knocked, walked in, and handed her fifty bucks. She was doing everyone. Marines, soldiers, enlisted, officers, contractors. If you could come up with fifty bucks, it was on. They said that there were lines outside her door all the time. How in the hell did that go on for three months with no one noticing?”

“Well, brother, think about it. General Order #1 prohibits sexual intercourse in Afghanistan. Yet, the PX is always stocked with condoms. Someone was happy about condom sales. There’s no way that her chain of command was completely in the dark about all of this.”

“I agree. But whether they knew or not, the chain of command deserves to be relieved. I’m sure it’ll be swept under the rug, though.”

“I don’t doubt it. Can’t ruin an officer’s career over some enlisted scum now can we?” I laughed.

Other sex incidents popped up across Afghanistan throughout my time there. The Army deals with these things as they’re discovered but can’t seem to stomp out prostitution. For instance, when I was at another base a couple of years later in Kabul I had started getting weekly massages at the beauty salon there. I always got the same girl because the others were too brutal with their trade. In mid-August, I showed up and my girl wasn’t there. So I asked Roxanne, the manager, where she was. Roxanne said to me that she had to send her home. When I asked why, she wouldn’t say.

Later that day, I found out what happened. About two weeks earlier, there was a Chlamydia epidemic. A soldier returning from his mid-tour had caught Chlamydia back in the States. He went to the medical station to get it fixed. A few days later, a couple of guys came in with the same problem. Later, still more soldiers showed up at the aid station with STDs. Then the girls started showing up. All of them had Chlamydia. I think they may have had gonorrhea as well.

The Army investigated the mini-outbreak and discovered that the girls who worked at the beauty salon were prostituting. I don’t know how many girls were involved or what they were charging but it was all going well until that one guy brought back his bag of STDs and passed them on to one of the girls. It spread like wildfire from that point.

Apparently, none of these guys or gals had discovered the benefits of condoms. The guys who came in for STDs were all disciplined under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). But I’m sure that there were more involved. The girls were all sent back home. The beauty salon hired new girls and business went back to normal.

After that incident, the Army made the beauty salon girls move off base. AAFES moved them to a safe house downtown in Kabul. No massage girls or barbers lived on any of the Kabul area bases after that.

Camp Cupcake—The Easy Life

March–December 2005

In the spring, KBR moved me up to Camp Eggers to be team chief. I took over the Property Book Office from Sergeant First Class Wright, who was a septuagenarian that had been retired for over a decade when OEF kicked off. Believing that they were short of manpower, the Army began randomly recalling retirees. SFC Wright was given a choice: deploy to Afghanistan or lose your retirement benefits. Within the month, he was on a plane. When he arrived in Afghanistan, he was assigned to the Combined Forces Command–Afghanistan (CFC-A), which was the overall command of the U.S.-led coalition and was also responsible for training the Afghan National Army and Afghan National Police. Unfortunately, CFC-A was not expecting Wright. They didn’t have a position for him. He spent a year deployed in Afghanistan doing busy work. The Army interrupted this grandfather’s life, so that he could sit around doing nothing for twelve months in Afghanistan. SFC Wright was far from the only one to be jerked around like this to “fight” the Global War on Terror. I would estimate that 10 to 20 percent of the folks in Afghanistan were likewise sitting on their thumbs and counting the days until end of deployment. They got shiny medals out of it, plus some useful VA benefits, so I guess it wasn’t a total waste of their time.

Camp Eggers was a different animal than other camps in Afghanistan. It had always been the headquarters for the effort in Afghanistan and is dead center of what’s now called the Kabul Base Cluster. It was here that the generals, who ran the show, worked. Eggers was less than half a mile from the U.S. Embassy. Karzai’s presidential palace was a stone’s throw away. ISAF headquarters was a couple hundred feet from the main gate. There’s more brass per square meter at Eggers than anywhere outside of the Pentagon, which made it a dog-and-pony show magnet.

Eggers actually looked like a neighborhood back in the States that the military had beefed up with gun emplacements, guard towers, and Hesco barriers. The only road in Eggers was a tree-lined street called Gator Alley. The camp was full of small villas. Some high-ranking person decided that instead of numbering the villas, he’d name them. There was Rose House that got its name from a guy killed by the Taliban. Alamo House was named by a Texas unit that had been stationed at Eggers when it first opened, while Goat House had a bit of an odd story. When the Army first moved into the area that would become Eggers, they had to clear many of the houses of rubble and debris. In one building, a goat carcass was found in the debris. Whoever was in charge of building designations had a sense of humor and decided that Goat House would be a great name. That building became the home of the commanding general of U.S. Forces–Afghanistan. The most powerful man in Afghanistan was put in Goat House. He lived on the top floor. The bottom floor was one of the Eggers dining facilities.

Eggers was rarely attacked. I can’t remember a direct attack the whole time that I was there. The only incident that I can recall occurred about a week or so after I arrived. The security forces (SECFOR) discovered a bomb attached to one of the trucks that was delivering fuel to the camp. It was quickly disposed of by the Army Explosive Ordnance Disposal crew. An exploding fuel truck would have left a mark.

Aside from the occasional improvised explosive device laid about in the general vicinity, Camp Eggers was relatively unscathed by the war in Afghanistan. At the time, traffic jams were common right outside the two main Eggers points of entry. But I always wondered about both gates. They were excellent points for suicide bomb attacks, especially a well-placed, vehicle-borne improvised device of some sort. Even so, it was years before attacks were attempted directly on Camp Eggers. By that time, the street leading to Eggers were blocked to all traffic except Coalition or Afghan officialdom.

Karzai’s palace compound was practically on top of Camp Eggers and was relatively easily accessed. I drove by it a time or two on my way to Camp Phoenix. There was a small security checkpoint through which one passed to access the palace, but the guards were lax (sometimes sleeping!) and barely acknowledged us as we passed. It would have been nothing for a disciplined and well-planned attack force to have taken those guards out and to have proceeded on to attack the palace.

In those days, though, no one seemed all that worried about an attack. We were Camp Cupcake ensconced in the middle of a war that we barely acknowledged in our quest to produce mountains of PowerPoint slides and to kill our days at the Green Bean slurping down extra large mochas, lattes, and strawberry smoothies, and then working it all off in the gym that night.

Despite the leisure my KBR promotion afforded me, sometime in August 2005, I started talking to Mantech Inc. about a position on the Property Book Operations Sustainment and Support (PBOSS) contract. The Army had created a new accounting system for the Iraq and Afghan theaters of operation. The command in Afghanistan was authorized by the Department of the Army to retain war materiel for theater operations. Any equipment that was designated “theater provided equipment” (TPE) would be left in Afghanistan as units rotated home. All equipment purchased with funds budgeted by Congress for OEF would be retained in theater. Mantech won that contract and offered me a position as a master supply technician. My time with KBR had come to an end.

* * *

In September, I flew into Alexandria, Virginia on a bright, sunny fall Sunday morning and showed up at Mantech headquarters with hair down to my shoulders and a three-inch beard, which I had grown while working at KBR. I probably looked like a drugged-out hippy to the executives at Mantech. There were a few other new hires with me that morning. Jim Carrel, the incoming program manager who was a retired Marine Corps sergeant major, was new to Army logistics. He proved to be fairly clueless but he was a nice guy. Dorian, who had also jumped ship from KBR, was there as well. I felt much better when I met Mark. A retired Special Forces master sergeant, he had hair almost as long as mine and a beard that was a little longer.

We spent two days in-processing at Alexandria. Then they sent us to CRC (CONUS Replacement Center) at Fort Benning, Georgia. Benning was the Army base where infantry were trained. It probably hadn’t changed much since World War II. The CRC cadre stuck us in old Vietnam-era barracks out in the middle of nowhere. The CRC was a fenced-in compound with twenty barracks, a small Post Exchange annex, a dining facility, and a Morale, Welfare, and Recreation facility. There were also a few smaller classrooms, a chapel for the religiously inclined, and the cadre offices. The place reminded me of Stalag 13. We were required to attend 0500hrs and 1700hrs formations each day.

“Formations are mandatory. If you miss more than two formations, you will be dismissed. Soldiers will be sent back to their units for action under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Contractors! You will be dismissed. If your company likes you, they might send you back. If not, it’s the unemployment line.” I hated formations when I was in the Army and I hated them at CRC. We also had a series of mandatory classes such as country familiarization, first aid, unexploded ordnance, and mine identification. The CRC cadre marched us up to a training area for these classes, which lasted from 0600hrs to 1600hrs over the course of two days. The instructors were mostly cool, old, retired, senior non-coms. The classes were useful especially for those who had never been in the military or first time deployers to OEF and OIF (Operation Iraqi Freedom).

You’d be surprised the amount of stupid shit that people will do in Afghanistan. “Hey look! An unexploded mortar round. Let’s play catch with it!” I’ve seen people do it. I always ran the other way. We also had mandatory computer training on sexual harassment, rape prevention, fraud, waste and abuse, and a whole array of other useless information.

Once CRC cleared us, we drove to Baltimore Washington International Airport where we caught a military flight to Manis, Kyrgyzstan. Winters in the Kyrgyz Republic are harsh. When I debarked the aircraft, I nearly froze in place. Manis is an air force base near the Kyrgyz capital city of Bishkek. It is a central transit hub for contractors, individual military personnel, and units deploying to Afghanistan and re-deploying home to the States. It is a small base with a cadre that acted as a way station for folks entering and exiting Afghanistan.

After three days, we were finally manifested for a flight to Bagram. We’d flown into Manis during a major troop transition. Units were coming and going constantly. The military had priority on flights. Contractors were bumped regularly. It didn’t matter to me how long we stayed at Manis. Our uplift started the moment we landed at Manis.

Uplift is a portion of wages based on location. It was broken down into two parts: a post differential pay and a hardship pay. The rate is designated by the Department of State. OEF was designated as 35/35, meaning that there was a 35-percent uplift for post differential and a 35-percent uplift for hardship. Add it up and I was getting a 70-percent uplift on my base salary. If I was offered 93,500 U.S. dollars per year, multiply that by .70, and my annual salary would be around 156,000 U.S. dollars. If the Army wanted me to sit in Manis, that was on them. It was their dime.

Phoenix Rising

December 2005–Spring 2006

We flew into Bagram at noontime. I stayed in Bagram for about a week helping with the main Property Book Office but generally doing nothing. There were only three PBUSE stations at that time. Property Book Unit Supply Enhanced (PBUSE) was the new game in town for property accountability. The Army had replaced SPBS with this new online property accountability system. It was more user-friendly than the old SPBS boxes but if the main database systems at Fort Lee went down, the whole thing shut down. Other than that, I liked it. It was basically SPBS with a graphical user interface. I had been trained on the system while working for KBR when the Army had sent a training team to Afghanistan with a three-week course.

After the course, we had converted all of our SPBS boxes to PBUSE systems. It was a fairly easy transition. We loaded all of our data onto a 3.5” floppy disk. Our military counterpart delivered it to Fort Lee, Virginia. Fort Lee downloaded the data. Abracadabra! We were now PBUSE.

Within a week, Jim Carrel assigned me to Camp Phoenix which was located just outside of Kabul on Jalalabad Road, J-bad for short. It was a medium-sized base set up to house about six hundred personnel. The Army being the Army crammed over a thousand folks onto the camp. Rooms were at a premium. There were actually people hot-bunking, i.e., sharing beds in shifts.

We convoyed up to Phoenix with the Army. When we arrived, I was introduced to Rudy, Nate, and June who were all on Mantech contract. Jim took June and returned to Bagram. That was the last time that I’d see anyone from Bagram for five months.

Nate was a young dude who had been working in Germany when Mantech had been awarded the PBOSS contract. He had never worked property in his life. He had marital problems and only stayed for thirty days after I arrived. That left us a man short.

Rudy, who was my immediate boss, offered to show me around camp. It wasn’t necessary. When I worked for KBR, I transited through Phoenix when I traveled to Bagram from Eggers. It was pretty cool to be back at Phoenix sans KBR hat. I no longer had to worry about KBR rules. Mantech pretty much had no rules. They gave us a collared shirt to wear on Fridays. Other than that, we were given no dress code. We were blissfully free. As long as Rudy wasn’t an asshole, we could do as we pleased within the boundaries of Camp Phoenix rules and regulations. Phoenix rarely bothered us about anything.

Rudy was 5’7” and a 250lb ball of laughter. He was struggling with his weight and blood pressure. Green tea was the magical elixir that would get him back into game shape. I had my doubts.

“Dave, this green tea is workin’ for me. I’m losin’ pounds, bro!”

I laughed and shook my head. “Whatever gets you up in the mornin’, bro.”

The great thing about Rudy was that he was aware of his limitations. He didn’t know jack about property accountability and he knew it. He didn’t like being boss but he loved the pay. I ran the show from day one. Rudy and I talked. “Dude, you sit back and I’ll take care of the office. Go to the meetings, give reports, answer questions from the head shed. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Rudy answered in his squeaky voice, “Okay, Dave. Just don’t get me into trouble.”

“Who me? I never get into trouble. Nothing that I can’t get out of at any rate.”

That was that. For the rest of the time that Rudy was there, I ran the office. Rudy went to meetings and stayed out of the way.

Rudy was a walking hospital case and a bit of a hypochondriac. He suffered from sleep apnea and mild narcolepsy. He fell asleep in so many meetings with the military that they complained to the program manager and our contract officer in Bagram. Jim called me. “Dave, don’t let Rudy go to anymore meetings. He’s making us look like assholes. I want you to go instead.”

“For god’s sakes, Jim! He’s the team chief. If he’s not going to the meetings and he’s not doing shit else, then why the hell am I not being promoted?”

“Dave, we’ll take care of you.”

I was now de facto team chief, as recognized by the program manager and Mantech HQ. Rudy rarely came to the office for more than a few minutes. He either sat outside smoking cigars, went to the PX, or watched TV and slept in his room. Rudy spent over nine months in Afghanistan. He took home around 150,000 to 160,000 U.S. dollars and didn’t do a goddamn thing the whole time. I didn’t harbor ill will towards the guy. Hell, I admired his pluck. It wasn’t his fault that Mantech had hired his incompetent ass and was unwilling to admit its mistake.

When I came on with Mantech, I was promised master supply tech position. However, my security clearance had lapsed, and it took until late December to be completed. Two days before Mantech had hired a guy to take my position. I raised hell. The guy was a National Guard master sergeant who had never worked property book. I’d have to train the guy and he’d be one level above me. Essentially, he’d be my boss but under Rudy. That would place two people over me who didn’t have a clue how to do the job. I was pissed and ready to check out. I was already more experienced than most of the team chiefs, yet sitting at the bottom of the totem pole. I couldn’t believe it. I called Jim again. “Jim, if you bring this fuck in, how is it that you are going to bump me ahead of him if Rudy departs contract. Keep the position open and fill the lower position when my clearance comes through.” Jim hemmed and hawed on the issue. He was under pressure to get personnel on the ground. Luckily, two days later, my clearance came through. They gave the new guy a choice. He could take the lower position or return to the States. Bruce took the position.

A couple of days later at the Phoenix PX, Bruce and I ran into Shelly, a gal I had met when I was a KBR stooge in Bagram. She was with a couple of friends of hers. We walked out front and chatted for a while.

“This is Wendy and Alicia. Wendy works with me. Alicia ushers around Afghan laborers all day long.”

It was odd that a female was a labor escort. Female escorts have had problems with Afghans in the past. Afghans do not like to be given instructions by women. It’s a cultural thing. Women are subservient to men in nearly all cases. A powerful woman in Afghanistan is rare. Even the parliamentary members are there mostly for symbolism. The female parliament members are hardly independent and they uniformly vote as directed by their local warlord. Bush and his cronies liked to brag about women in parliament but it was smoke and mirrors. Yes, they were there. They were elected but only because the local warlord told his people to vote for her to keep the aid dollars and bribes flowing.

“Alicia, do you get much push back from the Afghans? Do they actually listen to you?”

“I had a few problems at first. I wrote one guy up and KBR fired him. After that, no one gave me any problems. They knew I wasn’t to be messed with.”

“Listen, Dave. We’ve gotta go. We’re meeting up with some people. We’ll see you around,” said Shelly.

“Sure. Safe travels!”

* * *

With Mantech, we were allowed a two-week R&R every six months. It sucked. I was accustomed to going every four months with KBR. At that fourth month, I started getting stir crazy. I lost focus at the fifth month. By the sixth month, I was ready to shoot someone in the face. I felt like Jack Nicholson in The Shining … “Here’s, Johnny!”

Rudy took R&R fairly late in his contract. While he was away, I took Bruce with me on a booze run, which I had gotten accustomed to doing with Rudy. I had earlier purchased two “gorilla boxes” to hide the booze. We put the booze in the bottom of the boxes and placed old documents on top of it. Perfect camouflage. If the guards ever stopped us, I doubted that they’d sift through the papers. As we drove off base, I waved to the gate guards. They knew me by face and waved me through. It freaked me out a bit that we were never stopped. No one cared that two civilians were constantly driving off base?

We drove onto J-bad and headed to my favorite convenience store in Kabul. At Ciano’s, an Italian version of the U.S. Army’s AAFES PX, we grabbed our booze and a few other sundry items, paid for them, and were out the door. I walked out the gate and stopped at the guard shack. “Salaam, Brother!” We shook hands and exchanged man hugs.

As Bruce and I headed out, I decided on a detour. I wasn’t feeling Camp Phoenix at that moment. “Bruce, wanna drive around? You haven’t been around Kabul, have you?”

“Sure, let’s do it.”

I turned onto J-bad Road and drove towards Kabul. A few minutes later, we were deep in the city and stuck. I weaved in and out of traffic as best I could. I drove on the wrong side of the street. A couple of times, I jumped up on the sidewalk. An Afghan police officer waved us down and I pulled over. He looked harmless.

“Would you like to have tea with me?”

“What?”

“Tea, sir? Would you like some tea?”

“Are you serious?”

“Where are we going to drink it?”

“Oh, right here.”

“At the traffic circle? Really?”

“Yes, I would like to talk English.”

“I’m sorry fella. We can’t just stop right here. Maybe next time.” And I drove off. “Bruce, what the fuck was that?”

“Hell Dave, I’ve never been down here before. You tell me.”

“I can’t believe that he stopped us to ask us to have tea with him. In the middle of the traffic circle no less. What the fuck?” Bruce laughed.

I’d turned us around and had absolutely no idea where we were. I kept looking for Antenna Hill. We drove past the famous Mustafa Hotel, which was advertised as a nice place to stay in Afghanistan in the Lonely Planet travel guide. I had passed it once and actually saw some dudes walking out of it with backpacks and what looked like city maps.

It seemed like nearly every back alley had a steaming pile of refuse with sheep and goats bloating themselves on it. I reckon that was how they got rid of their trash. Goats and sheep ate it. Eventually, I ran into the old city wall. It was an ancient wall that surrounded the city of Kabul at one time. Only portions of it still stood. I followed the wall down to an intersection and off to my right was Antenna Hill. Now I could get us home. Straight towards the hill until I came to the traffic circle that would take me to J-bad Road.

I managed to get us on track back to Camp Phoenix. Twenty minutes later, we were pulling into the gate.

“What’s up Rambo?” I yelled out the window.

Rambo was a permanent fixture at Camp Phoenix. He was an Afghan that was employed early on to man the gate with U.S. Army security personnel. Rambo was a widower with no family. He slept at the gate and ate on base. The Army had issued him U.S. Army uniforms to wear. I talked to him a couple of times. The Soviets had killed half of his family and the Taliban murdered the other half. It was a sad story but Rambo always had a ready smile and a warm greeting for everyone.

The guy was courageous and loyal to his new friends—the Americans. He swore by America and defended Camp Phoenix against the intruders with his life. Not long after I arrived at Phoenix, an insurgent had driven up to the gates and tried to detonate himself. Rambo ran over to the car, pulled the insurgent out and beat the guy half to death. Rambo had been bombed, IED’d, and shot at repeatedly. The Army offered to send him to America. Rambo refused. “Afghanistan, good or bad, is my home. I will die here with my family.” He was one of the most famous Afghans in Kabul.

Rambo waved us through without looking at our ID cards. At the second gate, we were stopped. I rolled down the window and asked, “Dude, what can I do ya for?” Before he could answer, a second guard walked over and waved us off. As I drove off, I heard, “Don’t stop them. They’re Special Forces.” That solved the mystery as to why I was never stopped at the gate. Somehow, I had become a Special Forces operator. I don’t know how the rumor started. While I had long hair and was working in Afghanistan, folks often assumed that I was SF or some covert operative. People watched too many action flicks.

When we made it back to the office, I got a call from Jim. Rudy had a medical emergency and would be returning late from R&R. A month passed and Rudy was still not back. Mantech decided to let him go. I was promoted to team chief. Bruce was promoted to master supply technician. We hired a new guy to take Bruce’s old position. The new guy was Shaquille. Shaq was a brother out of North Carolina and a huge college basketball fan. He rooted for the Tar Heels but he wasn’t a fanatic freak about it. Shaq and I talked college basketball all the time. Shaq was a good worker and knew how to relax. Bruce and I added Martel to our weekly shopping list. Shaq fit right in.

A couple of days after Shaq arrived, we were sitting around drinking and talking college ball when Shaq asked me, “How’s Toby going to do this year with your Cats?”

I did a double take on him. “What? Who?” Did I hear that right? A brother just called Tubby Smith “Toby?” Shaq started laughing and said, “That idiot is ruining Kentucky. Pitino had them on top of the world. Toby can’t recruit. AT KENTUCKY? How the hell can a coach not recruit AT KENTUCKY?” I knew right then and there that Shaq and I were going to be great friends. I couldn’t stand Tubby.

Bombs, Bullets, Insurgents

Summer–Early Fall 2006

Camp Phoenix didn’t get hit often. J-bad Road was hit two or three times a month. Usually, it was the French getting hit. They departed Camp Warehouse everyday at 0900hrs to head out to Darulaman. The insurgents watched them for a couple of weeks, noted their pattern of behavior, and planted their IEDs. Every couple of weeks—BOOM!

ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! Everyone on Phoenix ran to the bunkers. An hour or so later, “ALL CLEAR” would come across the loud speaker, and we’d all go back to business as usual. Everyone on Phoenix ran to the bunker nearest to their location at the time of the attack unless they were in a building that was classified as a hardened structure, meaning that it could withstand a rocket or mortar.

Occasionally, there was a direct attack on Phoenix. It was nearly always a suicide bomber at the gate. On one such occasion, a Task Force first sergeant was inspecting his troops on the gate. The suicide bomber rammed the gate and flew off in pieces to meet his seventy-two virgins. The only casualty was the first sergeant. I remember that day not only because we lost a good man but because the bomb was so powerful that it blew out glass in some of the buildings and rocked the whole camp. I was visiting a friend in a two-storey building near the front of Phoenix. We were sitting there chatting when suddenly all of the air left the room. The building rocked. It felt like some giant child had picked the building up and threw it back to ground in some cosmic temper tantrum. That building was considered a hardened structure, so we stayed put. I learned later that day about the first sergeant. I’d spoken to him a few times around camp. He was a nice guy.

A couple of months later, I was sitting in my office going over some documents when suddenly a burst of noise starting ricocheting all around.

POP!

PING!

POP!

PING!

POP!

PING! PING! PING!

I stopped what I was doing and looked up. “Is that small arms fire?”

Shaq walked over to me, “I don’t know. Sounds like it, though.”

“Who the hell would be shooting into Phoenix? Who has the balls to sit and snipe at us? From where? There’s no place high enough to shoot at us over the walls.”

I walked outside. The base mayor, Lieutenant Colonel Mauer, was standing out there peering in the direction from which the firing was coming. I walked over to him and asked, “What the hell is going on? Is someone shooting at us?” I couldn’t believe it. Rockets, I could understand. Mortars, IEDs. Sure. You can pop and run. Some insurgent sitting on a building a few hundred feet outside of Phoenix firing small arms our way. It wasn’t plausible. It was coming from the west of us in the little village across the way. Phoenix had immediately sent a patrol out.

I stood out there with Lieutenant Colonel Mauer checking the situation. Oblivious to the danger. I just didn’t think about it. So far out was the thought of someone shooting at us in that manner that I didn’t think to grab my body armor or helmet. I looked at the lieutenant colonel in his full battle rattle. “Well, hell. I’d better get inside before I get shot.” He winked at me, “Dave, that might not be a bad idea.” I stood there for a second longer and another round ricocheted off a nearby building. “That’s my cue. I’ll be in the office, if ya need me.”

That was a weird day. Strange that someone would randomly fire small arms into the camp. It wasn’t steady fire and from the sound, it wasn’t a heavy caliber weapon. It was a POP then a PING as the bullet hit somewhere in Legoland. A few seconds later, POP then PING. It couldn’t have lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes. Sometimes I think I dreamt the whole episode. I never felt like I’d get hit. It was just curious to have someone shooting what was probably a .22 caliber weapon at us.

From what I heard, they never found the culprit. He melted into the scenery. The Phoenix patrol probably walked right by the dude after he abandoned his pea shooter.

* * *

At the end of the fiscal year 2006, our contract was re-bid. Mantech lost. Dimensions International won the contract. The whole Mantech team started preparing to leave Afghanistan or head to other contracts. I’d heard bad things about Dimensions. They were late paying their people. They didn’t pay as much. There was no benefits package. Dimensions had the property accountability contract in Iraq. Anytime I had to deal with them, there were problems. Documents took days to be processed or weren’t processed at all. There were rumors that they had been investigated for accountability losses. There was too much smoke for there to be no fire.

We had a month before contract ended. Everyone stayed until the end to collect those last few paychecks. The contract paid well. As a team chief, I was pulling in nearly 16,000 U.S. dollars per month.

At the end of the month, Shaq and I drove the SUV down to Bagram. Shaq headed for home. I had decided to take a job in Kuwait. I didn’t last a month before I got tired of it. I took a few months off and traveled Asia. I climbed the Great Wall, kayaked on the Mekong in Laos, and explored Angkor Wat in Cambodia. I was back home in Kentucky in time for Christmas. I wondered if I’d return.

Chai or Afghan Tea ~ Dealing with the Afghans involves thousands of cups of Chai. It takes about three weeks of chatting about the family and life and drinking cups of chai before one can get down to business with the Afghans. Building rapport is key to success in Afghanistan. Relationships are important. The guy who doesn’t take time to drink a bit of tea gets nothing done with the Afghans.

The winter of 2007 had record snowfall resulting in deaths by the hundreds in Herat Province. Afghans froze to death for want of a blanket or wood for a fire.

The old entrance to the Herat Province Police Headquarters. It was converted from an 18th Century Cavalry barracks.

Ohe of my first class graduation photos. We gave these photos to each member of the class. In many cases, these were the only photographs that they owned.

The ancient meets the modern. Many Afghans still use animal power to go about their daily lives. Horse, cow and mule power are ubiquitous in the Stan. The mules were brought to Afghanistan by the CIA during the Soviet-Afghan War of the 80s.

Detritus of War ~ Old Soviet War Machinery is spread throughout the Afghan countryside. The Chinese recently bought all of it for scrap metal. It will take years to consolidate all of this “junk.”

Horse riders in Kabul. These fellows swooped by me as I was touring Kabul in February of 2010.

Colonel Zahir and me surveying the new bread oven funded by ISAF.

PART II

The Nights of Kabul

On a dark winter night early in the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, the people of Kabul gathered on their rooftops. The men shouted the ages-old Islamic battle cry, “Allahu Akhbar,” and fired their Kalashnikov rifles into the air. Women stood on their rooftops ululating in the time-honored manner of Muslim women sending their men off to war. This eruption of frustration, agony, and rage against the atheist Soviet infidel that had invaded their homeland was the beginning of the end of the Soviet occupation. It was the shot in the night that signaled the beginning of the Mujahideen insurgency against Soviet rule. Nearly a decade later, Soviet Lieutenant General Boris Gromov walked across the Amu Darya River as the last Soviet soldier to depart Afghanistan.

Almost immediately after the Soviets departed, various Mujahideen factions fought for control of the country and in their wake unleashed a civil war. Kabul had been largely untouched by the Mujahideen insurgency during the Soviet occupation. The city was not so fortunate at the hands of the warring Afghan factions. Rashid Dostum, Ahmad Shah Massoud, Burhanuddin Rabbani, Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, and other Mujahideen commanders carved up the city into personal fiefdoms. They bombarded each other with captured Soviet artillery and armor. Whole neighborhoods were flattened. Their minions wantonly raped women, pillaged property, and unleashed a destructive force so complete that Kabul has yet to recover two decades later. What the Soviets had left untouched, the Mujahideen virtually destroyed. The residents of Kabul, who had earlier greeted the Mujahideen as liberators from the Soviets and their puppet government under Mohammad Najibullah, now fled the city to refugee camps in Pakistan, Iran, and out to Europe via Central Asia.

Warlords belonging to various Islamic factions and sometimes only loosely associated with one of the major Mujahideen figures carved out territories of lawlessness and banditry. Anarchy ruled the country from Herat in the east to Kabul in the center to Qandahar in the south. The Taliban rose from the angst and chaos created by the destabilizing fighting of the Mujahideen commanders. Mullah Omar established a small band of holy warriors who wished to impose Islamic sharia as a means of combating the violence in and around Qandahar. He successfully led his men against minor bandit kings in the vicinity of that city. With the assistance of Pakistan’s army and intelligence services, Mullah Omar built a group of followers recruited mainly from madrassahs and refugee camps, and seized the southern portion of the country.

After a series of defeats and setbacks at the hands of Ahmad Shah Massoud and the Northern Alliance, the Taliban entered Kabul. They were hailed as conquering heroes and restorers of law and order. They wasted little time in declaring a new Islamic caliphate of Afghanistan. They made sharia the law of the land and replaced Radio Kabul with Radio Sharia. Television, music, and dancing were outlawed immediately. Girls’ schools were closed. Women were confined to the home or forced to wear the burqa in public. Men were made to grow beards and shave their heads on pain of public beatings. Religious police brutalized Afghans for the slightest infractions. There were beard patrols that checked to ensure men’s beards were at least fist-length, meaning that if they grabbed a man’s beard and it did not protrude from the bottom of their fist, he was given seven lashes. The five daily prayers were made mandatory. Any Muslim who was late or not in attendance was beaten mercilessly. Public executions and medieval punishments became the norm in Kabul’s Olympic Stadium.

A few years after the Taliban took Kabul, Osama bin Laden sought political refuge in Afghanistan. At the urging of the United States, the Saudis had stripped him of his citizenship, and later Sudan expelled bin Laden from his safe haven in Khartoum. Osama contacted Mullah Omar and was given permission to fly with his family and entourage into the country. He took up residence in the south at Karnak Farms but had other places of refuge throughout the south and east.

It was from Afghanistan that Osama reportedly planned his 9/11 attacks. Once those plans were carried out and the Twin Towers fell, President George W. Bush demanded that Mullah Omar surrender bin Laden and al Qaeda or suffer the consequences. Mullah Omar refused to bow to Washington’s pressure. The Americans invaded. Kabul fell in short order. The remainder of the country fell within a few weeks.

An Afghan friend told me that he sat atop Antenna Hill in the center of Kabul as the rockets fell on the city. Sitting under the cover of a rocky out-cropping, he watched as Coalition Forces entered the city from the north and east, and the Taliban fled to the south. I visited Antenna Hill on a cold, wet winter day. The whole of the city is visible from that vantage. As I looked down from the summit, I could imagine events unfolding as they had in 2001. The Taliban fleeing in disarray. Coalition and Afghan forces triumphantly entering the city. Six years later in 2007, I was returning to Kabul again. This time, I would spend eight weeks preparing to train Afghan police in western Afghanistan before journeying to the city of Herat.

White Collar Mercenaries R Us

April–May 2007

Katalina called me up while I was visiting my brother in Albuquerque. She and I had worked together in Bagram back in ’04 and ’05. She knew of a job that was opening up and had offered my name. Now she was calling to tell me to follow up. Two weeks later, I was on my way back to Bagram. The job was decent but I wanted to join the training and mentoring teams that were working to build the Afghan National Security Forces—the Afghan army and police. I saw these mentoring positions as a way of leaving a more lasting mark in the world. I could actually be a part of the real world effort of teaching Afghans how to be a viable democracy. I wanted to help the Afghans build a professional and capable national security force. To be sure, I would be a small cog in the wheel of Afghan progress, but in my naïve idealism I felt that I could touch lives and influence people for the better.

MPRI had a major stake in the training and mentoring contracts in Afghanistan. They had a reputation for exclusively hiring retired military officers but I’d heard that they were expanding their candidate pool along with their burgeoning contract mission. At the time, MPRI was unique in their hiring methodology. They listed positions on their website complete with the name of the human resources specialist responsible for each position group. To apply for a job, you simply e-mailed the HR specialist whose name was listed with the position in which you were interested. I sent my resume and waited.

To my surprise, I received an immediate reply and arranged to interview the next day. It went great. Todd, the MPRI recruiter, recommended me for hire. Two days later, I received an offer letter from MPRI. I told the recruiter that I owed the guys in Bagram two weeks’ notice. After that, I was ready to move on. The morning after I signed the offer letter, I wrote out my resignation letter and sent it to my supervisors. I’d been with the company for a total of twenty-eight days. One of my supervisors wasn’t happy that I was leaving but he congratulated me on getting the position that I’d wanted. My other supervisor, however, was bitter. She replied via e-mail within the hour: “Two weeks’ notice is not necessary. Prepare to depart immediately.” Nothing could have made me happier.

As I was preparing to leave, I got a note from Katalina. Tragedy had struck. Jake, a friend of ours, had died at Bagram. Jake was one of the first KBR contractors on the ground in Afghanistan. He’d been in Bagram for the past five years working as the property administrator for the LOGCAP contract. He had finally decided to hang it up and head home. He’d boarded the KBR charter flight bound for Dubai. As the aircraft taxied down the runway, Jake suffered massive cardiac arrest. He died immediately.

Contractor deaths in Afghanistan go mostly unnoticed. The military cares only about military deaths—soldiers, seamen, marines. When contractors die or are killed, their bodies are unceremoniously shipped home in a silver coffin or a body bag. The media doesn’t attempt to take photos of them. There are no flag-draped coffins, no fallen comrade ceremonies, no honor guard. The military wipes their hands immediately of these men and women who died in service to their nation. “They were being paid.” “They knew the risks.” “Fuckin’ contractors.” “Fuck that dirty rotten contractor.” I have heard it all from privates to colonels. Too many military personnel harbor ill-feelings towards contractors. That disregard manifests itself most obviously in the treatment of wounded and killed contractors in war zones.

When Dick Cheney visited Bagram in February of 2007, the airfield was attacked. A contractor was killed. This woman had been in Bagram over two years and was an integral part of the mission. She had died no less in the line of duty than any soldier on Bagram. The military packed her up in a box and were preparing to ship her out without so much as a “Thanks for your service, ma’am.” She’d been a valued member of the support battalion that oversaw the logistical support of BAF. The battalion commander fought the local Army command with the result that this lone contractor was given full honors as her body was sent home. He performed the ceremony himself and walked beside the vehicle carrying her body as she was being conveyed from the Bagram morgue to the airfield. To my knowledge, that is the only time a civilian left the Afghan theatre in such a manner.

* * *

I flew into Alexandria on a Sunday afternoon. Monday morning, I was told to be in the lobby of my hotel the next day at 0830hrs to in-process with MPRI headquarters. When I got there, I met Ian, a retired Army sergeant first class. He’d been a “spoon”—an Army cook. “So, Ian, you’ll be training Afghans how to run a mess hall?”

“Nah, I’m going to be mentoring logistics.”

“Really? That’s what I’m heading out to do. You worked property book or were an S4 NCOIC[13] in the Army?”

“No, I was a dining facility manager.”

“Really …” I let it go and thought to myself, “They hired this guy to mentor property book and logistics officers?”

I didn’t know it at the time but this was my first run in with the FOLP, or Friends of Larry Parker. Larry Parker was a retired Army colonel. I heard that he was Quartermaster Branch. When Army officers are commissioned they are assigned to a branch. There are Infantry, Armor, Signal, and Quartermaster branches. The Quartermaster Branch is all of your logistics officers—transportation, supply, etc. Larry Parker influenced MPRI’s hiring and promotion processes in Afghanistan, which brings us back to Ian.

I found out later that Ian was Larry Parker’s next door neighbor. Larry’s wife and Ian’s wife were friends. Ian’s wife interceded on Ian’s behalf to get Larry’s wife to talk to her husband about bringing Ian onto the MPRI team. The only job for which Ian was remotely qualified (and he was not) was on one of the Regional Property Assistance Teams (RPATs).

I had worked Army accountability and logistics for the better part of twenty years. Ian had been a spoon for twenty years. A mentor or trainer should be a subject-matter expert. He or she should be able to speak from experience. How the hell was Ian going to speak from experience when he had none?

At exactly 0830hrs Ian and I were picked up by an MPRI toady. We spent a couple of hours filling in forms for insurance, personnel data, and pay. Afterwards, we were taken to Fort Meyer for CACs (common access cards). That was it. We were then issued brand new laptops and given an advance pay of 1,400 U.S. dollars for our trip to Dubai the next day.

At the time, Dubai was where MPRI processed Afghan visas for its employees. We would be flying into Afghanistan on commercial aircraft. That was a first for me. I’d always flown into the ‘Stan via military aircraft. MPRI had a different contract that stipulated civilian travel arrangements for its employees. Ian and I would fly into Kabul International Airport or KAIA (pronounced KEE-UH) from Dubai.

We spent two days in Dubai waiting on our Afghan visa. I’d been to Dubai before. KBR had started using Dubai as the transit hub in 2005. Dubai is an Islamic nation. It was also the prostitution and drug capital of the Emirates and Arabia. If it was illegal, you could snort it, fuck it, drive it, shoot it, and drink it in Dubai. The prostitutes were from everywhere but mostly you’d find Chinese, Central Asian, and Russian as well as northeastern African (Eritrea, Ethiopia, and Kenya).

On that first night, Ian and I met for drinks at the hotel sports bar. It had a decent band so we sat there and listened to the band sing old R&B songs. After that we checked out the Indian bar down the hall. There were hundreds of these Indian bars in Dubai, where customers drank and smoked shisha (flavored tobacco water pipes). There was always a large stage area with Indian women sitting to the rear. They were like strip clubs where no one got naked. The DJ played Bollywood-style tunes, and the ladies walked out one by one and danced Bollywood-style spinning and gyrating. If you liked one of the ladies, you threw little white cards at her. It cost 100 U.S. dollars for a stack of two-hundred cards. The woman got a commission on each card flung her way. She pranced to center stage. She danced. She kept her clothes on. Cards started flying. The prettier the gal, the more cards flew at her. For the really hot babes, the stage became a blizzard of white cardboard.

Arab men would get into the act at times. These guys wore white flowing robes and red and black checkered keffiyahs (the scarf with the camel whip wrapped around it). They jumped up, clapped, and flailed their arms, sometimes spinning wildly at the base of the stage. White robes swished and swirled in orgasmic bliss. The keffiyah snapped in the air. I was reminded of the legendary whirling dervishes of Sufi Islam. I sat in my chair and laughed until I could hardly breathe. At one point, I thought the vein in my forehead would burst.

After watching the women whirl at “Club Bollywood,” Ian and I hit a few other clubs. One drink became several drinks. Somehow I managed to stagger back to the hotel after Ian went off with a girl. When I got my room key from the front desk, there was a note for me. Passports and visas were ready. We were flying to Kabul in the morning. I was excited to start this new job. It would be different than all of my previous jobs in Afghanistan and my first real experience with Afghans.

[13] An S4 NCOIC—non-commissioned officer in charge—is a battalion-level supply officer that oversees and facilitates logistical operations.

Arriving in the Mile High City

Mid-June 2007

Kabul is politically a dusty backwater. Real power resides in the provinces with the warlords who have the pull of patronage. Karzai understands this, which is why he cannot solve the corruption that riddles the country. The only real power in Kabul resides in the hands of the U.S. military, as exercised on behalf of the Karzai regime. Without the Coalition, Karzai would be toothless. The people of Afghanistan have never looked to Kabul for guidance. Afghan culture is simply not centralized in the manner sought by the U.S.-led coalition or collectivized in the manner in which the Soviets attempted to force on the Pathan, Hazara, and Tajik tribal and cultural associations. Centralized government didn’t work when Afghan leaders such as Durrani, the Taliban, and King Zahir Shah tried it. It won’t work with an outside force attempting to ram it down the Afghans’ throats.

Kabul sits at roughly the same altitude as Denver, Colorado. Situated in a high valley in the Hindu Kush with the ancient Cophes river trickling through it, the city sprawls from mountain wall to mountain wall. Antenna Hill—the telecommunications hub of central Afghanistan—rises roughly in the center of the dust-ridden “urban” sprawl. Kabul is about the size of Louisville, Kentucky. The roads are pockmarked with potholes or dirt covered and muddy in the rain. The central area of the city is crammed with markets, restaurants, and government offices. Hesco barriers line the walls of ministry compounds, giving Kabul a siege-like appearance. The signs of the Muj wars and the American invasion are evident everywhere. Signs of collapsed, bullet-ridden buildings dot the cityscape. Afghan homes are sometimes built directly on top of the rubble of these collapsed structures.

Kabul is subdivided into districts. The most famous of these districts are Shahr-e Naw (New City), which is the business district at the center of the city, and Wazir Akbar Khan, which is a set of affluent neighborhoods now populated heavily by foreigners, NGO (non-governmental organization) workers, prominent company owners who do business with the Coalition, and other well-connected and well-heeled persons. Wazir Akbar Khan is brimming with new money and shifty characters looking to profit from the war in Afghanistan.

The rest of the city is a maze of streets and alleyways thronged with merchants, goats, and beggars. There are more vehicles than space on the road. Traffic jams in the city center are a regular occurrence. While pensively waiting for logjams to unlock, beggars and hawkers knock on your window pleading for money or selling tissue paper, phone cards, and candies. Many storefronts and homes are still bombed out wrecks across the city. There are streets dedicated to certain kinds of wares. Chicken Street, once a lane wherein Kabulis purchased poultry, is now a magnet where Coalition officials and embassy “tourists” shop for overpriced carpets and Afghan souvenirs.

In the northeast sector are the old Soviet bloc buildings where government and military officials resided during the occupation of the 1980s. Further east towards the outskirts of the city is the Kabul International Airport. Ian and I landed there around noon in mid-June 2007.

We were picked up by Anton who had been promoted within MPRI to take over the Eastern Regional Property Assistance Team. At 6’ 4” and about 290lbs, Anton was an imposing fellow. I don’t know if MPRI truly knew Anton’s history. I was later told that he had left the Army after ten years as a sergeant first class. One guy swore that Anton was a retired colonel. He never gave a straight answer when asked.

“I’m Anton. Which one of you guys is Ian?”

“That’s me,” Ian answered.

“You’ll be on my team. We’ll be heading out to Gardez. Dave, you’re going to Herat with Zach Amuro.”

“I’m going to take you to your hotel first. Then we’ll stop by the office.”

“Hotel? We’re not staying on Eggers?” I asked.

“Nope. Not enough room. You guys are staying at the Safi Landmark Hotel.”

“Cool.”

We checked into the hotel. Ian and I were given a suite together. We dropped our bags and Anton took us to the office to meet the rest of the team. I was introduced to my team lead, Zach Amuro, who was an Asian dude of Okinawan descent. He was a National Guard warrant officer and had done a tour of duty in Iraq. As the team lead, he was supposed to have the leadership and people skills to inspire exceptional performance. He had already been in Kabul for two weeks when I arrived, and he hadn’t made a great impression on anyone in that time. I found the guy to be one of those non-confrontational types and a tad hypersensitive.

I walked into this situation and was told immediately, “Dave, we need you to keep an eye on Zach out in Herat. Keep him in line. We know you have the experience and leadership.” I thought, well, why aren’t you making me the team chief then. What the hell? I’m in this situation again. My boss is another idiot who doesn’t know jack and I’m expected to take charge of him. To Zach’s credit, he knew he was out of his depth. He sidestepped with great aplomb and handed me the reins almost immediately. Again, I was expected to do the work and someone else was getting the dough.

We spent two months in Kabul developing our curricula. We were using the Afghan National Army decree (regulation) and the U.S. Army’s program of instruction (POI). We thought it was done for us but when we started going over the material, it was frightening. Someone had cut and pasted relevant chapters of U.S. Army logistics and accountability regulations into a “decree” and had it translated into Dari. The guy who did it must have been in a hurry. Some of the sections were completely irrelevant. Some ended mid-sentence. There seemed to be no order to it. I was told that Larry Parker had “created” the decree.

The POI wasn’t much better. The thing looked like it was written by a group of six year olds. Typos and poor grammar were the rule rather than the exception. Someone had fallen in love with the word “matériel.” Military folks with limited vocabulary loved to grab onto a word and use it to death. It had to be some kind of self-esteem issue. Seems “matériel” was the word of the day for the half-literate moron who had created the POI. To add insult to injury, we were using the Army training format which is “Tell ‘em what yer gonna tell ‘em. Tell ‘em. Then tell ‘em what you told ‘em.”

We were supposed to open the POI document, do a find/replace to change Afghan National Army (ANA) to Afghan National Police (ANP), Ministry of Defense (MOD) to Ministry of Interior (MOI), soldier to police, and army to police, and then call it a day. After looking at the mess that the Defense Ministry mentors handed us, we realized that we had our work cut out for us. Initially, the POI consisted of sixteen classes. I teamed up with Alan to re-write four of them. Alan was hired by MPRI to be the junior mentor on the northern region team based out of Mazar-e Sharif. In addition to the four classes I prepared with Alan, I also created an inventory management class. It took a day and a half to create that class complete with PowerPoint slides, a practical exercise, and a quiz. I learned PowerPoint on the fly while I was editing and writing the classes. After everyone had completed re-tooling the classes that they’d been assigned, we went over them again as a group.

POI editing was really the only thing that we did in Kabul. Zach and I wouldn’t start getting into the actual mentoring and training until we got out to Herat. Zach had to fly out first to coordinate our living arrangements. We were supposed to live on the regional training center (RTC) behind the Herat Airport. Politics blew that plan out of the water. The RTC was controlled by the State Department and INL or International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs. We were supposed to be on the same team. Fighting the same fight, as it were. The INL, nevertheless, denied our request to stay at the RTC. I tried to find out why but never got a satisfactory answer. Several ranking Army and Air Force officers told me that they repeatedly denied our requests as a way of telling DoD that they had the power to do so. There was a mini-war between Defense and State over the police training mission in Afghanistan. The State Department thought it was their mission. Department of Defense begged to differ.

The ANP and ANA were wont to fight each other at times. Outside of Kabul an ANA Kandak (kandak is the Dari word for “battalion”) had run into a District Police unit and had an all out firefight. One of our challenges as mentors was to foster a spirit of cooperation between these two hostile brother forces. The U.S. Defense and State departments’ animosity set a poor example for the Afghans and often hindered the mission with their infighting over funding and geography.

As a result of Defense/State animosity, Zach and I were planted on Camp Stone when we moved up to Herat. This put us at a severe disadvantage. Had we lived on the RTC, we would have been able to integrate with the DynCorp police mentors. We would have been able to better coordinate our training. We would have been able to move around western Afghanistan much more frequently. We’d have been much more effective. Instead, we were stuck on a FOB[14] connected to an Afghan army base that was fifteen miles away from the nearest police headquarters. The folks at Camp Stone were focused on the Afghan National Army. The Afghan National Police mission was a secondary consideration at best. My team’s mission with the ANP was relegated to an afterthought.

For now, though, we were stuck in Kabul. We spent two months in the capital city with virtually nothing to do once we finished preparing our program of instruction. Even though the Army had requested our services and MPRI brought us on contract, no one had a plan. We were actually supposed to stay for a third month but the bill for our hotel was eating into contract profits, so they hurried us out to the regions. The regions didn’t know we were coming. They had no plan for our arrival or implementation. Most of them had no idea what to do with us. Basically, we were responsible for creating our niche and convincing the regional U.S. commands that we could be useful to them.

While in Kabul, we were often marooned in our hotel due to threat level considerations. The Army had a four-tiered road safety status based on perceived levels of threat.

green – unrestricted travel

amber – movement has to be signed off by a colonel or above

red – mission essential movement only

black – all movement prohibited

Nearly anytime that Karzai was known to be traveling around Kabul, it seemed the roads went “black.” The day of an attack and the day after, roads were usually “black” or “red.” I always thought that the safest day to travel was the day AFTER an attack. The insurgents, Taliban, bandits, and half of the population go into hiding. It was rare that an attack was mounted the day after a successful bombing or IED run by the insurgents.

With nothing else to do and plenty of time to do it, I got antsy. I was curious about all of the underground establishments rumored to be in the city. I kept hearing about Wazir Akbar Khan, Line 15.[15] There were restaurants, bars, whorehouses, and foreign-owned businesses throughout the district. Once I found my way down there, I met quite a few folks who lived and partied hard in that area. There were several Chinese brothels, a Thai restaurant, and one bar called Crazy 8s. Crazy 8s was owned and operated by an American named Rick who worked for a company that was a big player in State Department contracts. State Department employees did not fall under the Army’s General Order #1. Many of them lived on the embassy compound or in a place called “Area 10” that was behind the embassy. Area 10 was similar to the Green Zone in Iraq. It was heavily guarded and surrounded by Hescos and concrete barriers. A maze of secure housing. The DoD side of Area 10 was a bit crowded but much better than living in a B-Hut or tent, whereas State Department housing was somewhat more luxurious. Many State Department contract employees lived in “safe houses” interspersed in various districts.

Kabul is a dangerous city. You can be kidnapped for ransom, murdered, beheaded, mugged, shot, or blown up at anytime on nearly any corner. Though there are some areas that are more targeted than others. Massoud Circle outside of the U.S. Embassy is one such place. Nearly every time the insurgents mounted a major attack in Kabul, Massoud Circle saw violence. The Serena, where diplomats and journalists stayed while in Kabul, was constantly attacked.

Military convoys rumbled down the roads in and around the city at all hours of the day and night. Black armored cars and trucks sped around carrying Afghan ministry and international embassy staff officials. Following too closely to these convoys was a sure way to see some violence. I witnessed this firsthand when my driver was following a small convoy carrying Rashid Dostum. The vehicles each had a sticker on the rear window stating “Rashid Dostum, the next King of Afghanistan.” Not sure how Karzai felt about that. The Dostum convoy came to a halt at a red light. My driver was slowly rolling up to the back of the convoy when the rear doors to the trailing SUV swung open. An Afghan wearing body armor over his Armani suit brandished an AK-47, aimed, and burst fired at the ground to the front of our vehicle. My driver started yelling and pointing at the U.S. vehicle identification on his dashboard. Dostum’s security guys weren’t impressed by our credentials. They yelled at my driver, “Back off or we’ll shoot again.” That was a close run for me. If the guy had aimed inside the vehicle, he’d have shot me full on in the face. Not only did we have to worry about the bad guys, we were sometimes endangered by the “good” guys.

With the ever-present threat of violence, I was surprised that Kabul had a thriving nighttime underground. You could party it up in the former Taliban capital almost like you were back in LA or NYC. Hardcore drugs were everywhere, with opium and hashish being the easiest to purchase. A river of booze flowed through the city. Every Chinese brothel had a bar and there were a few pubs hidden in the smaller hotels and a few safe houses. Driving around the city late one night, I was taken to a discotheque in the basement of a safe house that was large enough to fit two or three hundred people. It was jam-packed with folks from NGOs, the UN, and the embassies. I also saw soldiers whom I knew from Camp Eggers and Camp Phoenix.

It could be perilous frequenting the after-hours bars. Back in late 2006, a friend of mine was picked up and beaten badly in a roust. He was hanging out in a club called Coco Loco’s when the police conducted a citywide raid of known brothels and bars. I visited him in early 2007 after I had returned with MPRI. “Dave, the ‘police’ took me outside and beat the shit out of me.” He lifted his shirt. There were still huge welts across his back and chest. Luckily for him, they didn’t break any bones. “Yeah, the fuckers held me at their ‘police station’ until Blake came and gave me enough to pay the bribe. The bastards. They weren’t wearing police uniforms. I think it was a rival gang of thugs.”

After paying a five-hundred dollar “fine,” he was released. This was the raid in which six Filipino girls were kidnapped, raped, and murdered. The international backlash was intense at first but soon gave way to reality TV. The Afghan government staged raids whenever they were accused of being corrupt. To distract attention, Afghan officialdom would close down various establishments across the city. Within a month or two of the raids, “new” places would start popping up throughout the city under different names. Any place that sold alcohol in Kabul was subject to being raided by one faction or another.

None of the pubs or brothels was a state secret. Anyone who’d been around Kabul for longer than a minute heard of these late night diversions. I wondered why the Taliban never hit them. Every brothel, restaurant, pub, or club operated with sanction from high-ranking Afghan officials, despite being subject to raids by the Afghan police. Nearly all of them were hit about twice a year. The only brothel that I knew of that didn’t get raided was Silk Roads. I was told that its sponsor was too senior to anger. That made perfect sense to me. Silk Roads’ owner was the Afghan Minister of Interior—the top Afghan law enforcement official.

You had to know where to look or who to ask. It wasn’t easy to have a good time in Kabul if you were an outsider. Although once you met a couple of people and learned the city, Kabul was insane. I never had a bad experience there. The Safi Landmark Hotel, which is a part of the Kabul City Center, was a nice place to survey the city from their roof top cafe. The Qa’bool Coffee House was a good place for an iced mocha with other expats. It was in Wazir Akbar Khan that we danced the night away or had a few drinks and checked out female expats. There were always Chinese hookers and Filipino gals as well. The Filipino women mostly worked in the NATO/ISAF PXs and bars. The Marco Polo restaurant and L’Atmos were always good for Italian cuisine. Some of the Chinese restaurants actually served Chinese food instead of hostesses. These joints even delivered.

One of the odder Islamic-flavored phenomenon in Kabul, and Afghanistan in general, was the raids on women’s beauty salons. These seemed to me to be a throwback to the days of the Taliban. Beauty salons were subject to invasion at anytime on the slightest pretense by what I call the “Guardians of Afghan Female Propriety and Chastity.” An Afghan beauty salon can be raided for the most minor of infractions. All it took was a flimsy accusation by a drug-addled Afghan or the police hearing music emanating from inside. The average Afghan male thinks that women who listen to music while in the company of other women are prostitutes. Apparently, this is a major theme of mullahs in the mosques of Afghanistan. If a beauty salon is accused of being a house of prostitution, the owner is hauled off to jail. Women accused of prostitution are nearly always convicted.

Another form of Afghan corruption centered on the checkpoints spread throughout the city, infamous for semi-official shake downs of Afghan nationals and foreign visitors. Police would attempt to bribe everyone they stopped. It usually took a 20-spot to pass through their territory. This was easily circumvented, though, by anyone associated with the American forces in Afghanistan. Most of the Afghan police were easily cowed by U.S. military credentials. “I’m with the U.S. Army. What the fuck do you want?” That was all it took to get them to back down. The Afghan police never stopped military convoys.

The danger and corruption in Kabul are mitigated somewhat by the historical sites that dot the city. One such site is Bagh-e Babur—the Gardens of Babur. Babur became the king of Kabul after capturing the city in 1504. He was a descendant of the great warrior Genghis Khan, and his father carried the blood of the legendary Turkic ruler Timur Shah, conqueror and ruler of the ancient city of Samarkand. While Babur was living in Kabul, he had built the gardens before expanding his empire to the Indian subcontinent where he became the first Mughal emperor. When he died, he’d requested that he be buried in Kabul—the city that he loved. His son, Humayun, packed his corpse in ice and returned his body to Kabul from Agra according to his request.

The Bagh-e Babur was decimated during the Mujahideen siege during the early ‘90s when Massoud, Hekmatyar, Rabbani, and other Muj leaders bombed the city to hell and back, destroying nearly everything. Mujahideen means “holy warrior” in Arabic. The Afghan holy warriors had descended on Kabul after the Soviet withdrawal and proceeded to sack their own capital. In an ironic twist, it was the Afghans themselves who had destroyed the capital city and nearly all of its historical treasures. It was a terrible waste and led directly to the initial acceptance of Taliban rule. When your heroes are murdering and raping your neighbors anyone looks like a savior by comparison.

The Babur Gardens are surrounded by a hillside cliff on two sides and on the other two sides by the walls of what was once a caravanserai—a place of rest for caravans and other travelers along the Silk Road. Souvenir stores run along the caravanserai walls. There is also a tea shop and a store filled with beautiful carpets, rugs, and tapestries. A courtyard opens onto the gardens which are terraced up to the Babur mausoleum and the Shah Jahan Mosque. Shah Jahan was the great grandson of Babur. He built the Taj Mahal for his great love Mumtaz. The mausoleum and mosque are built of marble. The Taj has the same marble lace and column work as the mausoleum and mosque. Babur’s mausoleum contains a marble monument with writings from the Qu’ran on it. Unlike other parts of the gardens, there are no bullet holes in the monument. No pockmarks. No dents or dings. Nearby is the grave of Babur’s most beloved daughter. She died before him and was interred a decade before Babur.

Darulaman Palace is another place of historic interest. This is the famous king’s palace. The Muj obliterated it, too, during the fighting. Whole walls collapsed from artillery fire. Rubble is still strewn all about the insides of the main building. Rooms are entirely obscured by debris. The Muj must have shelled it for days. It had been the seat of power since King Amanullah in the 1920s. That king had been a reformer. He had attempted to drag Afghanistan into the twentieth century by secularizing the country. The rural Afghans had resented secularization thinking it a slight against Islam.

The National Museum of Afghanistan was used as a Muj military base in the ‘90s and only recently opened. When I was there most of the statuary was Buddhist and the rest of it is from the pre-Islamic period. There were no artifacts from Babur or Tamerlane. From the museum, one can easily drive to Antenna Hill and see all of Kabul. From this vantage point, one can see the Safi Landmark Hotel and also all the way out to the airport. Off to the northeast sits the Ghazi Stadium where the Taliban executed Afghans during their unholy reign. On the opposite side, there are miles and miles of mud brick houses with the occasional mansion. Off in the distance are the snow covered Pamir mountains.

[14] FOB—forward operating base—refers to any secured military position, usually an airfield, used to support tactical operations.

[15] Addresses in Kabul were marked in this manner—Wazir Akbar Khan, Street 10, Line 15.

The Taliban’s House of Murder

Late June 2007

My first real experience with Afghans in Kabul was with the interpreters that MPRI hired for its teams. Two “terps” were loaned to each team until it moved on to its final destination in the hinterlands. Both of my terps were young. Neither of them was all that skilled at translation. Sometimes, I think we would have done better communicating with symbols and drawings in those early days. Mahmud and Reza were the two guys loaned to us. Mahmud always seemed angry and thin-skinned to me. We were driving down Jalalabad Road once and I looked over at a wall along the roadside and casually remarked, “Damn, I’d hate to be near that when it falls.” Mahmud took my words as a personal affront, as if I’d just stated that Afghanistan was a shit country that didn’t know how to do anything. He’d start saying things like, “Ach! You Americans think that you do everything better than everyone else!” My buddy Alan would jump in and try to change the subject. Most of the time, I’d let him. Sometimes, though, I wanted to get a few more digs on Mahmud. Usually, I did it just to let him know that I knew what button to push.

Alan was my boy. We were both free spirits. He’d quit drinking a while back because he has a violent temper. “No one wants to see me drunk, Dave.” I saw his temper flare a few times but he had learned to keep it under control. Despite the anger management issues, Alan got along with everyone on the teams.

One day, as we sat bored in our temporary office whiling away the hours on the Internet, I said to him, “Let’s go out and find some trouble on Thursday night. I’m bored to death doing fuck all every damn day. Let’s find something to do.”

“I’ll call Hamdi. He’ll drive us around the city.”

“Anywhere? I want to go to the Olympic Stadium.”

“What’s that?”

“Dude! Come on. It’s where the Taliban executed people. It’s not far from the Kabul Zoo either. We can head over there as well. I want to see the lion that some stupid ass Taliban commander shot in the eye.”

“Why’d he shoot a lion in the eye?”

“I shit you not. When some reporter asked this Talib dumbfuck why he did it, he answered ‘because I didn’t like the way he looked at me.’ That, if nothing else, shows how idiotically stone age those morons are.”

Hamdi always seemed to get a kick out of our banter. He was one of a pool of company drivers. One of the more laid back ones. He didn’t mind driving out to restricted areas. “Hamdi, I want to go to the Qa’bool Coffee house.” Hamdi would shrug his shoulders, “Okay, Mister Dave.” Hamdi came and picked us up. Zach, Alan, and I piled in. We took Zach with us so we would be semi-official. Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the Kabul Olympic Stadium. Hamdi parked and walked to the entrance with us. He spoke some Dari to the ANP guards. They looked us over, shrugged, and waved us in.

As we walked through the entrance tunnel, chills ran down my spine. This was the Taliban execution grounds shown on CNN and Fox News so many times during the reign of the Taliban. Black turbaned men in black flowing gowns held AK-47s and stood in the middle of the green field. More Talibs stood around the running track. Others patrolled the stands to ensure that the people were properly attendant to the punishments being doled out. A Toyota pick-up would rattle out to the center of the field. Blue burqa-clad women and brown-clad Afghan men would be dragged out begging for their lives. Crimes were read out. Sentences handed down. The Taliban would take out their blade and chop off the hands of men and women accused of thievery. Women accused of adultery or “crimes against chastity” would be forced to kneel as their oppressors fired AK-47s at their backs. My mind replayed the scene of frail women falling forward into their burqas and the Taliban disdainfully dragging their bodies and hurling them into the bed of pick-up trucks as if angered at being inconvenienced by the lives they had taken.

I walked out on that field and could feel the evil that had once dismissively ended lives thereon. I looked up into the stands and could envision thousands of Afghans staring in shock, while others cheered savagely and still others cried for the loved ones lost to the merciless “justice” of the black-turbaned barbarians. It was an emotional moment. Tears ran down my cheeks for the victims of the injustice and savagery of the Taliban.

I asked Hamdi if he’d ever been witness to those maniacal events. He told me that he was in the crowd once. The Taliban had caught him out in the city and rounded him up. He was forced into the stands. They pointed their guns at him and told him to cheer or they’d shoot him. Hamdi’s face was blank as he spoke. His voice carried resentment. There was no love or longing for the Taliban. Hamdi fled the city and took his family to Pakistan. There was nothing for him here when the Taliban took over.

Hamdi took us to a small area that was once the dressing room for athletes. The roof had been blown off during the Mujahideen battles for Kabul. There was a gutted Toyota pick-up truck inside. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes. Thousands of marks. Each representing lives ended by the Taliban. The room had been used to hold the people accused by the Taliban. If a woman was found outside with no male escort, they brought her here. If a man was caught stealing, he was brought here. Rapists and murderers were held here. Sometimes, they took them on the field to meet their end. They killed them in here too. They would line them up against the walls and shoot them.

“Hamdi, I can see a murderer being brought here for justice. But a woman who was simply out walking about with no male escort?”

“The Taliban … no soul. Evil. This is not Islam,” Hamdi replied.

I agreed. The Taliban were a scourge. A punishment for the sins of the Mujahideen.

Hamdi walked back out to check on our van. Zach, Alan, and I walked around the stadium. It probably had a capacity to hold fifteen thousand spectators. In happier times, the Afghan soccer team had played other nations here. Now, it was an empty husk filled with terrifying memories. As I walked around the grandstand, I stopped to take photos. Large billboards had pictures of former rulers of Afghanistan. Massoud was up there, as were Karzai, Abdul Rahim, and Zahir Shah. After a few minutes more, we piled back into the van. “Hamdi take us to the mosque across the street. What is that place? It’s huge.”

“It’s a madrassah.”

“Why is it yellow?”

“In Islam, yellow is color of wisdom.”

I got out to take photos of the madrassah. A couple of men walked over to me and started talking to me in Dari. I looked at them and shrugged. They were smiling and I didn’t feel threatened. Hamdi jumped out.

“Hamdi, what do they want?

“They want photo.”

“What? Why?”

“No one take photo of them before.” As we spoke, a crowd started gathering around us.

“Okay, tell them to stand still and smile. I’ll snap a shot.” As soon as I took their picture, the crowd surged. We were surrounded by a couple hundred Afghans by this time. All of them were jockeying to get their picture taken. I started to get a little nervous. I don’t think they meant to harm us but they were pushing me up against the van. I jumped back into the vehicle and yelled, “Hamdi, get us the fuck out of here.” Luckily, I had been standing at the rear of the van. No one was in front of us. Hamdi stepped on the gas and we roared down the road.

Similar scenes repeated time after time while I was in Afghanistan. Afghans were always asking me to take their photo. I was an amateur photographer but I had a DSLR that had an extra battery pack with a huge flash on top. I still only half know what I’m doing with my camera. I think some of these folks thought that I worked for National Geographic. Afghan soldiers and policemen were always asking me for photos. If you took their photo, they’d pester you to hell and back to get you to bring them a copy. I didn’t mind. After a while, I started sending my terp to get prints in town. I’d hand them out on visits or get other Afghan police or soldiers to hand them out. Most of these guys would never have the opportunity to go for a photo shoot. I became their Glamour Shot studio.

Wazir Akbar Khan and the Chinese

Late June–July 2007

Boredom had sat in good and well with us by late June. To counter it, Alan and I talked to our terp, Mahmud, about checking out the night life in Kabul. Mahmud had assured us that he knew the location of a few bars in Wazir Akbar Khan. After a little prodding, he agreed to show us around WAK. We met up at our hotel.

“Okay, Mahmud. How are we getting there? Where’s the vehicle?”

“We’ll catch a cab.”

“What? Are you crazy? We’re gonna wind up with our heads cut off.”

“It’s safe, David. Don’t worry. Just wear your scarf on your head. As long as we don’t draw attention, no one will know who we are.”

“Alan, are you cool with this?” I asked.

“What the hell. Let’s go with it,” shrugged Alan.

“Mahmud, you better not be bullshittin’ us.”

“Dave, I know where one bar, called 999, is located. I don’t know how to get in, though.”

“Don’t worry. You get us there, I’ll get us in.”

We hailed a cab and five minutes later we came to the checkpoint at Wazir Akbar Khan. The police waved us to pull over. I kept telling our cab driver to roll on through. “Dude, ignore the fuck. Yalla! Imshi! Go! Don’t stop!” The driver, though, was scared and pulled over. Alan and I immediately jumped out. “What do you want?” I said to the police officer.

“Show me papers. Passport,” the cop demanded.

“I don’t have a passport.” I lied. I wasn’t about to surrender my passport even if I’d been dumb enough to carry it with me. I showed him my military ID. “That’s all I got, dude. We’re U.S. Army. Let us through.”

The police officer stood there staring at me.

“Fuck, Alan! This dude doesn’t speak English.”

Mahmud was quivering in the back seat of the taxi and wouldn’t get out. I started getting loud. I realized that what the cop really wanted was a bribe. I was just about to pull out a twenty dollar bill when Alan, in a stroke of genius, called Hamdi and explained the situation. Hamdi spoke to the police. I don’t know what he told him but the guy waved us on.

“Alan, what did Hamdi say?” I asked as we walked back to the cab.

“He told them that his brother was a general and that we were his friends and to stop harassing us.”

“Really? Hamdi’s brother is a general?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know that?”

“Hell, no.”

“After Hamdi spoke to the police officer, I got back on the phone. He told us to go home. That it’s too dangerous to be out at night. The police will try to arrest us.”

“Fuck that Alan. I’m not going home now. I’m here. I want a drink and I want to see what this place is all about.”

“I’m with you. Let’s go.”

Alan and I got into the cab, and I told Mahmud, “Tell the driver to take us to 999, Street 1, ya fuckin’ coward. Why didn’t you get out of the car and translate for me?”

“They would arrest me if I got out. I’m not protected like you, David. Your status protects you. I have no status.”

“I didn’t think of that. You’re still a chump though.” Mahmud frowned at me.

We pulled up outside a safe house with high walls and a security door. Alan paid the taxi driver who immediately sped off into the darkness. As we approached the door of the place to what amounted to a Kabul speakeasy, a security camera swiveled towards us. I banged on the door and rang the doorbell. We stood there for five minutes or so. Finally, I said, “Alan, I don’t think they want to let us in.”

“What now?” We both looked at Mahmud who shrugged.

“Okay, let’s walk down a couple of blocks. Maybe we’ll find something.” We crossed the street just as a black SUV with dark tinted windows pulled up beside us. The passenger side window rolled down and an Afghan-looking dude asked us, “Where are you guys going?”

I looked at Alan. “Who are they?” Alan shrugged. “I turned back to the guy in the SUV and said, “We’re trying to find someplace to party. Who are you?”

“We work with the UN. We’re trying to find a place to get a drink.”

“Do you know a place nearby?” I countered.

“Yeah, the Paradise Club is right around the corner.”

“You heading there?”

“Yeah, get in we’ll give you a lift.” I looked at Alan and whispered, “There’s only two of them. We can take ‘em if anything happens.” I started towards the car. Alan and Mahmud hesitated.

“Bubbas, I’m getting in. Come on.”

Alan and Mahmud followed me. We jumped into the backseats of the SUV and Alan asked, “What are your names? I’m Alan.” Pointing to me and Mahmud, he said, “This is Dave and Stefan.” We’d already given Mahmud an assumed name in case we ran into difficulties.

“I’m Akhbar and this is Ahmed. We’re Afghan but we grew up in France.”

I relaxed. Most Afghans who lived outside of the country were laid back. These guys weren’t going to chop off our heads. I’d never met a fundamentalist Afghan who’d grown up outside of Afghanistan. Although, I had my knife in my hand just in case anything went down. I think they just wanted to be with Americans, so they could get inside the joint.

We drove to the intersection and turned right. About a hundred yards up the street, Akhbar parked the SUV. He turned around. “That house right there is the Paradise Club. They don’t usually let Afghans in. Stefan, do you have any ID that proves that you aren’t Afghan?” I laughed. If they saw through it that easy, what were our chances of getting him inside with us?

“Don’t worry about Stefan. He’s Italian,” I winked. “We’ll get him inside.” I told Mahmud to stand off to the side and out of view of the door and camera. “We’ll talk our way in once they open the door.” We walked across to the Paradise Club and knocked on the gate. A camera swerved around to survey our group. Then a window in the door swung open. I slipped my ID card up to the window and said, “We’re American.” The door opened.

“Let me see some kind of ID from all of you. No Afghans are allowed inside.” Akhbar and Ahmed showed their Euro passports. Alan showed them his Army ID. Mahmud just stood there.

“Dude, he’s from Milan. He forgot to bring his ID.”

“We can’t let him in without ID. If Afghans come in, we will be shut down.”

“He’s not Afghan. Stefan, speak Italian to him or something.”

We stood there for a second and finally, I said, “Listen, we’re gonna spend money in here. Do you want our money or not? Stefan has plenty of cash, too.”

The doorman thought about it for minute more and waved us in. “Come in. Quickly.”

Just past the door we got to a courtyard and were hurriedly waved through another door. We walked down a corridor into a room lit by dark hurricane lamps. It felt like I was in the movie Raise the Red Lantern. As we entered, straight ahead and to my right there was a bar. An older Chinese lady sat there. She glanced our way and smiled at us. We were waved over to a set of couches near the exit. Almost immediately, eight Chinese girls descended upon us.

“What do you want to drink?” one of them asked.

“Jack and Coke,” I said. Mahmud asked for the same and Alan ordered “just a Coke.” The other two guys had been culled off and led to a different table.

Behind my head, there was a sign. PARADISE. It blinked in red neon letters. Across from the entrance was a bar with several obvious Americans and a couple of indeterminate nationality. I’m pretty sure that they were Eastern European. They had that lean, hard, hungry look that I’d come to associate with Slavics in Afghanistan. Usually the Romanians, Lithuanians, Bulgarians, and others from that area were security types. I suppose some would call them mercenaries. You could never tell though. They could just as well have been volunteers with Doctors Without Borders.

We had no idea what kind of crowd we’d wandered into, so we kept to ourselves. The two Afghan-Euros who had picked us up walked over to a pool table and ordered drinks. Alan, Mahmud, and I looked around for our server. As we sat there, I realized that we were in a bar SLASH brothel. Duh! I couldn’t help but laugh. I never thought that I’d be in a room full of Chinese hookers in Kabul, Afghanistan. How surreal. A couple of the gals were actually pretty hot.

We had a few drinks, played some pool, and generally had a good time. I was feeling pretty good. We ordered some wings and french fries, gorging ourselves on fattening fried food and good old American whiskey for a couple of hours. Finally, we decided to get back to the hotel. We’d take it slow this time. Later, we could come back and get a feel for the place. The three of us walked outside to look for a cab. We let Mahmud take the first cab and waited for another to arrive. Alan and I had to get back to the Safi Landmark Hotel before dawn.

Apparently, we’d given Mahmud the last cab of the night. We waited another thirty minutes and still no cab. We tried to go back into Paradise but they were closed for the night.

“Screw it. Let’s walk. We can catch a cab down the road,” I said.

“Dave, are you fuckin’ nuts! It’s three in the morning. We’ve got no weapon. You’re stoned out of your mind. What if we get picked up by the police or kidnapped by some Taliban motherfucker. I’m sure someone out here would love to sell two Americans.”

“Screw it, man. I’ve got a knife. You’ve got a knife. We’re dressed in civies. We’ve got our Afghan head scarves. Cover up and keep to the shadows. We’ll be okay.”

“This is insane.”

“Dude, we’re both crazy for being out here period. What do you want to do? Sit here and wait for a fuckin’ cab or for the Po Po to come here and get us? We gotta get back before people start waking up and walking about. They can’t see us coming back. We’re drunk. … Well, okay, at least I am. I smell like booze. If the wrong person sees us, we’re as good as fired.”

I led the way. I had no clue how to get back to our hotel, other than a vague idea of the direction we took to get to Paradise. There were no street lights. The houses here were all hidden behind high walls. A few rickety lamp posts stood behind walls that gave some light to the streets. Guard shacks stood in front of some houses. Most had an Afghan security contractor sleeping soundly inside. Security cameras peered out onto cracked sidewalks and the mostly dirt roads. These roads were paved at one time. Most of the pavement was gone now. We crossed a few stretches of good road here and there, but huge-vehicle-jarring pot holes scarred most of them.

A car zoomed past splashing mud on us. We turned down a side street and walked towards what looked to be a main thoroughfare. It was well lit for Kabul. At the end of the street stood an Afghan policeman. He gave us a quick look, dismissed us as a threat, and turned the other way. We reached the intersection. Another cop looked at us, shrugged, and looked away. I saw a cab and started waving at the driver. I didn’t think we were far from the hotel. Better to have been in a cab and relatively safe than to have been walking out in the open. I was more afraid of being spotted by someone from MPRI than I was of being kidnapped or arrested. I felt that I could bluster my way out of that, but I would definitely have been fired if I’d been caught by one of the MPRI big bosses walking about drunk in Kabul.

After waving a few more times, the cab finally stopped and looked at us. I yelled, “Safi Landmark.” The cop looked up. The taxi driver motioned for us to get in. Five minutes later, we were home safe at our hotel. It had cost us all of fifty Afs for the ride.

On the following Thursday, Alan and I headed back down to Wazir Akbar Khan by ourselves. We simply walked out to the street in front of the Safi Landmark Hotel and waved down a yellow cab. “Wazir Akbar Khan,” I said. The taxi driver motioned for us to get in. We jumped in and I said, “Dude, don’t stop for shit. If the police wave at you to stop, just ignore them.”

“Okay, mister. No stop. Unless police shoot,” he replied.

“Don’t worry about it. Most of them have no rounds. They sell them at the bazaar.”

The Ministry of Interior had conducted a survey throughout the city in early 2007. I’d read the report. It had stated that 90 percent of the police at checkpoints had no ammunition because they sold it for extra cash, and would be useless in a firefight if insurgents attempted to strike at the city. I wasn’t worried about the police shooting at me. I’d done my homework this time. I’d run into a guy on Camp Eggers. He and I had started talking about Kabul and drinking around the city. The guy knew every illicit spot in the city. I’d taken notes.

This time I directed the taxi to Silk Roads. It was right across the street from a Thai restaurant on Line 2 of Wazir Akbar Khan. Once I spotted the Thai restaurant, I knew exactly where I was. There was a park in the middle of Lines 2 and 4. The park was surrounded on three sides by safe houses. The middle house on each street was a Chinese brothel.

The cab driver followed my directions and stopped in front of the house that I knew to be Silk Roads. I jumped out and knocked on the door. Immediately, the door opened and I was waved inside. I gave the doorman ten bucks, “Pay the driver and keep the change.” Alan was right behind me as I walked into the house. We bounded four stairs and were immediately in the bar area. Like Paradise, it was lit in red neon lights. I walked up to the bartender and surveyed the scene.

To the right of the bar was a long room with plastic tables and cheap couches. Four brothers sat in there chatting up Chinese women. None of the women were particularly attractive. We drank for a while and then headed over to Crazy 8s on Line 8 to hang out with Rick. He had operated another place prior to Crazy 8s called Coco Locos, but it had been raided and shut down by the police. I don’t know the veracity of it, but he told us that he was now making monthly “protection” payments straight to the Minister of the Interior himself to keep this new bar operating.

Alan and I started going to Wazir Akbar Kahn two or three times a week. We usually went straight to Crazy 8s. After a few weeks, we became familiar faces and the doormen would wave us in as soon as they saw us approaching. Crazy 8s was close to several other bars, one of which was called the Mongolian. Alan and I frequented this place quite a bit because he had a thing for a gal who worked there. One night, we’d been sitting at the Mongolian for awhile when this dude walked in. He was strapped and no one seemed to mind. That was rare. The bars and some restaurants, more often than not, disarmed all customers and locked weapons inside of a safe. This guy just walked in, ordered a drink, adjusted his weapon, and sat down. I looked at him and then glanced over at Alan.

“What the fuck? Who is this guy?”

Alan looked at him. “Shit, I don’t know. He must know someone.”

I walked over and asked, “Dude, who are you?”

“I’m Mark.”

“Okay, Mark. But that doesn’t answer the question. Why are you allowed in here packin’?”

“I’m a security contractor. I know most of these people. Those guards outside are my employees.”

“Really? Well, that’s good to know. So, you know all of these places?”

“Yeah, I know most of them. I don’t do security for all of them, though. Some of them are connected higher up the food chain than others.”

“Like Silk Roads.”

“Yeah, but you don’t want to talk about that too loud. These walls have ears. Trust me.” Mark finished his drink and said, “How are you guys down here? You got a vehicle?”

“Nah, we took a taxi here.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Well, a little bit, I suppose. I don’t really give a fuck. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. Ain’t a whole lot I can do about it.”

“True, but you don’t have to invite death into your house. Where are you guys going next?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Somewhere. We were hoping to find something new.”

“Okay. Come with me. I’ll drive you.” We walked out to Mark’s truck. It was a desert tan Afghan Army Ranger. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know how he had access to an ANA vehicle for his personal use. Mark unlocked the door and jumped in. Alan opened the front passenger side and started to get in but the seat was full of weapons. Mark started throwing AK-47s, RPG-7s, and grenades into the back seat, which was already full of weaponry. The guy had a freakin’ armory in his truck. Weapons were on the floor, in the back of the seat, piled anywhere there was space. All of them were ANA-issued weapons. Mark looked up at me as he finished transferring his artillery to the backseat and winked, “Dave, ya can’t be too prepared. Never know what’s goin’ happen on these streets.”

Mark took us to the Paradise and then to a hole-in-the-wall joint, the name of which escapes me. As we got out of his vehicle, a kid approached him. Mark gave him five dollars. “Dave, when you come down here give these kids a couple dollars. Give them your phone number. If the police are going to raid the area, they can give you fifteen or so minutes notice. That’s enough time to get outside and make yourself scarce.” I gave those kids money every time I went to Wazir Akbar Khan after that.

Several nights later, I was sitting in the Paradise while Alan was over at the Mongolian when my phone rang. “David, get out now. The police are coming.” I jumped up and ran. The mamasan looked at me. “The police are coming!” I yelled. I ran outside and jumped into an Afghan guard shack that was empty and waited. A few minutes later, a convoy of Afghan police vehicles sped past me. They were conducting a raid but not on Paradise. I said screw it and walked down to Crazy 8s. On the way there, I passed four Afghans sitting on their porch drinking beer and eating Afghan stew. Afghan stew is a tomato-based soup with potatoes, rice, and usually lamb. It’s damn good especially when they spice it up a bit. I was a bit hungry. The Afghans started talking to me through the fence. First they offered me a beer. Next thing ya know, I’m sitting on the floor on their dark porch eating stew and drinking beer. They didn’t speak English and my Dari was limited. Not much of a conversation happened but I ate some good food and drank some beer. That was that good Afghan hospitality.

The Kabul Beauty School

August 2007

I read The Kabul Beauty School while sitting around waiting for our departure for Herat. The book is about Deborah Rodriguez, a beautician and hair stylist, who traveled to Afghanistan as part of an NGO group. Like me, she came to Afghanistan to escape a dreary life back in the States. While there, she became the de facto hair dresser for expats in Kabul. Women from all over Kabul came to her to for hair styling, manicures, etc. Before long, her customers included local Afghan women. Eventually, she was introduced to Afghan women who had operated beauty salons in Kabul. Beauty salons had been prohibited by the Taliban as being against the teachings of the Prophet. To the Taliban mind, women who wanted to beautify themselves were a satanic temptation to the souls of men. In the post-Taliban era, Afghan women were throwing off the burqa and letting their hair out. They needed a place to prepare for their weddings and other events. Afghan women got dressed up like girls at prom night back in America. They wore colorful dresses, stylized their hair, and put on more make-up than a troop of circus clowns. Deborah and some other women started a beauty school for Afghan women to empower them and to get the “art of beauty” re-established in Afghanistan.

Since I had plenty of time on my hands, I decided that I wanted to see this beauty school. I figured that I could meet this Rodriquez woman and get her to autograph my book. I thought that would be cool. I called Hamdi, “Dude, do you know where the Kabul Beauty School is? I want to get my hair cut there.”

“Yes, David, I know where it is. I will take you there but do not tell anyone.”

We pulled up to a mud-brick walled compound with a green metal gate. Hamdi blew the horn and the gate slid open. There were two guards standing there carrying AK-47s. The good old AK-47 is required gear for anyone living in Afghanistan. Hamdi drove passed the gate and parked inside the compound.

“Hamdi, come in with me.”

“I don’t think it is allowed. I am an Afghan man.”

“Okay, whatever.”

I walked into the foyer. To my left was a reception desk with a beautiful, tiny Afghan girl standing behind it. She smiled at me and asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, is this the Kabul Beauty School?” and I showed her the book.

“Yes, you are here.”

Right there, I decided I wanted to experience the art of beauty myself. It would give me a chance to talk to this girl.

“Can I get my haircut, here?”

“Why not?”

“I thought you might only do women.”

“No, we cut men’s hair, too.”

“Okay, sign me up. Do I need to make an appointment or can I get my hair cut now?”

“We have an opening. Just wait here.” As I waited, I walked around a bit. This was a nice home. I wondered who lived there. The furniture looked expensive. All of it was much nicer than the furniture in my hotel room and the safe houses. Leather couches lined the walls. A big screen TV was in the great room off to the right of the entrance. Stairs off to the rear of the hall were carpeted.

The girl came back in and bid me follow her. As we walked, I asked, “What’s your name?”

“I am Ameera. And what is your name tall American?”

“How do you know I’m American? Most folks think I’m from Europe.”

“Oh, I know the accent. You are from the South are you not?”

“Sort of. I’m from Kentucky. It’s more Midwest.”

“Oh, Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

“Yep, that’s it. I’m Dave by the way.”

Ameera led me to a chair behind which was a large mirror. Three Afghan women stood there. This was going to be strange. Usually, Afghan women are prohibited from touching men. Even in the post-Taliban era, men could not enter women’s beauty salons.

Ameera introduced me to Jahanam. They sat me in a barber chair and Jahanam threw a black cape around my shoulders. She sprayed my hair with water and reached for her scissors. I didn’t talk to Jahanam because she didn’t speak much English. The haircut didn’t really matter much to me. If she jacked it up, I could easily cover up her mistakes since I wore a hat all the time in Afghanistan. I just wanted the experience of having been to the place I read about in the book. I was willing to take a bad haircut as collateral damage.

When Jahanam finished cutting me up, I stood up. I looked into the mirror and saw that a high and tight sat crooked on my head. Thank the gods for hats.

“Tashakor, Jahanam.” The name Jahanam means “my world.” I always thought that was an awesome name for a girl.

I walked back to Ameera to pay. My haircut cost me a grand total of five dollars. Ameera was wearing some sort of fruity perfume that smelled wonderful. I was intrigued. She seemed open for an Afghan girl.

“Ameera, where are you from?”

“My family is from Kabul but I grew up in London.”

“So that explains your accent. What are you doing back here? Are you with your family?”

“No, my mother wanted me to experience Afghanistan. She sent me back here to live with Sher Ahmed. He is my benefactor here.”

“Who is Sher Ahmed? He’s the husband of Deborah.”

“Oh, okay.”

Ameera and I talked for a while longer until I asked her if I could see her again. Her reply was “Why not?” We exchanged cell numbers and I jumped back in the Toyota van with Hamdi. As we drove off, I wondered, “What the hell am I getting myself into now?”

A few days later, I called Ameera to see if I could stop by and see her. We weren’t doing anything in the office, so I made excuses about going to Camp Eggers to mail a package. I didn’t have anything to mail but no one knew that but me. Hamdi drove me again. When we arrived, Sher Ahmed was there. Ameera introduced us and walked back inside. I sat there talking to Sher Ahmed.

“David, what do you want with Ameera?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious about the culture here. She was interesting and seemed open enough to talk to.” We spoke at length and I got the feeling that I was being interviewed for something. It was during this conversation that I learned that Sher Ahmed was the head of security for Dostum. I was impressed. Dostum was a huge figure in Afghanistan at this time. To meet his personal head of security struck me as awesome. I exchanged phone numbers with him as well.

After we finished talking, Ameera walked back out to us. Something unspoken passed between Ameera and Sher Ahmed. Ameera smiled and asked, “David, would you like to have tea at the City Center cafe?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay, I will call you tomorrow and we can arrange to meet.”

With that, Ameera turned around and went back into the house. I must have passed the test. I smiled and looked back over to Hamdi in the van. He waved me on. He’d been getting calls from our team lead. I shook Sher Ahmed’s hand.

“Sher, you must come to the hotel and have dinner or tea with us. I’d love to hear all of your stories.”

“Okay, David. I will give you a call in the next few days. We’ll meet up for tea.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

The next day, I got a call from Ameera. “David, can we meet for tea?”

“Definitely. What time and where do you want to meet?”

“We can meet at your hotel at noon?” This was extraordinary. No Afghan female wants to be seen in public with a foreigner because of the dangers involved. A few days earlier, Alan and I were sitting in the City Center cafe drinking tea. A girl walked by us and looked at me. On a whim, I motioned for her to sit at our table. To my surprise, she joined us. She spoke a little English and I was learning a little Dari. We communicated but not well. She was from Iran and was working in Kabul with the United Nations. The whole time that we sat there, Afghan men stared at her and hurled insults in Dari. They called her a whore and a prostitute. I didn’t realize it was happening until a group of men left their table and made it obvious that they were talking to her. They stopped, mumbled something in Dari, and walked away looking surly. Alan asked her, “What did they say?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

“They didn’t look like they were being very nice,” I said.

“They called me a whore for talking to Westerners. They said that I should be talking to my people.” I stood up and she grabbed my arm. “No, David, please sit down.”

Alan had stood up as well. He shouted to them, “Fuck you!.”

Fortunately, they kept walking. I’m certain that Alan and I could have handled that group of pricks. However, I’m not certain that we’d have been fighting only them.

Ameera had just volunteered to meet me in this same place.

At noon, she walked in followed by the girl who had cut my hair and a bodyguard carrying an AK-47. Ameera and Jahanam sat with me. Her body guard stood the whole time. He constantly surveyed the cafe. He made me nervous.

“So, Ameera, who are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are not afraid to be seen with me in public. You have an escort and a bodyguard here. Sher Ahmed, who is obviously a powerful man, is your benefactor and protector. The other day was obviously some kind of interview to make sure that I was safe for you. You must be someone.”

“Oh, David, this is just how it is in Afghanistan. My family has friends and want to make sure that I’m safe while I’m living here and learning about my country. That is all. I am no one special.”

“I don’t believe you.” I resolved to ask Sher Ahmed about her. She was obviously someone to somebody.

For the rest of the hour, we sat and chatted.

Ameera had lived most of her life in London. She’d traveled to New York City and to Canada to see family. I kept wondering who this family was. After we finished our tea, Ameera stood up followed by Jahanam. Her bodyguard walked over to her and stood behind and to the left of us.

“David, it has been good getting to know you. I would like to see you again. I will call you in a few days.”

“Okay, I’d like that.” With that, she was off. Bodyguard in tow and constantly alert. As for me, I felt like I’d sat in on some covert meeting to plan an attack. The whole time that Ameera and I were talking, I noticed the bodyguard giving people looks as if to say “Come no closer.” One guy did a complete about face and scurried off like he was fearful for his life.

The next day, Sher Ahmed called me. “David, let’s meet at the cafe where you met Ameera.”

“Sure thing. Same time?”

“No, I’ll be there at 1700 or 1730.”

“Gotch ya. Sounds good to me.”

I arrived at the cafe with Alan at 1645hrs. Sher Ahmed was already there.

“Sher, this is Alan. He’s going to be heading up to your neck of the woods soon. He’ll be based out of Mazar-e Sharif. I’ll be heading out to Herat.”

“Nice to meet you, Alan. We have a place up in Mez. I will invite you to our house for dinner when you arrive.”

“I’m not sure that they’ll let me off post but if I can, I’ll let you know.”

Sher then turned to me and said, “As you know, David, I am Uzbek. Dostum is the head of the Uzbek clans in Afghanistan. We rule the north.”

I knew all of this. I’d read about Dostum before I’d come to Kabul. Dostum had been on again, off again with the Coalition over the past few years. He had refused to give up all of his weaponry. He’d broken into the home of a fellow minister, beaten him, and then repaired to his home province and threatened to unleash his army of ten thousand men on the Karzai government if retaliation occurred. The man was a wild card. One never knew what he’d do. Even so, he was the most secular of the Afghan leaders. I preferred him over any of the fundamentalists in the government. There was a chance that I’d meet people like him or his supporters in an official capacity, so I’d studied the various factions of Afghan politics. Dostum and his Uzbeks. Massoud and the Panjsheeris. Ismail Khan and Herat. There was a guy named Abdul Haq whom the CIA had been trying to support prior to the 9/11 attacks. He’d been killed by the Taliban during the buildup to the invasion, despite CIA attempts to locate and protect him. There are some who believe that he would have been the better choice for president had he survived. There were power factions based upon the charisma of men like Dostum that crisscrossed the Afghan landscape. Loyalties were ever-changing based upon perception. If you were thought to be a winner, Afghans flocked to you. If not, your power base eroded, sometimes swiftly. The men who survive will decide the ultimate fate of Afghanistan.

Sher and I talked for twenty minutes or so but the conversation was really subterfuge while I built up the courage to ask about Ameera. I was curious about her. She was young, beautiful, and intelligent. They protected her but let her associate with a foreigner as if this was natural. This was far from the normal state of affairs for Afghan women in my experience. Usually, they are shuttered away. A non-familial male who shows too much interest in an Afghan female risks violence. Sher treated me like a family friend, though. My association with her didn’t seem to bother him or anyone else. Finally, I bit the bullet.

“Okay, Sher, I have a question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Who is Ameera? I mean she seems to be well protected as well as highly educated.”

“She’s a cousin of the Aga Khan.”

The Aga Khan is the head of the Ismaili clan. The Ismailis are a Shi’a branch of Islam. They have a worldwide population of some 20 million members. From what I’ve read, they’re a close knit bunch. They pay a special tax. The Aga Khan Foundation sets up scholarships for them. The Aga Khan is said to be one of the most powerful persons on the planet. I’ve heard that he has his own bank and consulates in some countries.

“Okay. What if, theoretically, Ameera and I fell in love and I wanted to marry her?”

“They would kill you. She has been promised. She is a sort of minor princess among the Ismaili. She will marry for political and religious reasons. She cannot marry outside of her clan.” I thought holy fuck! That was blunt.

“Well, I guess I won’t be asking to marry her anytime soon.”

Sher laughed.

“So, what are the chances of me meeting General Dostum?”

“He is out of the country right now. When he returns, I can arrange it.”

“Sher, my man, that would be awesome. I don’t care what Western liberal bleeding heart fools say about him. I love the guy.” That made Sher smile.

I met with both Sher and Ameera a few more times before I departed for Herat. Ameera and I kept in touch for a few years. Eventually, though, she dropped off. I figured that she had married and was no longer free to talk to men outside of her family. That happens sometimes with Afghan women. I can’t fault that, though, as I’ve known married women in America to do the same thing to male friends. When they get married, they no longer feel free to have male friends. Even so, I can’t help but wonder about her sometimes. What is it like being an Ismaili princess? We were always in the presence of someone else when we spoke. Even so, I felt a bond develop with her. When I met Ameera, I assumed that she was in her mid- to late- twenties. It turned out that she was only twenty years old. The last time I heard from her was mid-2009. Out of the blue, I received a short e-mail. “David, I miss you so much,” was the only thing she wrote. I never heard from her again.

Wolverine, me and his assistant whose name I could never remember. Wolverine was the Ammunition OIC (Officer in Charge). The Ammo storage and inventory was a mess. Wolverine was fond of napping.

General Mulham and me. I asked for this photo on the first day that I met the General. For some reason, he took to calling me “Doctor.”

Shephards in Chaghcharan taking their sheep to market. Chaghcharan is high in the mountains of Ghor.

Jalil, Ali and Nahida ~ I gave them Kentucky sweatshirts as an Eid gift for the upcoming winter. Nahida is such a beauty. Numerous visitors to the Herat Regional Police Headquarters attempted to adopt her and take her to their home.

An artisan of the Herat Masjid-e Jami. The great Friday Mosque of Herat was a magnificent and historic edifice. I was humbled and thankful to have been given a tour by the Imam.

Standing inside the Masjid-e Jami of Herat. I was one of the few foreigners to be given a tour of the mosque. My interpreters were awestricken that we were taken inside and treated as honored guests.

Heading out into Heart for a little site seeing. I suited up in the traditional Afghan shalwar chameez to blend in when the General had his security team take me on a tour of old Herat.

Colonel Noor Ali finalizing his books. I disguised the face of my Interpreter here to minimize the danger of being exposed to widely. Our interpreters were under constant threat of death or violence for their participation in Coalition activities.

Always one to spread Big Blue Cheer, I gave my friend Colonel Zahir a Kentucky Jersey as a departing gift. I told them that Kentucky Basketball was the official religion of Kentucky.

A gift for General Akrummuddin. I genuinely liked the General. We spent many a visit chatting together and he helped me along the way to get things done.

PART III

Herat:

The Revolutionary City

Herat is an ancient city. It was once the center of Khorasan, a historic region of the Persian Empire. By the time Alexander the Great arrived in 330 B.C. and conquered Herat—the “pearl of Khorasan”—it was a great center of culture, art, and learning. The Heratis are a spirited bunch. Once Alexander continued on in his imperial quest to see the ends of the earth, the people of Herat rose up and killed the men whom Alexander had left behind to govern them. Alexander returned and burned the city to the ground, leaving “not one stone upon the other.” Genghis Khan thundered through twelve hundred years later. He, too, would find the Heratis a rebellious people. He, too, would return to unleash his wrath upon the rebels of Herat and leave not one stone upon the other.

U.S. politicians and the media boast that Afghanistan has never been conquered. The inference being that we, the Americans, are the only nation to have done so. This was a favorite line of President George W. Bush. Herat is a perfect rebuttal of this fallacy. The city has been conquered by the Achaemenids, Alexander, Tamerlane, and the Safavids to name a few. The Afghans hate Genghis precisely because he conquered Afghanistan. Throughout its history, Herat has been a hotbed of rebellion against a myriad array of conquerors. The Russians and the British played their Great Game in Afghanistan. Herat was often a city of intrigue during these times too.

When the Soviets invaded in 1979, the people of Herat, led by Ismail Khan, rose up and rebelled fiercely. That rebellion was the spark that set off the Mujahideen war against the godless communists from the north. In the Herat revolt, the Soviets killed or wounded between 3,000 and 5,000 civilians. By the next year, the Soviet-led Afghan army had all but deserted and the Afghan Mujahideen war had begun.

America’s involvement in Afghanistan goes back some time. Josiah Harlan traveled to Afghanistan in the 1840s with the intention of becoming the “King of Afghanistan.” He settled for being named the “Prince of Ghor” before returning to the States. President Eisenhower provided a 500-million-dollar development program in the 1950s. Part of that funding went to create the Herat Airport at which I had just landed in August 2007.

The Pearl of Khorasan

Late August 2007

I didn’t know what to expect. I had boarded a civilian plane in Kabul. Seventy-five minutes later, I landed in Herat. Two SUVs pulled up as I exited the aircraft. A U.S. Army captain stepped out onto the tarmac. He waved to us. The locals and the Afghan police ignored us. We walked over to the captain who introduced himself and told us he’d be taking us to our base. After a few minutes’ delay, we grabbed our bags and were on our way.

It was a twenty-minute ride down the Herat-Farah Road from the airport. A hundred meters off the road sat Camp Stone—home of the Regional Command West (RC West). Camp Stone sat in the southwest corner of Camp Zafar that was constructed for the Afghan National Army (ANA). Zafar is the Dari word for “victory.” The Afghans bestowed all of their camps with names full of superlative emptiness. The Afghan National Army had victories over no one. If the U.S. or Coalition wasn’t along for the ride, the ANA simply melted away or refused to make contact with the enemy. That wasn’t victory. It was straight poor training, worse discipline, and fuckin’ cowardice.

Zach and I were going to live on Camp Stone as part of the Regional Property Assistance Team (RPAT) to the Afghan National Police (ANP). As such, we would instruct and mentor the ANP in property management and other logistics tasks. Our priority was establishing accountability for all of the equipment that was used to “shoot, move, and communicate.” That equipment was to be inventoried and accounted for across the breadth and width of Afghanistan.

We were about four years late in this effort. Coalition Forces had issued the ANP vehicles, weapons, ammunition, and communications equipment since 2003. It was rare that a loggie had been involved in the process. Grunts and gun bunnies issued equipment with little regard to inventories or records. They handed out equipment like Santa with a big red gift bag.

When I asked one of the RPAT guys how much equipment had been issued to the ANP, he said, “Dave, they’ve been issuing equipment for four years in Afghanistan. There’s little to no documentation of issues or turn-ins. No one knows what’s on hand, what’s still working, or how much of it’s been captured or lost.”

“You’re kidding?! So, you’re saying that we have no idea what’s out there?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We have some records but they’re woefully inadequate.”

“I heard GAO is heading over next year to take account of our expenditures and accounting practices. There’s no way that we can be even close to prepared when they come.”

The U.S. Government Accounting Office (GAO) had been threatening to come to Afghanistan to audit Defense and State. We were told that they would be coming in 2008. In the meantime, we had a huge challenge on our hands.

“Dave, equipment has ‘disappeared’ in Qandahar only to resurface in Balkh. Equipment that we know we issued has been captured by our guys in the hands of the Taliban, the insurgents, and even at the local bazaars.”

The Army found weapons and vehicles in such remote districts as Obeh in western Afghanistan. Police outposts that were not supplied by their commands were regularly abandoned. The police stripped their uniforms, insignia, and equipment and went off the reservation. These men abandoned or sold their equipment on the black market and went absent without leave (AWOL). Insurgents captured equipment by attacking and overrunning undermanned outposts. The Taliban had our equipment. Bandits had our equipment. The stuff was everywhere. No one knew what was out there. If the shit hit the fan, we didn’t know what equipment was actually available for the Afghan police to respond. Zach and I were tasked with solving this discrepancy.

Tarjomani-Man

Early September 2007

Afghanistan has two official languages—Dari and Pashto. The Tajiks speak Dari. The Pashtuns speak Pashto. There are also a smattering of folks who speak Urdu and a few other languages heard only in this part of the world. I spoke none of these languages. To converse with the Afghans, I needed an interpreter. The Dari word for “interpreter” is tarjoman. Tarjomani-man means “my interpreter.” The tarjoman is a mentor’s best friend. These guys are the lowest paid of the vast army of contractors employed by the U.S. military and State Department’s mentor/training mission for the Afghan National Security Forces (ANSF). Bosnian mess hall workers are paid four times as much as the average terp. The low pay hurt the quality of interpretation and translation.

Some tarjoman had limited vocabularies and worse comprehension. The resultant language barrier sometimes hindered the mission. With better salaries, we could have attracted more highly skilled personnel. That escaped the attention of the big bosses. They looked to cut costs and increase the profit margin at every turn.

In Kabul, the terps were selected and hired by the head shed—command headquarters. They assigned you a terp and that was that. In Herat, we were given the responsibility of hiring our own terps. We conducted the interviews and hired guys with whom we thought we’d be compatible. Incredibly, MPRI paid more than the competition. In Herat, we could actually steal the better terps from other companies. MPRI even paid almost as well as the UN.

About a week after Zach and I arrived at Camp Stone, Mick Rivas called me, “Dave, we’re interviewing terps for your team tomorrow. Be at the terp shack at 0900hrs.”

Mick made Camp Stone and Camp Zafar bearable. He was the classic senior non-com. A consummate professional, selfless, and always on the lookout for his troops. We, the MPRI field forces and attachments, were his troops. As the sergeant major mentor for the Afghan Army on Camp Zafar, Mick held the group together. He was our quartermaster, morale doctor, and an all around good guy. He was also gossipy as hell which made for great conversation. On his off hours, he could always be found in his room practicing his guitar or outside smokin’ a stogie. If you had a problem, he would do his best to help you solve it.

Mick was there to guide us through the process of hiring our terps since Zach and I didn’t know what the hell we were supposed to do or say. How would we know a good terp from a bad one? Luckily, Mick had most of the interviewing finished before we arrived. He had tested fifteen candidates on English writing, comprehension, translation, and MS Office skills. The U.S. Army is big on PowerPoint. If you work in any staff capacity, PowerPoint is essential. America’s armed forces in Afghanistan spent more time creating PowerPoint slides than mentoring or fighting on the battlefield.

After grading the terps, Mick picked the top three guys and brought them to us. He told us that if we got a good vibe, we’d hire them. If we caught a bad vibe, he would call the next interviewee until Zach and I hired three terps. We wound up hiring Rasul, Fawad, and Nasrullah that day. Fawad was a young guy dressed in what passed for fashionable clothing in Afghanistan. Rasul was a short fellow in a rumpled suit and tie. Nasrullah was a tall, thickly-built guy in traditional shalwar chameez or manjams—those long, baggy pants tied at the waist with a rope or a length of cloth combined with a long tunic that resembles a Victorian era night shirt. That manjam thing threw me off a bit at first. Nasrullah’s size, though, was encouraging. He was imposing looking for an Afghan. That might come in handy if we got into a hairy situation. Most Afghans whom I had met are either fat and out of shape or skinny and out of shape. Nasrullah looked like he could handle himself.

“I’m Dave. This is Zach. He’s the Team Lead.”

Fawad, Rasul, and Nasrullah gave us the polite, deferential “you’re the boss” treatment. They placed their hands over their hearts as they shook our hands. This was the common Afghan greeting—hand over heart, eyes slightly averted, cold, wet, dead fish handshake.

“So, let’s get this out of the way,” I began. “I’m not religious. Zach isn’t religious. We don’t care if you are religious. I don’t care if you are Shi’a, Sunni, Christian, Zoroastrian, or if you worship the unholy satanic, blood-sucking Easter Bunny. If you need it, we’ll give you time to pray. I have no problem with that. But I don’t want any religious tension in my office. Keep your god to yourself because I don’t give a damn. And I am one profane motherfucker. Anyone have a problem with that?”

Fawad looked at me like I was crazy. “Mister David, I am not a fundamentalist. I pray and I go to mosque and try to be a good person. I don’t want you to be Muslim and it won’t affect my work at all.”

I gave him my “don’t fuck with me” look. “As long as you don’t expect everyone else to act in accordance with your beliefs, we’ll be fine.”

Rasul rolled his eyes at Fawad. He shook his head and said, “No, sir. Religion won’t be a problem.”

“What about you Nasrullah? Are you going to be yelling Allahu Akhbar all day and expecting special religious treatment?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now that that’s out of the way. Fawad, how old are you? You look like a baby.”

“I am twenty-three years old, Mister David.”

“Okay, so you are a baby.”

Rasul smiled at that. “Rasul, how old are you? You look like the old man here.”

“I am thirty-six, sir.”

“Okay, so you are the old man. What about you Nasrullah?”

“I am twenty-eight, sir.”

“Okay. Next thing. I’m not ‘sir’ or ‘mister’ or any of that bullshit. I’m Dave. And whatever you do, do not call me ‘Mister David.’ This isn’t Romper Room or kindergarten. You can call Zach whatever he wants you to call him.”

“Call me Zach. That will be fine.”

“As you can see, we’re pretty informal. One other thing that you guys must know now before we offer you the job. Mick says that you three know your shit. That’s good enough for me. Our mission is not like the Army guys. They stay here comfy and cozy on Camp Zafar. They don’t travel anywhere. We will be going out to the districts and provincial headquarters. That means we’ll be traveling to Farah and Badghis. Places where there is almost guaranteed violence. We might get shot at, bombed, rocketed. We may hit an IED. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Fawad, you have any problems with this?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t I say none of that “sir” business?”

“Sorry.”

“Nasrullah?”

“No.”

“Rasul?”

“No.”

“If you do, let me know now. I don’t want to hear jack shit later down the line. If you can’t or won’t travel, you can’t work for us. If you refuse later, you’ll be fired.”

I took them at their word.

“Normally, we will have three guys on the team. Our third guy has been hired and is on the way. I don’t know when he’ll arrive. Each of you will be assigned to one of us permanently. We’ll need to start training immediately. Any questions?”

All three heads shook back and forth. Do these dudes know what they’re getting into, I thought.

“Okay, that’s settled. Zach and I will discuss what needs to happen next with Mick, the guy who ran the testing for you. We’ll call you when we need you to come in next.” With that, we let them go home.

Now that our terps were hired, it was time to move on to the next step.

Meeting the General

Mid-September 2007

In order to train the Afghans, we needed access to them. My team was supposed to be stationed at the regional training center whose primary function was training the Afghan police. A new regional police headquarters called a Multiple Regional Institution (MRI) was being built next to the RTC. I needed access to both the RTC and the MRI to be effective. However, the State Department owned the RTCs and refused to give us access because of their infernal feuding with Defense. This kept us off the RTC as a permanent living arrangement. Eventually, I gained access to the RTC by building relationships with the local RTC command and staff, but that took a little time.

The only other way to access the Afghan police was via the U.S. Army police mentor teams. State and Defense had redundant teams that more often than not operated independently of one another. There were also ISAF teams of Carabinieri—the Italian national military police—rolling around who likewise were coordinating effort with no one else. A by-product of this was wasted effort and confusion within the Afghan police training program. It would get better over time, but when I first arrived no one was talking to anyone else and everyone had separate agendas.

For the time being, Camp Stone was our base of operations and we would have to travel to the Afghans with undermanned and under-equipped Army teams. Herat was a sideshow in Afghanistan in 2007. And Afghanistan was a sideshow of Iraq. Concentration of effort and funding was Iraq first, southern and eastern Afghanistan second, Kabul third. Herat was somewhere down the line behind toilet facilities for detention camps in Guantanamo. The Army mentor teams with whom I would be traveling around the Herat region were equipped with non-armored SUVs, Afghan police Rangers, and a few modified Hummers. We had the worst equipment in all of Afghanistan. The teams were manned at 30 to 40 percent authorized strength. What that meant was that if three people were authorized to conduct a mission, usually only one person was assigned. We were literally a sideshow of a sideshow.

The first challenge after settling into Camp Stone was gaining entry into the system. No one had been expecting us. No one knew what we were supposed to do. No one knew if they could, or even wanted to, support us. I let Zach take the lead in introducing our capabilities and mission to the Army on the ground at Camp Stone. Two weeks passed with no progress. There was no prospect of a class. We weren’t being integrated into the police mentoring team. We were treading water and damn close to drowning. “Zach, what the hell is going on? Are we going to get classes? Are we going to be integrated? Are you doing anything to get us involved?” All I got was a sheepish grin and, “Well, I don’t know. I’ve talked to Major Green and to Lieutenant Colonel Stone.” Major Green was the operations and training officer for the region. Colonel Stone was the commander of the police training team in the Herat region.

“You talked to them. And what?”

“They keep telling me that they’ll get to it.”

“And you think that’s going to get us anywhere? We’ve been here two weeks Zach. All we’ve managed to do is eat and shit. We need to get moving. We need to show progress.”

“I’ll talk to Major Green again and see what he says.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll go together and talk to Major Green.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go now to set up an appointment to see him.”

We walked towards the head shed. On the way, we ran into Major Green. I stopped him and asked him if he could put aside some time the next day to discuss our mission.

“Sure, but I’ve asked Zach to get with me about the class and schedule. We can put it on the training calendar and get you guys scheduled.”

“We can do that.” I gave Zach a dirty look and thought why the fuck didn’t you tell me this?

“First, though, you guys should brief the commander,” Major Green continued. “Get his buy-in and he’ll make sure that you get students for your classes.”

“How do we do that?”

“Just get on his calendar.”

“Okay. How do we do that?”

“Follow me.”

Major Green took us to the colonel’s office and introduced us to his assistant. Fifteen minutes later, we were scheduled to brief the colonel. Our appointment was for the following morning.

I went back to my office, sat down, and went PowerPoint ranger on our brief. Zach should have done this but I didn’t want him to screw it up. This brief would get us in the game if we did it right. I wanted to get on with the mission. Zach seemed content to shrug his shoulders, accept defeat, and do nothing. I came back to Afghanistan to help re-build it. Zach came to Afghanistan to take long naps, drink coffee, and visit the bazaar. The more I worked with Zach, the more I wanted to choke him.

I was nervous going into the brief the next day. This colonel had a reputation as being a real son of a bitch. If you walked into his office and didn’t have your ducks in a row, he’d shoot holes in your plan and straight up tell you that you were a dumbfuck. I definitely didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be called out because of Zach’s incompetence.

“Zach, let me do the talking. I’ll brief.”

“Okay, Dave. You’re good at this stuff.”

“Sure, I’m good at it Zach, but this shit is your job. When are you going to start doing what you’re supposed to do?” Zach wrapped himself up in his arms and shrugged.

We walked into the colonel’s office and introduced ourselves. I handed out the PowerPoint slides that I’d printed the night before.

“Gentlemen, have a seat,” the colonel told us. “So what do we have here, Dave? What is your mission and how can we help you get it done?”

“Sir, we have a program of instruction that is primarily accountability doctrine. We’ll also be teaching requisition, disposition. Basically, we teach them everything from initial authorization to final disposition of property. Inventory, accountability, MOD 14 requests, storage. Everything that a supply officer should know to keep his unit ready for mission,” I began. I then walked the colonel through the slide briefing.

“How long is your course, Dave?”

“Sir, we anticipate a two-week course, four hours each morning. I’ve been told that Afghans find it hard to concentrate and tend to drop out after three or four hours of training. This is pretty dry material. I get bored with it myself.”

I concluded the brief twenty minutes later. “Colonel, that’s our course. We’ll need students from your police trainers. The course will be held at Camp Zafar Building 203. If you have any questions, sir, I can answer them now.”

“No, Dave, no questions.”

“Really? No questions?”

“No, you covered everything. Why?”

“Well, sir, I was told that you were a real ball buster. I was prepared to be lit up in here.”

The colonel laughed. “Dave, if you’d have come in here half assed, I’d probably have lit you up. But it looks to me like you’ve planned everything and have it all set up. All we need to do is get you students. Have you briefed the RPAC commander, yet?”

“No, sir, that’s our next stop.”

“Good, get him briefed up and we’ll make a plan to get you students. Give Colonel Stone a solid training plan and we’ll start working it.”

“Roger that sir. Thank you.” And that was it. That’s all it took. We were on our way. I walked out of there thinking, man, it was that easy.

The next morning, we were to brief Colonel Stone, the commander of the Regional Police Assistance Command (RPAC) that would be charged with coordinating students for our courses. It was RPAC’s job to go down to the regional Afghan police headquarters (RHQ) and coordinate with the Afghans to arrange for travel and housing for the students that would attend our course on Camp Zafar.

The main goal of our meeting with Colonel Stone was to arrange a meeting at the regional police headquarters with General Akramuddin. The general was the commander of the 606th Ansar Police Zone in Herat. If we wanted to accomplish anything in the Herat region, we would need buy-in and support from General Akramuddin. Colonel Stone had told us to “tag along” with him on his visit to the regional police headquarters the next morning and he would introduce us, so we could brief the general.

Zach and I met Colonel Stone at his office at 0730hrs. We were scheduled to drive to the regional headquarters after the meeting. The colonel introduced us to his staff and then each section gave a brief situation report. The last guy on deck was the security officer. He ran us through the regional security situation and threat analysis. “Be On the Look Out (BOLO) for a green Toyota Ranger with tinted windows and a lone driver who looks nervous; white Toyota Corolla with single driver who looks nervous; green Ford Ranger with police markings. There are several reports of an Afghan male in green shalwar chameez casing the area around the RTC access road entrance. I know some of this is vague gentlemen but maintain situational awareness at all times. Keep your eyes open.”

If you’d ever been to Afghanistan, you’d have noticed that white Toyota Corollas are ubiquitous. It’s difficult to tell a dangerous white Toyota Corolla from a benign one. One of the few indications that you might be looking at a suicide bomber is a lone driver. Though, there were plenty of lone drivers out on the road. The threats were real. We got hit from time to time in Herat. Definitely not as much as other areas but enough, so that we maintained a sharp eye on the vehicles and people around us. Anything out of the ordinary could prompt warning shots. Erratic driving marked a threat. A driver who ran up on a convoy was a possible threat.

As the meeting concluded, we walked out to the RPAC vehicles for a convoy brief. “Keep your situational awareness high.” “Check fuel levels.” The security officer read off the BOLO list again. “Make sure everyone has their PPE.[16] Weapon status—green on base, red after gate.[17] Remember to turn on your Warlocks and Dukes.”[18]

After the brief we loaded up into the RPAC vehicles. It was the freakin’ Wild West. We drove out of the gate in two unarmored SUVs and a green ANP Ford Ranger. All of them were thin-skinned, unarmored vehicles. I couldn’t believe that we were allowed out of the gate with these vehicles. We may as well have been naked. The only upside was that unarmored SUVs wouldn’t be as easy a target for the enemy to fix. Everyone has an SUV in Afghanistan. To target our little convoy, they’d have had to have tracked us from Camp Stone, through the Zafar gate, and onto the main highway. It was difficult to do but not impossible.

This was my first trip outside the wire in Herat. I had no idea what it would be like. We exited the Stone and Zafar gates and turned north onto the main road. The drivers slammed gas and we shot off at 80 mph. We stayed to the middle of the road unless we came upon traffic heading in the opposite direction at which time we veered only slightly to the right. We passed Camp Arena, the local ISAF base, on the right. On the left was a village of mud huts and some sort of factory. I looked back to my right just in time to see a camel caravan loaded down with carpets and tapestries. Herat Airport flashed by. We entered the dividing zone between the Gozara and Injil districts. This part of the road was tree-lined, dark, and full of shadows. Afghans lined both sides of the street. I saw imaginary enemies lurking everywhere. Gozara was supposed to be a hotbed of the insurgency. It was the home of a guy named Ghulam Yahya. Mister Yahya liked to lay ambushes and launch rockets at ISAF and the UN. Injil was a relatively friendlier district. We then came upon a sign bidding us “Welcome to Herat” and crossed the bridge over the Hari Rud river.

As soon as we were through the trees, we hit the outskirts of Herat. Traffic picked up immediately. People were everywhere. People were always a good sign. When the Afghans were out in numbers, you were usually safe. If well-trafficked areas were empty, there was usually a nasty surprise waiting. We passed through the congestion and came upon a police-manned traffic circle. The Afghan cop waved us through and into a white, walled compound off to our right.

A crude sign told me that we were at the Park Palace Hotel. We drove about a hundred feet into the compound to a circular driveway around a defunct fountain. The hotel itself sat to our north. This place had seen better days. Its facade had long since faded and peeled away. To the east, shipping containers formed a wall separating the RHQ from the rest of town. The old eastern wall had been knocked down by the Russians. The west of the compound was a dried-out garden with a small brown mosque in the center. There wasn’t much here to please the eye.

The Afghan police had taken over the hotel right after the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan. Apparently, the American government was renting this fine establishment for somewhere around thirty thousand U.S. dollars per month. I wouldn’t have paid two hundred bucks a month for the shit hole. According to my terp Fawad, the Park Palace had been beautiful prior to the reign of the Taliban. Affluent Heratis held elaborate wedding ceremonies here in better times.

We parked tactically throughout the compound. Security Forces took up positions of overwatch. “I guess they don’t trust the Afghans,” I said to Zach and Fawad.

The three of us walked to the fountain that sat across from the main entrance to the hotel. Colonel Stone met us there. “Follow me into the General’s office. I’ll introduce you after the meeting.” We walked into the hotel. Colonel Stone pointed out key offices and personnel. First on the right was a long narrow closet. “That’s the logistics office. Major Subhan will be in there. He’s a guy you’ll want to get to know.” Walking straight across the lobby foyer into the main hallway we came to a huge room that was the banquet hall. “Dave, Zach, you might be able to use that as a classroom. It’s an option, I think.” Zach and I nodded. I asked Zach, “Dude, do you really want to be coming up here for daily classes?” In front of the banquet hall, we turned right. At the end of the hall was the general’s office.

Colonel Stone led the way. We were early. No one was around except the general and his chai boy. A “chai boy” is an enlisted soldier or policeman who serves tea. In some cases, they serve more than tea. Some Afghans use their “chai boys” for sex. I didn’t know if that was the case here or not. I suspected not since this chai boy was a bit older than usual. General Akramuddin was an Uzbek. The Uzbeks weren’t rumored to have that peculiar boy-loving habit of the Pashtun tribe. This guy was also a Hajji, meaning he’d made the pilgrimage to Mecca. The general took his religion seriously.

We entered his office through a curtained doorway and turned right into a vast office that seemed a world unto itself—‘70s reject brown sofas lined the walls along with glass and metal coffee tables. Even the carpet had a pimp daddy ‘70s feel to it. A large, shiny, brown desk at the far center of the room was the coup de grâce. It all blended together to make a fine, Daddy Mac crow’s nest.

Colonel Stone half marched us up to the middle of the room and began his introductions. Assalaam alaykum, General. Subha al khair, he intoned. “Peace by with you, General. Good morning.”

Salaam. Subha al khair, Colonel Stone, the general answered. “Peace. Good morning, General Stone.”

“General, these gentlemen are from MPRI. They are logistics mentors.” General Akramuddin walked around his desk to greet us. Colonel Stone continued, “This is Dave Kaelin and Zach Amuro. They have a brief that they’d like to give you after this morning’s meeting. If you have the time, sir.”

The general looked at my terp Fawad. It was an odd passing, as if he was saying don’t fuck this up. General Akramuddin stepped towards us and shook each of our hands, saying, “It is an honor to have you in our country. I know that you have traveled far from your home to come to Afghanistan to help us. If there is anything that I can do for you, please let me know.” Fawad translated and the general nodded seemingly satisfied. From that moment on, I was careful what I said around General Akramuddin. He was an English speaker on some level. Enough to have judged Fawad’s translation skills. We were told that we could brief him later that morning.

The usual characters were at the staff meeting. Operations, Security, Personnel, Training, Logistics. Additionally, there were mentors from all over the Coalition—Carabinieri from Italy, DynCorp mentors from the RTC, and the U.S. Army guys with whom we had come. Zach and I sat in for the meeting near the back of the room. As soon as everyone was seated, the general’s cell rang.

General Ak started yelling into the phone. He hung up and immediately received another call. I looked at Fawad, “Dude, what the fuck is going on? What’s he talking about?” Fawad listened for a bit. “It is a kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?”

“Yes, David. The Injil police chief is calling about a kidnapping. A businessman’s son has been kidnapped. The kidnappers want a fifty-thousand-dollar ransom.”

“Injil? We passed that on the way down here?”

“Yes, it’s between here and Camp Stone.”

I motioned for Fawad to walk outside with me. I didn’t want anyone overhearing me talking about the general.

“Okay, so what is the general doing? What’s his part? Is he in on the game or not?”

“I do not know, David. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he is getting a kickback from the kidnappers.”

“Really? So, General Ak is crooked?”

“I do not know but nothing is ever as it seems with the police. They are all corrupt.”

“Really? Even the general here?”

“I can’t say. But probably,” Fawad shrugged. “I cannot say who is crooked and who is not. I only know that the police are corrupt and that is why the people hate them.”

About an hour later, the meeting broke up. I walked back into the general’s office with my brief. Fawad followed me in. Zach was waiting for us inside. I handed General Ak a set of slides that Fawad had translated into Dari. I ran through the slides quickly. Fawad translated but I swore that General Ak understood me. After the brief, the general called his logistics chief in to meet us. He had a buzzer rigged to his desk. When he pressed the button, his assistant came running in. General Ak yelled instructions and people frantically ran around accomplishing whatever the general wanted. I could see the panic in the Afghans’ eyes when the general started yelling at them. It was almost comical. General Ak introduced us, “This is Major Subhan, my logistics officer.” He yelled at Subhan in Dari so fast and violently that Fawad didn’t catch it completely. Subhan was dismissed and left the office with no time for us to even say, “Nice to meet ya.”

We stood to take our leave.

Once outside, I asked Fawad, “What the hell did Colonel Ak just say in there?”

“He told Subhan that he better not embarrass him.”

“Not embarrass him? What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fawad, don’t sugarcoat. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know. He just told Subhan not to embarrass him. I think the general thinks Subhan is a dolt.”

“Well, that makes sense. He damn sure didn’t seem to like the guy much.”

When we got back to camp, Colonel Stone told us that he’d have students ready for our first course. That course was about two weeks away.

[16] PPE—personal protective gear—consists of body armor, helmet, gloves, and eye protection.

[17] Green means weapon cleared, magazine in the well. Red means locked and loaded, ready to fire.

[18] Warlock Dukes are electronic gear that either block cell transmissions or send out electronic transmissions to disrupt improvised explosive devices.

Terp Boot Camp

Late September 2007

I needed to train my terps for the course. We spent all of our mornings in the Zafar classroom. Mick had given us one of the storage rooms next to the classroom for use as an office. I gave each terp a turn at assisting me with giving the classes. We went through each class in the program of instruction. I’d have one of them translate, while the other two evaluated the performance. For instance, I’d give a line from the course: “There are five types of accountability. (1) command, (2) supervisory, (3) direct, (4) custodial, and (5) personal.”

Fawad would then translate it into Dari. Rasul and Nasrullah listened. If Fawad translated wrong, we’d stop and debate how best to convey the idea. We went through this process for all seventeen classes.

Fawad was the worst at this process. He was young and nervous. He never wanted to admit mistakes. “Fawad, you need to lighten up. We’re all new to this process. We’re all making mistakes here. It’s not only you.”

“Dave, I don’t like these guys correcting me all the time.”

“Well Dude, you’re the youngest. You’re gonna get the most shit. Besides you look like Vinnie Barbarino. You deserve a lot of shit.”

“Vinnie Barbarino? Who is this person?”

“He’s a character from a ‘70s sitcom in America. He thought he was too cool for school just like you.”

“So, this Vinnie guy was cool.”

“Well, he thought he was … and he had hair exactly like yours. Feathered and gay-looking with a duckbill. Hell, you kinda dress like him, too.”

“Fuck you, Dave. I am not gay.”

“You got the hair, not me.”

We slowly got the terminology and jargon down. We needed practice, though. I brought in terps from the front office and let them critique our practice sessions. It was difficult because of the differences in dialect between Herat and Kabul. There were words and phrases that were similar, yet different. It was as simple as the way people say hello to one another. Herat’s proximity to Iran meant that it had a heavy linguistic and cultural influence on the Heratis and western Afghanistan as a whole, which had been a part of the Persian Empire at one time. Eastern Afghanistan was more heavily influenced by Central Asian and Indian empires. Culturally speaking, the two were worlds apart. The Tajik language was an offshoot of Farsi which is the language of Iran. The language reflects this. Iranians use merci to say “thank you.” Tajiks in Herat will use this as well. Tajiks in Kabul always use tashakor to say “thank you.” There were a million little linguistic subtleties that surfaced when traveling from Kabul in eastern Afghanistan to Herat in western Afghanistan. You greeted a friend in Herat by saying, “Lapajap chetor asti?” It was like saying, “What’s up?” in America. If you said that in Kabul, you got a blank stare. Unless you came across someone from western Afghanistan, then you got a big smile and a hearty handshake.

It was Rasul who filled me in on the language translation challenges. I’d given him the POI to read. Rasul read them the first week. He had kept notes on discrepancies. Two weeks after we hired him, he came up to me and said, “Dave, we got problems with these papers.”

“Huh? What kinds of problems?” As he explained, though, I got a little pissed. I began to understand that the terps back in Kabul were not all that great.

Rasul looked at me kind of sheepishly. Then he blurted out, “The translation is shit!”

I lost it. Rasul thought that I was going to be angry at him. Instead, I burst out laughing. After I calmed down enough to listen to him, he filled me in, “Dave, there are too many mistakes. It’s not all the fault of the guys down in Kabul. We have a different dialect here. We sometimes use different words. But there are other problems. There are three different forms that use three different words for the same thing.” I asked him to show me. The POI were all translated into Dari. I had no idea how to identify language discrepancies in Dari. It was a completely different script that used a slightly altered version of the Farsi script. Farsi uses a slightly altered version of the Arabic script. It got a little confusing. We had issue, accountability, and requisition forms. Each contained a different Dari word for the English term “serial number.” There were more confusing terms and translations but that illustrates it well enough.

I couldn’t change the forms as they were semi-official documents. Semi-official meant that nothing had been formally adopted by the Ministry of Interior as yet. Unfortunately, that would come far into the future. The challenge was to explain the forms well enough to the students that they’d be able to understand and overcome the linguistic obstacles. I would find out later that this was easier said than done. Afghans took things at face value. If a form asked for a certain detail, they were going to put exactly that “detail” on the blocks in those forms. It didn’t matter that it might not be translated correctly or that it was an obvious error. That was what the form asked for, and that was what the damn form was going to get in that block.

I could, however, change our program of instruction, and how I taught the course, the forms, and decrees. Rasul seemed the most skilled translator. I gave him the go ahead to alter the translation of the POI. I also went in and made alterations in the English portion to remind myself to speak about the linguistic challenges that had surfaced. It took a couple of weeks to get that all straightened out—ON PAPER. We had to wait and see how it would go down in class.

I spent much of my downtime with the terps practicing for the courses. I knew that we’d eventually get a class and I wanted to be ready for it.

* * *

I got a call from the Farah Army mentor team. They were interested in having a class for their province logistics personnel. The class would be held on Farah’s forward operating base (FOB), and they would bring the Afghans to us. I knew this was going to cause some consternation. Farah was one of the most dangerous places in our region. Bombs, IEDs, rockets are daily occurrences. Drive into Farah and you are definitely going to take some rounds.

I walked over to the terp shack on Camp Zafar.

“Guys, we’re going to Farah.”

All three sets of eyebrows raised. Rasul looked up and said, “Okay, no problem. When do we leave?”

“Rasul, you aren’t going. It’ll be Nasrullah and me.”

Nasrullah looked up with furrowed brow. “Dave, I cannot go.”

“Why the fuck not? You’re not scheduled on holiday. And, you don’t look sick to me.”

“I can’t go, Dave.”

“If you want to keep this job, you’re going. You’re my terp. I’m going, so that means you’re going.”

“Dave, I can’t go.”

“Nasrullah, you gotta give me something more than ‘I can’t go.’ What’s the reason?”

“My mother will not let me go,” he said sheepishly.

“Get the fuck out of here. Your mother won’t let you go?!”

“No, Dave. I am serious. My mother won’t let me go.”

“Shit. That’s the real reason, uh? As big as you are, you can’t go to Farah because your momma won’t let ya go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check it out Bubba. I refuse to believe that any man who’s damn near thirty years old has to get his mommy’s permission to go anywhere. It’s unbelievable. You’re killin’ me. Fuckin’ killin’ me!”

“Sir, I am serious. Afghans are different than Americans. We live at home. We have to obey our parents. It is our duty.”

“You’re serious now. Breaking out the ‘sir’ routine on me. Well, okay. I’ll give you until tomorrow to give me a definitive answer. Part of this job is travel to the outlying areas. Even the country ass, Afghan hillbilly fundy joints. You were told that when we hired you. You acknowledged that portion of the job when we hired you. This is unfucking believable! My big ass, tough-looking terp is a momma’s boy.”

“Okay, Dave.”

“Tomorrow, if you come to work, it means that you’re going to Farah. If you still can’t go to Farah, don’t bother coming in. Leave now. Take the rest of the day to make your decision.”

That was the last time that I saw Nasrullah. He called me the next day to let me know that he wouldn’t be coming in. After I hung up with him, I told Rasul, “Well, dude, you’re comin’ with me! Unpucker yer ass and get ready.”

Rasul answered, “I already knew that Dave. Here is my cousin’s CV.”

By this time, I knew that we had a good guy in Rasul. If he vouched for his cousin, that was good enough for me. Rasul and his cousin Mirwais (pronounced Mer - whayz) had worked together in Chaghcharan for a few years with a Lithuanian contingent of the ISAF. They’d also worked with the United Nations in a program where they took weapons from surrendering insurgents. The “former” insurgents were then placed in a Muj repatriation program that essentially made them local militia/police in their hometowns. They were built up into a quasi-National Guard-type organization. They acted as neighborhood watch until called upon to assist the national security forces in times of emergency.

I took Mirwais’s CV to Mick Rivas and said, “This is the guy I want. No need to do any other interviews.”

“If you’re sure, we’ll call him up and bring him on board.”

“Yeah, get this guy on board. If he’s half as good as Rasul says, he’s golden.”

Mick consented but we brought in other candidates for a few other openings that had opened. Mirwais blew the other candidates away. He was proficient in translating and knew MS Office almost as well as any Army PowerPoint Ranger. We hired him about two weeks later. The bitch of it all was that Farah was cancelled. Nasrullah had quit for nothing.

C’est la vie, my friend.

Training the Afghans

October–December 2007

We’d been working towards our first class since the moment we arrived at Camp Stone. It had been a long time coming and finally all that effort was bringing results. “Zach, I’m heading over at 0730hrs to wait for the students to arrive.”

“Okay, Dave. I’ll be over at about 0830hrs. Call me if you need anything.”

Just stay out of my way, I think but I say, “Okay, Zach. See you there.”

I got over to our classroom on Camp Zafar at 0735hrs. Fawad, Mirwais, and Rasul arrived about fifteen minutes later. I handed off my laptop and projector to Rasul. “Set everything up for the class. I’ll wait out here for the students with Mirwais.” I gave Mirwais a cigarette and lit it for him. There was nothing left to do but wait.

“Mirwais, man, I’m nervous as fuck. I haven’t been this nervous since drill sergeants were punkin’ my ass in basic training.”

“Don’t sweat it, Dave. What the hell are you nervous about? We know this stuff. You know it better than all of us.”

“I know. But I want this shit to be smooth.”

Class was supposed to start at 0830hrs. Mirwais and I were waiting outside when 0830hrs came and went. I walked inside the classroom. “Mirwais wait out here in case they come.”

“Yes, sir!” Mirwais said laughingly.

“Fuck you, Mirwais. Ya Muslim bastard …”

Inside the classroom, I yelled to Rasul, “Are we ready? Projector set up? Laptop on? Do we have the sign-in roster ready?”

“Everything is ready, Dave. Stop stressing.”

“Can’t help it man. First day jitters, I reckon. We’re supposed to have ten students, right?”

“Yes, Dave. Ten guys. But they’re Afghans. They’re going to be late. I guarantee it. Two or three won’t show up until tomorrow.”

“Do we have the memo for them to eat in the ANA dining facility, yet?”

“Zach is on the way with it now.”

“Well, as soon as he gets here, grab his incompetent ass, grab the memo, and make sure that our guys can eat chow in the ANA dining facility. I don’t want any problems today. Smooth. I want smooth.”

Finally, the students started arriving. It was 0915hrs. As they walked in, I shook their hands and greeted them. “Assalaam alaykum. Subha al khair. Please take a seat inside.”

It took nearly another half hour for all of the students to arrive. One bus had been held up at the gate. I had to send Zach and Rasul to get them in. The Army didn’t want to let the students in because they were in a civilian vehicle. Zach took one of our vans up to the gate to pick them up.

As the last of them arrived, I lit another cigarette. Rasul was busy taking their names and other information inside the classroom. Mirwais and I stood outside and finished our smokes. Finally, I looked at Mirwais and said, “Fuck it. Let’s do this.” Mirwais smiled at me. We walked inside.

This was the first time that I’d spoken in front of a group of strangers. Public speaking had never been my strong suit. “Mirwais, make sure that I don’t mumble. If I start mumbling, let me know.”

“Okay, Dave. No problem. Don’t worry. You’re the teacher. Afghans are respectful of teachers. It’s an honorable position in our culture.”

“Well then, I’d best earn it. Let’s do this.”

I waited for Rasul to finish the sign-in roster. We needed their names, family names, assigned district, duty position, and police numbers at a minimum. We tried to get cell numbers as well. Some of them had surrendered their phones at the gate. The Afghan army and police weren’t on real friendly terms. I was surprised that they’d let them drive the Ford Ranger into Camp Zafar.

When Rasul signaled that he was finished with the sign-in roster, I walked to the front of the room. “Good morning, gentlemen, I’m Dave Kaelin.” I pointed to Mirwais. “This is my translator.”

“Today is mostly a preview day. Unless everything goes really fast and smooth, we won’t get into the meat of the course until tomorrow’s class.” I paused so that Mirwais could translate for me. Consecutive translation is an excellent tool. While Mirwais was translating, I could prepare my next thoughts. That was a boon for the first class. When I got nervous, I tended to rush through things. I talked too fast and didn’t finish thoughts. Because I had to wait for Mirwais to translate, I could slow down and collect my thoughts. That helped a lot until I became accustomed to talking in front of larger and larger groups of people.

“Today, I’m going to walk you through the two-week syllabus. Before we get started, do you have any questions?” Hands go up across the room.

“Okay,” I pointed to a guy in the first row. “What’s your question?”

“You have our names and information but we don’t know anything about you. Tell us about yourself.”

“Sure. What do you want to know?” Questions flew at me.

“Where are you from?” “Are you in the Army?” “What is your religion?”

“Okay. Okay. Slow down. I’ll tell you. I’m from the U.S.—Amrikkiya. I spent some time in the Army but I’m a civilian now. I’ve worked in logistics for over twenty years with a heavy concentration in property accountability but I’ve worked nearly all facets of logistical operations. Warehouse ops, supply, company level up to division.”

“How old are you?”

“Guess? How old do you think I am?”

They all guessed that I was in my late twenties.

“Nope, I’m thirty-eight. I’ll be thirty-nine on Christmas.”

“Oh, you are a young man.” This was one thing that I had feared. I was scared that the Afghans would look at me and say that I was too young to teach them anything. Most of the other MPRI mentors were in their late 40s to early 60s. I was barely knockin’ on forty. These Afghans all looked to be in their 50s. But they didn’t seem to mind. They seemed impressed that I was mentoring at such a young age. Good sign, I thought. They hadn’t shut me out.

“David, you must be knowledgeable to have this job. I hope we can learn from you,” said one of the younger-looking students.

An older gentleman stood up and said, “David, we are thankful that you have come to our country to share your knowledge with us. We will learn from you and take what we learn back to our jobs to make us all more professional.”

“Thank you, sir. What is your name?”

“I am Khoda Daad. Lieutenant Colonel. Food Service Officer for Herat Province Headquarters. We need your help. Our kitchen equipment is old and barely usable. We need new equipment and training.”

“That’s what we’re here for. Zach and I will be making visits to your district and province headquarters. We hope to be able to help you solve some of your logistical issues. We’ll be working with the Army and DynCorp mentor teams to get you guys moving in the right direction.”

Another hand went up. I looked at the sign-in roster, “Yes, Captain Azizullah, you have a question?”

“Mister David, you still have not told us about your religion. What do you believe?”

I was scared of this question. Would my beliefs upset these guys? Were they all devout Muslims? Would they wish to hang me from a light pole until I was dead if I told them the truth? I decided that I’d be better off being honest.

“Well, I don’t really have a religion. I’m not Christian. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Are you Yehuda?”

“No. Not Jewish. It’s complicated to explain. I believe in prophets or what the Hindus call avatars. I believe that men and women have been sent to this world to give us wisdom. It is up to us to accept that wisdom and to not pervert it with our petty humanity.”

“You’re not Jewish. You’re not Christian. You’re not Muslim? What are you?”

They weren’t getting it. “I’m nothing. I follow my own faith. You can call it Davidism or Dawoodism, if you like.”

And from that day on I was called Dawood Khan.

“Okay, enough of this small talk. We can talk more at the break. We’ve got a lot of material to cover this morning. It’s ten-thirty now. I’ll cover the course syllabus then we’ll take a ten minute break. After that, if we have time, I’ll jump into the first class. It’s short, so we’ll be out of here by noon.” With that, I began the slide show.

The first class was a summary of the syllabus with terminology. It was an icebreaker to get them thinking in new terms and about the new system. I had decided to parse out the class literature on a daily basis. Give them the next day’s slides, so they could familiarize themselves with the subject matter the night before each class. In theory, they’d read the class the night before and be able to ask intelligent questions the next day.

I ran through the class schedule. “This is the material that we’ll be discussing over the next two weeks:

1.    Introduction

2.    Responsibilities

3.    Classes of supply

4.    Non-expendable vs. expendable property

5.    Delegation of authority

6.    Organizational clothing and individual equipment

7.    Document numbers

8.    Document registers

9.    Requesting and disposition of equipment

10.   Property accountability

11.   Assigning responsibility for property

12.   Hand receipting procedures

13.   Property book accountability

14.   Lateral transfer of equipment

15.   Investigation of lost, destroyed, and damaged property

16.    Supporting document files

17.    Ammunition consumption

“The class will begin at 0830hrs and end at 1200hrs. Do not be late. If you are absent more than one day, you will not receive a certificate. Each class will have a practical exercise and a quiz. At the end of the course, you’ll be given a test on the whole of the course. Don’t worry. It’s easy. Fifty multiple-choice questions. To pass, you must achieve at least a 70 percent score on the final test. If you don’t pass the first time, we will administer the test again. If you pass the second time, you’ll receive a certificate. If not, no certificate. So, pay attention. If you pay attention, you’ll have no problem passing the test. We will conduct a review before the test. There’s no reason that you shouldn’t pass the test.” I was surprised that they let me get through all of that with no questions.

Even after some prodding from me, not one hand rose. Just silence. “Okay, let’s take a ten-minute break. After the break, we’ll see if we have time for the first class.”

Everyone broke for the door. Half of them smoked. I’m sure they were jonesing. I felt it myself. I walked outside and lit a cigarette. Mirwais went out with me. Khoda Daad was the first to approach me.

“David, explain to me your religion again.”

I laughed. “Okay. Check it out. I’m not really religious. I believe that all of the religions have wisdom in them. Islam, Christianity, Zoroastrianism, Buddhism, Hinduism. All of them have a message of peace. We, humans, screw it up with our petty jealousies, tribalism, and violent nature. We corrupt the message with our anger and prejudice. Mohommad, for instance. I know that Muslims believe that he was perfect. I believe he was a vessel. A messenger from God. I believe the same about Jesus and Buddha. These men were given a message of love and hope for mankind. Men corrupted that message. I believe that we can learn from the wisdom of these men. Wisdom that may have been shared by the gods. I, also, believe that they were mortals and imperfect. I don’t think that they shared the wisdom perfectly. Each of them passed on their respective message with their cultural biases interwoven within. Hence, the attitudes towards women in each religion. I have read the Qu’ran and the Bible and I don’t see why women are supposed to be subservient.”

I paused to catch my breath and then continued.

“In the Qu’ran I see that all are to submit and be humble. Yet, in Islamic countries women are burdened with the hijab and the burqa, while men run around the world in short sleeved shirts and short pants. Men don’t cover their heads. Only women are burdened by chastity. Men fuck anything with two or more legs. Why is this? Because men wrote the rules. Men are stronger. Men wish to control women. In my opinion, it’s bullshit. Women are just as smart as men. Yet, the Taliban decreed that women must be locked away in their homes or escorted by men. Why? To protect women from being raped? No. It’s to protect men from temptation. Why should women pay the price for the weakness of men? It has been the same in Christian lands. ‘They were asking for it’ was the refrain up until the ‘80s in America when women were raped. It’s things like that which tell me most of the rules in religion are man-made. Created by men, for men, to keep men in control.”

“David, you have given me a lot to think about.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” I said laughingly.

Khoda Daad smiled at me, as did the other men who had gathered around to listen. Mirwais had translated everything faithfully. I kept stopping him to tell him. “Mirwais, tell them exactly what I’m saying. Don’t sugarcoat it.” Mirwais looked nervous but he did it. After that long tirade, there wasn’t much time left.

I told Fawad to get Zach to take them all to chow.

“Gentlemen, it’s lunch time. Zach and Fawad will take you to the dining facility if you wish to eat. If not, you can roll out. Be back here in the morning. 0830hrs sharp.”

“David, do you want to eat with us?”

“I apologize. I have a meeting now that I have to attend.” I lied. There was no way that I was going to eat in an ANA dining facility (DFAC). I’d toured the ANA DFAC on Camp Zafar when we were coordinating for the ANP to eat there. I walked into the serving area and the smell had gagged me. I had to run outside to keep from spewing. It wasn’t uncommon for Afghans to pick up parasites in the ANA DFACs. The Army command at Camp Eggers had sent around a PowerPoint slide depicting Afghans with three-foot-long tape worms hanging out of their asses. The Afghans had picked up the tape worms in the ANA DFACs. U.S. Army doctors gave the poor bastards medicine to kill the tape worms. Once the tapeworms died, the doctors pulled the tapeworms out of the Afghans by the dozens. Some of the Afghans had over twenty tapeworms inside them. It was disgusting. I wasn’t going to be eating in an ANA DFAC anytime soon.

The next day, I walked the students through the first three classes. They were attentive and respectful. I didn’t think that they were interested, though. Finally, I stopped talking and said, “Guys, I want to know that you are interested. That you are taking something away from this. But I get the feeling that I’m putting you to sleep or something. You can ask questions. I welcome it.” The floodgates opened.

The student who asked the most questions was Khoda Daad. He asked so many questions that it finally pissed off the other guys in the class. His questions weren’t really questions, though. He seemed to be paraphrasing me every so often. I guess it was his way of understanding. Finally, Khoda Daad stood up to ask what was apparently one too many questions for the rest of the students. Another student named Timor Shah interrupted him, “You can teach the class. I think you are better qualified. David should sit down, so that he can teach us.” As Mirwais translated I thought, “Fuck, these guys think I’m an idiot.” I turned to Mirwais and asked, “What exactly is he saying?”

“Dave, he’s telling Khoda Daad to sit down and shut the fuck up.” I laughed. Now I got it. The class exploded into argument. Half of the class seemed to agree with Timor Shah. The other half thought that Khoda Daad had a right to ask questions until he was comfortable with the subject matter. I let them argue for a bit. Finally, I jumped in.

“Okay, guys. Let’s not have a riot. The Colonel can ask questions. I don’t mind. I welcome it as I said earlier. But how about we hold questions until I’ve worked my way through the material? Khoda Daad is asking a few questions that are answered later in the course. Is that cool with everyone?”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Those mini-explosions of commentary occurred at least once a day. I’d calm the class and put them on a break. Once or twice I thought that I might have to break up fights when some of the guys got overheated.

At the end of the second day of class, no one wanted to eat in the ANA mess hall. Not that I blamed them. The food was horrible and the place smelled like a maggot-infested dumpster. That wasn’t the only problem. The ANA had been rude and threatening. I didn’t quite understand the problem until I walked the students to the gate that day. The ANA would not let my ANP students drive their personal vehicles onto Camp Zafar. It was a good fifteen or twenty minute hike from the gate to our classroom.

A few months before I arrived at Camp Stone, an ANA soldier who had been on guard duty had locked and loaded his AK-47 and went on a killing spree. He’d killed three Afghans and wounded a couple of Coalition members. ANA soldiers, Coalition soldiers, and civilians had taken cover and ducked and dove to get to safety. Finally, another ANA soldier had taken him down with two shots to the chest. That incident was always in my mind as I walked on Camp Zafar. I damn sure didn’t want anyone cashing life insurance checks in my name.

Since my ANP students didn’t have a vehicle and I didn’t have enough room to give them all a ride, I walked to the gate with them. Mirwais walked with us. We had to walk up a long street that passed the ANA barracks. I’d passed these barracks a hundred times by now traveling back and forth to the Zafar classroom. No one had ever harassed me. The ANA soldiers were always pleasant on the rare occasion that one of them talked to me. When the ANA soldiers saw the ANP, it was a different matter. They started catcalling and whistling. I had no idea what they were saying and my students ignored them. When I was certain that the soldiers were yelling at my ANP students, I asked Mirwais, “What the hell are they saying?” Mirwais was too embarrassed to tell me. “Tell me, Mirwais. I want to know.”

“David, they’re threatening them.”

“Threatening who? Our students? The ANP?”

“Yes, I told you that the ANA and ANP don’t get along.”

“What are they saying?”

“Don’t be caught here after dark. We’ll rape you. And, I’m going to bust your asshole, you police kuni. Things like that.”

“Get the fuck out of here. Are we on an Army base or not? That’s some shit straight out of a prison movie.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Well, fuck. I’ve got to do something about that. I’ll talk to Mick. Get him to talk to the ANA Corps sergeant major. What the hell is wrong with the sick bastards?” I drove my ANP students to and from the gate in shifts after that bit of madness. I was embarrassed. I talked to Mick about what had happened. He was as embarrassed by it as I was.

I gave the first five days of the course then went on R&R, while Zach took over. Two blissful weeks away from Afghanistan. By the time I returned, the class had graduated. We had two weeks until the next class was scheduled. Before the course, Zach and I sent out instructions to all mentors and trainers to have their students bring their property listings to the course. We’d use those listings to convert them to the new system. No one brought anything to that first class. They didn’t bring as much as a piece of paper.

“David, you are supposed to give us pencils and paper during the course.”

No one warned me about this penchant for the ANP to want to be supplied with everything. When I was in the Army, I took pen and a notebook everywhere I went. That was a basic part of being a soldier.

I spent the next two weeks attempting to ensure that (a) we would get students and (b) they would bring their property listings with them. I talked to the training and operations mentors. I talked to the ANP training and operations officers. I was assured that students would bring all necessary information to the course. It never changed, though. We gave the course thirteen times to a total of 156 students. Being generous, twenty students brought the information necessary to convert during the actual course.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

December 2007–March 2008

Defense and State had come to the conclusion that the ANP we were trying to train were inept and corrupt. To combat police inefficiency, corruption, and lack of training, the Army sent out teams to assess selected districts. The worst of the worst were selected as candidates for a new training program called Focused District Development (FDD). The teams that were sent to assess the districts were called District Assessment and Reformation Teams (DART). These teams traveled out to the most incompetent and corrupt districts and assessed their professionalism, readiness, training, and level of corruption. Once the assessment was complete, the worst of the districts were selected for FDD. As part of this training program, districts were sent to regional training centers across the country where they were given individual and unit training. It was a combination of basic training, officer training, and advanced training. The program lasted eight weeks at the end of which the units were, theoretically, returned to their districts as professional, non-corrupt units.

There were several regional training centers across the country. My team in Herat was part of the RTC FDD training team. We were first tasked to assist with collection, inventory, and maintenance of district equipment. Our next task was to work with the district logistics officers in creating accountability documents and to instruct them in proper supply and accountability techniques. At the end of the course, my team assisted RTC and military personnel in re-issuing equipment with proper documentation.

I volunteered for the first FDD experimental district—Bala Baluk. The district was a disaster. One commander had been relieved for corruption by the Ministry of Interior who sent in a replacement. This was done at the insistence of the U.S. Army. The old Bala Baluk commander, Hajji Kaseem, refused to relinquish command. He held up in the district headquarters with half of his old police force. The other half of the district signed on with the new commander, Mansoor Khan, in a building across the town square from the actual district headquarters.

In the DART team brief on Bala Baluk, we were told that “the men are ill-trained, corrupt, and lawless as is their leadership. We suspect that many of them moonlight as bandits. Some are suspected of allegiance to the Taliban. By day, they bribe and harass citizens. When darkness falls, they overtly rob, hijack, and murder citizens for and as rivals to the insurgency. They’ve also been fighting each other. Some of these men may have hard feelings. While we were there, they were constantly taking pot shots at each other.”

Bala Baluk District sits astride the Ring Road. Commerce traveled this road from Iran via two primary border crossings. Convoys traveling to and from Qandahar and Farah were attacked and hijacked in Bala Baluk constantly. This problem was exacerbated by the lack of police coverage. The power vacuum created by the Mexican standoff between Hajji Kaseem and the new commander, Mansoor Khan, was being filled by insurgents.

One of our first challenges came the day Hajji Kaseem showed up for the first FDD mission at the Herat RTC with thirty-five “recruits.” Nearly all of them claimed to have been kidnapped and forced to join the training. “I am a farmer. I want to go home, but I am scared that they will kill me.” No one wanted to stay and all were supposedly from Herat Province. I recognized one of them from a shop across the street from Herat’s provincial police headquarters.

We processed the students for the course. The RTC commander awaited word on what to do about the alleged kidnapping victims. Specialists came in from Camps Eggers and Phoenix to administer urinalysis testing, DNA identification, fingerprinting, and police identification cards for each student. All prospective students including those who claimed to have been kidnapped were processed.

These students were to receive combat training. Once finished with training, they might desert or train the Taliban or insurgent forces. One rumor circulating at the time was that these guys were Taliban plants installed to disrupt training. At first, I gave these reports little credence. However, we soon discovered Taliban insurgents within the ANP forces. The Army also had found Taliban propaganda among the belongings of some of its interpreters. There was good reason for concern.

The RTC commander upped our security posture. All weapons went to green which means locked and loaded with a chambered round. Any Afghan trainee could be shot crossing the red line, which ran the entire length of the camp from north to south. Trainees were briefed to stay well on the other side of that line. Extra guards were posted to ensure that the trainees remained aware of the line.

Urinalysis results came back. Over thirty student candidates came back hot on the piss test. Most of them were positive for THC. Hashish smoking was a national past time in Afghanistan. I’m surprised that more of them didn’t come up hot. Five of the guys came up hot for opium and one guy for cocaine. The rule at the outset of training was that a positive result on the urinalysis was automatic dismissal from the course. With the positive results so high, Kabul was consulted concerning the results.

Before the curtain call on enrollment and the start of classes, I had to wait for the final decision on the drug users and “kidnap victims.” If they were all retained, I’d have to train them. If not, I could leave. Finally, we got the official word. We would keep the guys who’d been kidnapped for their own safety. If we dismissed them, they might be in danger. If they went AWOL after the course, that would be on Hajji Kaseem. The hash heads were kept in the course. The coke and opium addicts were dismissed.

I watched a lot of training that occurred while I was on the RTC. Some of these men were in no shape to be policemen. One afternoon, I saw a group of thirty-five or forty soldiers practice crowd control and how to wield a baton. It was comical. Baton training is easy. One holds the baton straight out to the front, takes a step, and then thrusts the stick forward towards the crowd. The first twenty-five guys were fairly solid. The last eight or nine guys in the formation were completely out of step, uncoordinated, and couldn’t keep up. They were breathing hard and looked as if they might fall out. Most of the guys in the back looked to be in their sixties. It was like watching a train wreck.

* * *

On a cold December afternoon, the police of Bala Baluk arrived at the Herat RTC at 1530hrs. Two buses, five police Rangers, and several civilian trucks pulled into the lot outside of the RTC gates. Men poured out of the buses. I didn’t know what was happening. The motley crew of miscreants who had arrived looked like a band of gypsy warriors. These men had never seen running water or any of the conveniences of the modern world. Some of them barely looked old enough to shave, while others sported flowing white beards. Most of them were attired in the Afghan manjams.

Greg Kahan was standing next to me when these men disembarked from their vehicles. Greg was running the logistics portion of the FDD program. He was a career cop who had taken a leave of absence to go on contract with DynCorp. He had been on station about a year by now. He and I had been stationed in the Army together at Fort Belvoir, Virginia back in the ‘90s. By coincidence, he had been assigned to the Herat RTC.

Greg turned to me and said, “Dude, these guys look like they haven’t bathed in months. Look at their feet. It’s December and they’re all wearing sandals.”

“Are they preparing to attack? I thought they were coming for training.”

“Dave, I don’t know what the fuck is going on. We don’t know if they’re willing to surrender their weapons or if they’ll get pissed and start shooting at us. We can’t let them on camp with their weapons.”

“What happens if they refuse to give them up?”

“They’ll have to camp outside the RTC until we can get the issue settled.”

When an older “policeman” in white manjams pointed a loaded RPG rocket launcher our way, my WTF[19] alarm went off the radar. The Gurkhas manning the squad assault weapons in the guard towers sighted in on him. The old man dislodged the rocket and casually let it drop to the ground.

Neither of the Bala Baluk commanders—Hajji Kaseem or Mansoor Khan—had arrived with this initial group. Hajji Kaseem’s deputy district chief had come instead. Roger Hickock walked out to the Afghans with a small escort. It was Roger’s responsibility to get the Afghans into the FDD for training. He was the RTC training coordinator and an Oklahoma State Cowboy. I watched from a distance as Roger and Hajji Kaseem’s district chief spoke for a bit. Heads nodded in agreement. Roger pointed towards my group and then walked over to us and said, “They’re going to eat first and then they’ll turn their weapons over to you guys. I’d say about an hour. You guys go grab some chow and be ready when we call for you.”

Greg and I grabbed a quick meal and walked back out to the front of the gate. After some time, the Afghans started lining up. There were three stations that the Afghans had to pass through to get into the RTC. Greg and I manned the first station. We disarmed the Afghans and inventoried weapons and ammo. Afghans wearing uniforms, half uniforms, and manjams and turbans handed over weapons, full magazines, and belted and boxed ammo. We took in about thirty-five AK-47s, three RPG rocket launchers, and one PK machine gun that looked like it was last used by the Soviets sometime in the 1940s. One guy walked up to me and threw an old PPSh-41 submachine gun on the table. That was definitely a World War II relic. It’s similar to the Thompson “tommy gun” from the gangster movies. The scariest moment was when an ancient, gnarled-looking Afghan walked up to the table and handed me a banged up, rusted RPG rocket. I could feel my balls in my throat handling that damn thing.

As nervous as everyone was, only half of us wore our personal protective gear. I wore mine to the gate. When I saw that I was one of the only ones wearing body armor, I took it off. When the old Afghan dude handed me the rusted rocket, I wasn’t sure that had been the right choice.

The next station for the Afghans was “identification.” Full names to include father’s name were annotated on a list. Badge and ID numbers were taken down as well. A number card was given to each Afghan. That number was how they were identified until they were given their official MOI ANP identification card at the end of the course.

The final station was the shakedown. The Afghans were patted down and checked for contraband. During training, the Afghans weren’t allowed candy, cigarettes, or dip. They weren’t allowed weapons—no knives, no brass knuckles, no shanks. Everything was taken from them and placed in bags that were tagged with their numbers. I watched as the mentors asked them, “Is there anything that you want to surrender? Guns, knives, drugs, cigarettes, candy. Anything? Better to give it up first than to have us find it. If you surrender it, we’ll tag it and give everything back except drugs.”

The mentors searched everyone including those who had surrendered contraband. At the end of the night, the Afghans had given up, voluntarily or otherwise, tins of highly addictive green snuff, packs of cigarettes, bags of hashish and opium. We confiscated enough drugs to start an opium den in Shanghai. Once the Afghans passed through this station, they were escorted in groups of ten to their barracks.

While we were searching and processing the Afghans, a number of them told us that they’d been picked up along the road. “I was kidnapped.” “I was forced to come.” “I am from Herat.” Bala Baluk was in Farah Province, a good hundred or so miles away. While convoying up, the district officers had waylaid men along the way. The ANP convoy would halt a group of men or single individuals. They pointed their AK-47s at random civilians and told them to get on the bus. They beat and threatened anyone who refused. I spoke with one recruit who said, “They told me if I didn’t get in the bus, they’d murder my family.”

I looked at Mirwais, “Dude, is he serious?”

“It’s what he says. I believe him. I told you the police are pieces of shit.”

“This is a bit above and beyond shitty behavior, don’t ya think?”

The next day a second group from Bala Baluk was due to arrive but no one knew when. Mirwais and I sat around smoking for an hour. Finally, I’d had enough of boredom. “Mirwais, I’m takin’ a nap. Go hang out in your room. I’ll call you when I need ya.”

I couldn’t sleep. About a half hour later, Greg Kahan called my cell. “Dave, let’s re-inventory the weapons from yesterday and prep for the guys coming in today.”

“I’m on the way, bro.” I walked over to the weapons storage container. Greg was there with a few other guys. We inventoried the weapons and annotated serial numbers and serviceability data in preparation for handing them over to the weapons repair group that was located on the RTC.

While we were inventorying the weapons, Roger called me on my cell. “Dave, we got you slated for training today at 1300hrs. You’ll have two classes with about forty-five guys in each. Class Room A. Stop by and I’ll give you the key.”

“Okay. We’re ready to go. I’ll be right over.”

As I walked over to get the key from Roger, I called Mirwais to tell him we’d gotten our class and to meet me at noon for lunch. At 1000hrs, there was an FDD brief that was more pep talk and propaganda. Colonel Foreman was the guy in charge of the FDD program. He was a stern-looking dude, but seemed realistic about what he’d seen so far. Aside from the leadership problems, Bala Baluk had recently been overrun by insurgents. Essentially, there was no police presence in the district. The bandits were winning the war in that corner of Afghanistan. Colonel Foreman explained that the Afghan leadership couldn’t decide who was in charge. Half of the troops were here with Colonel Mansoor Khan, while Colonel Hajji Kaseem would be bringing another group tomorrow. At the end of his brief, Colonel Foreman said, “We’ll sit down with the problem children tomorrow and try to hash out a deal.”

Mirwais and I set up the class at 1245hrs. At 1300hrs, the Afghans started rolling in. They were a rough-looking bunch. Within minutes the air was stifling. “Mirwais, open the fuckin’ doors and blast the AC. I can’t breathe in here. All I can smell is assholes and underarms. Jesus mother of god, these guys haven’t touched water in a year.”

“They live in the country, Dave. That’s how people live out there. They don’t have access to water.”

“Well, that don’t mean I have to like smelling ‘em.”

Mirwais opened the doors and windows. I blasted the air conditioner. It helped but I still tasted underarm funk until I brushed my teeth.

After we got the air circulating, Mirwais and I started the brief.

“Salaam. Shoma naame Dave Kaelin. Wa ein tarjomaniman Mirwais.” That’s my broken Dari introduction to all of my classes. “Hello. My name is Dave Kaelin and this is my interpreter Mirwais.” Mirwais translated for me even when I was speaking Dari. I continued, “Today we are going to discuss three subjects. First, we’ll talk about organizational clothing and individual equipment. Second, we’ll discuss responsibilities. That being your responsibilities when it comes to Ministry of Interior equipment and funds. Last, we’ll go over hand receipt procedures. What is a hand receipt? How do these documents affect you? What are your responsibilities and rights when signing a hand receipt? And so forth.” Mirwais translated.

I noticed that some of the guys weren’t following.

“Does everyone here understand? Raise your hand if you understand.”

Everyone raised their hands except about ten guys. I looked at Mirwais and told him, “Okay, here’s your chance. Break out your Pashto and ask them if that’s what they speak.”

All ten guys spoke Pashto. Luckily, a couple of the other guys in the class spoke Pashtu and Dari. I sat one of them next to the Pashtu speakers and had him translate as we went along, and then I continued with my spiel. I spoke, Mirwais translated into Dari, and our class assistant then translated Mirwais’s Dari into Pashto. The double translation extended our class time by a third, but at least it served to help Mirwais improve his Pashto.

As I instructed the class, I looked around the room making eye contact with each student. It was the best way to keep their attention. Guys nodded off all around the room. I felt for the guys as the subject matter is dry and boring. They needed to know it, though. One guy was absolutely knocked out. I walked back, stood beside him, and yelled, “Wake up!” He jumped up wide-eyed. Walking back to the front of the room, I said, “Look guys, I know this is some boring shit. I get it. You have to stay awake, though. If you feel like you are falling asleep go to the back of the room and stand up.” Towards the end of the class, a few guys were standing in the back of the room. Once class was finished, I stood at the door and shook each man’s hand as they filtered out.

Mirwais and I walked to the rear of the classroom for a smoke. “Mirwais, did you see the guy with one eye? How the hell is he a cop? His one good eye looks like it’s full of cataracts and the dude looks like he’s in his ‘60s.”

“Yeah, I kept staring at him. I don’t think he can see us, though.”

Mirwais and I walked out front to round up the next group of students. One of the Afghans walked up to me and told me that our class was “useful and had good information.” Then he started in on Bala Baluk. “Teacher, be careful. Half of these guys are Taliban. Be careful with them. They will remember you.” I’d heard that about Bala Baluk already, but to have one of their own come up and say it to me was mind blowing.

I called the new folks into the classroom. As they filed in, I noted the long beards, dark turbans, and manjams that many wore. This was no real police unit. These were a bunch of civilians who’d been forced to attend training to bump the numbers. I hurried through the next portions of my instructions and then started talking about corruption and the Taliban.

“How many of you guys have contact with the Taliban? A few hands went up. “Are any of you Taliban? Have you ever been ‘employed’ by the Taliban?” Another couple of guys raised their hands. “I think the Taliban are shit. Afghanistan could be a great country if it weren’t for those bastards. You guys have huge reserves of natural resources, gas, minerals. You have beautiful mountains that would attract big time tourist dollars. The history of Afghanistan is amazing. People would come from all over the world to see your mosques and the Buddhist temples, shrines, and other archaeological sites. None of that is possible because the Taliban are assholes who want to fuck everything up.”

I’m not certain how Mirwais translated my profane taunts. None of the Afghans understood what the word “fuck” meant. They did pick up on my frequent use of it, though. Mirwais was always faithful to my intent and meaning. He got the idea across. I saw a few ears perk up. After I had given my rant, a few of the guys wouldn’t look at me. Some of them stayed after class. “Teacher, we agree with you. The Taliban are evil. We want to defeat them.” “There is too much corruption. Karzai doesn’t care about the Taliban. He is too busy lining his pockets.” “Our generals are doing the same. When you [America] leave, they will leave with the money. We will be left behind to fight the Taliban.”

After we finished the class, Mirwais and I walked over to the dining facility. Since I had been told earlier in the day that the Army was sponsoring a meet between the two claimants to command Bala Baluk, I wanted to see if I could eavesdrop. Deputy Minister Mangala, Colonel Forman, and General Akramuddin were going to attempt to bring a resolution to the rift within the district leadership. I walked into the dining facility just as the meeting was beginning. For the hell of it, I sat down just within earshot. I fully expected to be asked to leave. General Akramuddin saw me and rose to greet me. We exchanged man hugs and kissed each other’s cheeks like we were good old buddies. He asked me to sit down at the table, but I told him that I’d better not and sat back at my table. “Dave, he likes you because you kiss his ass all the time,” Mirwais told me.

The meeting went on for two hours. I couldn’t catch much of what was said. In the end, Hajji Kaseem kept his command. The new commander, Mansoor Khan, was promised another district. No charges were brought against anyone. As the meeting was breaking up, Hajji Kaseem was asked if he was staying for training.

“I will not train with my men. I am their commander. It is not proper that I train with these men. I cannot fail a task in front of them. They must think that I know everything.”

* * *

At the end of February, I was tasked to assist with equipment issues and to teach the officers of Bala Baluk the twenty-hour logistics course. This was a bastardized version of our forty-hour, two-week course that we gave monthly. We basically taught the logistics officers how to account for their property. We explained to line officers that they were responsible for the equipment used by their men. The main thing that we tried to get across was that the equipment belonged to the government and was not the personal property of the district commander.

Commanders of Afghan forces in both the army and police tended to treat the equipment they’d been given to accomplish their mission as a personal arsenal and bank account. They pilfered fuel and ammunition. They used vehicles and weapons for personal security and transportation. There was much fraud, waste, and abuse going on in the districts. The men tended to leave their equipment lying around and “misplaced” weapons, radios, and anything else that might bring a good price at the local bazaar.

Corruption had become a common topic of discussion for the students, and I’d developed a speech about it to give to the FDD students. I wasn’t certain that they would be open to the subject. These guys were not all loggies, plus they were sitting with other members of their own district. If they said the wrong thing in front of the wrong person, it could get violent. I decided that I’d get it out of the way right at the beginning. That way they wouldn’t have to ask about it and risk being targeted for attack.

Mirwais and I had set up the classroom earlier. After we finished, we went outside to have a smoke. We walked back into the classroom and ten Afghans were sitting there waiting for us. As soon as we stepped in, I heard, “Mister David! Dawood Khan!” Next thing I know, I’m wrapped up in a bear hug. Captain Qavoum placed his hand over his heart and introduced me to the officers in the class. “This is Teacher Dawood Khan. Listen to him. He has much knowledge. He will teach us much. We are very honored to have him.” Captain Qavoum had attended my class on Camp Zafar a month earlier.

I greeted the class. “Salaam, gentlemen. I can only hope to live up to Captain Qavoum’s most gracious introduction. Please everyone be seated.”

As they seated themselves, Mirwais and I took center stage and started the class. “Gentlemen, we will be instructing you on the basics of accountability and supply. When we’re finished here, you should be aware of your responsibilities as supervisors and logisticians. You’ll know how to properly request equipment. How to turn it in. How to guide your men in maintenance, storage, and securing the district equipment that you’ll be issued as you leave the RTC.”

I looked around the spare white walled room. The RTC classrooms reminded me of elementary school. They were equipped with small desk chairs and chalkboards. Some even had overhead projectors from the days before computers and Harvard Graphics.

“Do you guys have any questions before I get started?”

No one said a word. I nodded to Mirwais and he started the slide show. The first thing I talked about was equipment security and maintenance.

“Who owns this equipment? All of the equipment that you use to conduct your mission. To whom does it belong?”

I pointed to an older gentlemen in the first row. “Come on Captain. Give it a try. Who owns the AKs, RPGs, and PKMs, the Rangers, the radios? Who owns the computers in your district, if you have any?”

“The Commandahn,”[20] the captain offered.

“Does everyone agree?”

Heads nodded. Affirmative.

“No. All of the equipment is owned by the Afghan people. It’s owned by the taxpayer. It’s owned by the Afghan government. The Ministry of Interior is the custodian. They loan it to the District Commandahn and, by extension, to you in order to accomplish the missions assigned to you. That mission being to arrest, capture, or kill the Taliban or bandits or insurgents or criminals. When your Commandahn leaves the unit, he should take nothing with him.”

Hands shot up. I waved them off and continued.

“Look. I know that’s not the reality on the ground. That’s why we’re here, though. To learn proper husbandry and custodianship of the Afghan people’s property and tax dollars. Afghanistan does not have infinite resources. You are a poor nation. Most of your equipment is donated by some country in the international community. That’s why the Coalition Forces are so concerned with corruption, theft, maintenance, and security of this equipment. Eventually, we’re all leaving. We’re going home. Eventually, the citizens of the nations that comprise the Coalition Forces are going to get tired of throwing money down a sinking hole.”

“But Teacher, what can we do? How can I stop corruption? If I oppose it, they will kill me. They’ll kidnap my children. Honesty carries a death sentence if the Commandahn is corrupt.”

“Think of it this way,” I said. “You are at the beginning of a new Afghanistan. This country years from now will be what you make it. Fight corruption and you may have a country some day. Don’t fight it and your children are likely to grow up in a nation not much changed from the lawlessness that now pervades Afghanistan.”

I received dubious looks but I continued.

“We have had corruption in America. There is still corruption in my country. It’s better now than it was and it will be better in the future than it is now. Why? Because Americans agitate for change. I’ll be honest, though. Fighting corruption is dangerous. Many have died fighting corruption in America. If you choose to fight it here, you may well die. You may survive and make a difference. It’s not going to be easy. It wasn’t easy in America.”

One student commented, “But America was never as corrupt as us.”

“America was so corrupt in the early days that the commanding general of our Army attempted to carve out a kingdom in our western territories. He acted with Spanish and British agents. He started troubles with the natives. He murdered and connived until he was caught and punished. It took America over 150 years to finally treat Black people as true citizens. The ‘70s saw nearly half of the police in New York City investigated and jailed for corruption. In the ‘80s, we had major scandals in the Los Angeles police department. U.S. senators and congressmen are caught with their hands in the cookie jar often enough that the American people think it’s common place. A president resigned thirty years ago over a major political scandal that involved burglary and a complete breakdown of the American system of justice. Look at any country in Europe or Asia, you’ll find corruption. You’ll also find people fighting it. Exposing it. Some people die fighting that corruption. You’ll have to ask yourself what kind of nation do you want to raise your children in, then act accordingly. … Okay, that’s enough about corruption for now. Let’s move on. If you want to talk more about it, catch me on a break.”

We continued on with the course. While I was supposed to give a twenty-hour course, in reality I was given about ten hours to complete the training. Mirwais and I hit the important points and I stressed resource management, security, and anti-corruption. I tried to drive it home to these guys that the United States wasn’t going to be in Afghanistan forever.

My course was not the only part of FDD that was whittled down to a bare minimum. The whole eight-week cycle was affected by constant timeline adjustments. In the U.S. Army training was the priority. Our drill sergeants awakened us at 0400hrs. We conducted training seven days a week. We got about fifteen minutes for meals. Sunday morning, we were marched to the chapel for an hour. We didn’t hit the sack until midnight on many nights. During our three-day training exercise where we put into action all of our basic training lessons, we slept about two hours a night. Focus District Development was planned with the U.S. training philosophy in mind.

That wasn’t the reality on the ground. Training was supposed to begin each day at 0830hrs. Usually, it was closer to 0900hrs. Lunch break began at 1200hrs. The Afghans were given an hour for lunch. They got another hour for prayer. Training resumed between 1400hrs and 1430hrs. The day officially ended at 1630hrs but usually training ended closer to 1600hrs. On Thursday, training ended for the day at 1200hrs. Friday was an off day. Saturday through Wednesday, you were lucky to get five hours a day with about two hours worth of training on Thursday for a grand total of twenty-seven hours a week. That was a good week. Afghans in training also were given religious and national holidays.

The Herat RTC had an Afghan cadre backed up by U.S. police mentors. DynCorp had that contract. They were shot at, rocketed, mortared, IED’d, and the Afghans whom they were training occasionally rioted in the camp. The DynCorp guys worked until the mission was completed. That sometimes meant staying in the office until ten at night. The Afghans literally ran for the gate as soon as the clock struck 1600hrs.

* * *

Colonel Hekmatullah was the Afghan deputy commander of the Herat RTC. He was a mean, black bearded son of a bitch who looked like he’d stepped out of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Rumor had it that he ran part of Herat. He was the enforcer on the RTC. If the Afghans got out of line, he’d smack them around. I saw him slap a trainee for not saluting him. The dude was a hard ass. He supervised nearly every aspect of the training from the Afghan instructors to the dining facility meals.

On one occasion, I saw him inspecting a bread delivery. Mirwais and I happened to be standing nearby when Hekmatullah started yelling. I asked Mirwais, “What the hell is going on there?”

“This guy delivered moldy, stale bread. Hekmatullah has his ass.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Take this out of here. You are contracted to supply us with edible bread. This is all spoiled. Take it away and bring back what we are paying for tomorrow.”

The bread delivery guy started to say something when BAM! Hekmatullah smacked him across the face. Mirwais continued to translate.

“If you bring shit like this ever again, I will kill you.”

The bread guy jumped back in the truck without saying a word and drove off. The next day, the same guy showed up with a load of fresh baked bread. His head was bandaged. His arm was in a sling. He refused to look Hekmatullah in the eye.

Later Mirwais told me, “Dave, Hekmatullah is crazy. He sent some of his guys to the bakery last night. They beat the shit out of the baker and his sons. One of his sons is in the hospital.”

Roger walked up as Mirwais was telling me this. “It’s true. I heard the same thing from the commander. But we stay out of Afghan affairs. Nothing we could do about it anyway. It’s as they say … their culture.”

My team and I participated in a total of eight FDD iterations while I was in western Afghanistan. Focus District Development was hailed as a great success by the politicians and generals. I believe that we had successes and we trained a lot of police. Great success? The jury is still out.

[19] WTF—what the fuck

[20] Commandahn is the Dari word meaning “commander.”

Masjid Jami

April 2008

I was getting ready for the drive to the Herat PHQ with the Herat Army mentor team. It was my third trip down with these guys. The Herat team was pretty laid back following the lead of its two officers Jonny Fernandez and Lou Johnson. They were U.S. Army captains who were on their second tour in Afghanistan. Each had served a tour in Iraq as well. They were professional but knew when to take it a notch back and when to get serious.

Usually when I was on these missions, Captain Jonny let me have the logistics crew and stepped back. He was also tasked with operations and food service mentoring. For him, that was enough without worrying about me. Being left to my own devices allowed me to do what I wanted. It also allowed me to sneak away occasionally.

The Herat PHQ was a walled compound that had been a cavalry barracks back in the day. The front gate was flanked by a pair of old horse-drawn artillery pieces. Driving through the gate, the barracks were on the left-hand side. Those barracks were converted from horse stables. Horses were stabled there for the Afghan cavalry back in the late 1800s. In the rear of the compound were a few two-storey buildings and a small mosque. The offices of the commanding general for Herat Province took up the top floor of the central building. My mentees and the logistics crew were officed in the lower floor of the rear buildings.

I was walking up to see the loggies with Rasul and Mirwais when I saw Khoda Daad, my student in the first logistics course on Camp Zafar back in October, who had also attended a second course in January. I had run into him several times since those courses both at the PHQ and the RHQ.

“Teacher, I want to take you to the Masjid-i Jami. It is the most beautiful masjid in the world. No other can compare to it.”

“I don’t know if I can go over there. Let me see if I can get away.” If the Army guys were paying attention, it would be difficult to get out of the PHQ gate.

Khoda Daad insisted. “Walk over to the masjid and I will meet you there. I want to show you Allah’s beautiful home.”

“Okay, I’ll get out. Give me about fifteen minutes.” Khoda Daad left us and I walked with Mirwais and Rasul towards the rear gate. We looked around. No one was watching us. We slipped out the gate.

The Masjid-i Jami was the central mosque in Herat. It was built by a Ghorid sultan over nine hundred years ago. Genghis Khan destroyed it, though the Afghans gloss over that fact. Later, Tamerlane rebuilt and reconsecrated it as a part of his world devouring empire. The mosque is one huge historic artifact. I was not turning down a chance to get a guided tour of the place.

We walked into the mosque compound from the front across the street from the PHQ. Walking in through the central gate, one climbs a small set of stairs. At the top of the stairs is a central fountain. Aside from its aesthetic qualities, the fountain is used to perform ablutions prior to entering the mosque. “Ablutions” is ritual cleansing performed so that a Muslim might come to God both physically and spiritually cleansed. It’s an important component of Muslim prayer. On each side of the fountain are terraced gardens that extend from the front of the mosque a hundred feet down to the gates at the street. The gardens are set in three tiers with small trees for shade over concrete benches where Afghans sit idly, pray, meditate, or picnic with their families.

Rasul was walking me through the ablutions ritual as we passed the fountain. “First you wash your hands, then your ears, face and neck, and finally your feet and ankles,” he explained.

“Okay. So, what about the act of conversion or reversion as you Muslims call it? What is the phrase that one repeats three times? I know it in English. Teach it to me in Arabic.”

“La ilaha iI-Allah, Mohammad-ur-Rasullalah. Repeat that three times in the mosque and you are officially a Muslim.” I stood there repeating it over and over again while Rasul and Mirwais corrected me until I got it right. We must have stood there ten minutes with me trying to get the pronunciation down.

As we stood there, a group of Afghans watched us. They were all dressed in white robes and black turbans. I had come to associate the black turban with the Taliban. I asked Rasul, “Dude, are those Taliban staring at us?”

“No, Dave. They’re mullahs. I don’t know why they’re staring at us. Foreigners come here all the time.”

“Yeah, but how many foreigners come dressed in Army uniform?” As part of the contract for which I was working, I was wearing the Army combat uniform or ACU. It was the newest digital camouflage pattern battle uniform that the Army had recently issued. The thing made me feel self-conscious. Afghans thought that I was in the Army. Half of the folks in the Army resented me for wearing it. We were held to the Army standard of wearing the uniform. I had wanted to grow my hair out but I felt like a moron in uniform with long hair, so I had cut my hair “high and tight” like a Marine. That’s how I’d worn my hair while I was in the Army.

Here I was in my ACUs walking through the grounds of an ancient mosque. The Afghans didn’t seem to mind my presence so much as think me a curiosity. Kids stared at me and ran up to me saluting. Adults mostly smiled at me. Though I did get a few glaring looks that seemed to say “get away from here.” For all I know, those looks may have said “What the fuck, dude?” One of the men in the white-robed group broke off and walked towards Rasul, Mirwais, and me.

Here it goes, I thought. International incident. “Rasul,” I warned and nodded towards the gentleman heading in our direction. The man walked up to Rasul. They spoke for a moment. The guy was all smiles. He kept looking at me and smiling and shaking his head excitedly. Well, that doesn’t seem bad, I thought. The white robe dude finished talking to Rasul, did a curtsy-ish bow, smiled at me, and walked back to his group.

“What was that all about Rasul?”

“Fuck him,” Rasul blurted out. “He’s a mullah. He thanked me for converting the infidel.” It was all I could do not to laugh. “Fuck that motherfucker. He’s a stupid bastard,” Rasul intoned angrily.

“Nah, Rasul. I think it’s okay. He thought that you were bringing me to the faith. He was marking off one more victory for Islam against the infidel hordes who have invaded Afghanistan,” I said, trying my damndest not to laugh. I didn’t want the mullah to think that I was ridiculing him after that gracious display of confidence in Rasul’s ability to revert an infidel to Islam. Reversion is the correct term, as Muslims believe that all of us were Muslims before we were born. When we join Islam we are, in fact, reverting to the faith as opposed to converting to it.

Khoda Daad joined our merry little group at that moment. “Khoda Daad, welcome to our revival. It seems that I’ve just become a Muslim.”

Rasul explained what had just happened. Khoda Daad didn’t miss a beat. “Assalaam alaykum, my new brother. Welcome to the faith,” he smiled at me and winked. “David, let them think what they wish to think. It is of no concern to us. Now let us go to the mosque and we will show you our secrets.”

Khoda Daad led us to the mosque. We stopped at the entrance. Rasul, Mirwais, and Khoda Daad took off their shoes. I started unlacing my boots. Rasul stopped me. “No David, you do not have to take your shoes off.”

“Rasul, I’ve been to several mosques and I always take my shoes off. If nothing else, it’s a sign of respect.”

“Okay. They will like it.”

“Who will like it?” I asked.

“The head mullah and his clerics.”

“What? We’re meeting the head mullah of this mosque?”

“Who do you think is giving us the tour?”

“Okay. I just thought Khoda Daad was going to tool us around.”

“No, David. You are too special for that,” Mirwais said.

“Stop making fun of me, Mirwais.”

“No, seriously. These guys like you. Everyone who comes to the class has loved you.”

“Shut the fuck up, dude. See you’ve got me cursing in the damn mosque now.”

It would be difficult for me to do justice to the Masjid-i Jami of Herat. Photos do not capture its majesty either. The central hall of worship fronts the mosque with its domed entrance. That hall is flanked by two entryways to the rear worship center. Two rooms are set on either side of these halls and lead up to the minarets. The mosque has a total of four minarets. These minarets are used to call the faithful to prayer. The whole of the mosque is covered by mosaic tiles with geometric designs and suras from the Qur’an painted on them. In each corner of the mosque are tiles with the words Khuda hafiz which is Dari for “God protect you.” The whole mosque is a dazzling display of blue tiles. It is constantly being repaired and renovated from within where there is a large workshop dedicated to that end. The men in this workshop labor non-stop to create tiles to replace old and broken ones on the facade of the mosque. Every tile from the four-inch corner fillers to one-and-a-half meter, tear-shaped tiles weighing a couple hundred pounds are made by these craftsmen. The mosque is a masterpiece. Considering that it is nearly a thousand years old, it is amazing.

Khoda Daad led us down one of the side halls and into the workshop. The mullah was inside directing a calligraphist in writing part of a sura on a tile. Mirwais, Rasul, and I were introduced to the mullah and the workers. They all bowed politely with their hands over their hearts and nearly in unison said, “Assalaam alaykum.”

“David, this is Emir Imam Fazl. He is the leader of the Friday prayers here.” I shook his hand and placed my hand over my heart mirroring his actions. “Welcome to our humble masjid, Dawood,” he said using the quasi-Dari for my name.

Emir Fazl led us back to his office and started telling us the history of the mosque. “Dawood, great men have worshipped here. The original mosque was built by the Ghorids. Timur started to rebuild it but it was completed by Shah Jahan, the Mughal emperor. Babur, the grandfather of Shah Jahan, stopped here to pray on his way to Kabul. A wealthy pilgrim brought us a lock of hair from the prophet but it is locked away and I can only show it to members of the faith.”

I was tempted to tell him that I’d just joined the faithful out at the ablutions fountain but I held back. Rasul gave me a look that said, “Don’t even go there.” I smiled back at him. Emir Fazl led us back into the worship hall. “Dawood, this is the mihrab,” he said pointing to a domed niche carved out in the prayer hall. This is how Muslims know the direction to face when praying. All Muslims must face Mecca when they pray.” As the imam was explaining this, he was called away. “Khoda Daad, you can take them through the rest of the mosque.”

“Yes, Emir,” answered my friend.

Khoda Daad led us to the rear of the mosque to an area that was closed off. It was another prayer hall but had been laid aside for special occasions. In the front corner was a great brass cauldron dating back to the 1300s. Khoda Daad led us around the back and into an area that he said was a madrassah for Islamic students. As we walked through the corridors of the mosque, Khoda Daad pointed out tiles that he said were originally from the Ghorid and Timurid periods. That would date these sections back to the days of Tamerlane and before, sometime in the fourteenth century. We ended the tour back inside the workshop. Emir Imam Fazl walked in just as we were about to leave. We stopped and thanked him for the opportunity to tour the mosque.

“Tashakor, Emir Imam, this was most excellent. Your masjid and its history were awe-inspiring for me. Thank you so much.”

“Dawood, it is my pleasure. We are always happy to have foreigners here. We want to build relationships with the outside world. We are not all Taliban or fundamentalists. I would love to have more visitors to show the beauty of Islam, so that the world does not think that we are all monsters.”

“I will spread the word, Emir. Do not worry.”

That’s when I made the mistake. Rasul and Mirwais had been teaching me Dari. I’d picked up a few words. Tashakor means “thank you.” Khuda hafiz means “God protect you.” Many Afghans use this in saying farewell as opposed to “salaam” which means “peace” in Arabic. Of course, Rasul and Mirwais had taught me a few spicy phrases as well. One such phrase was kos mathar. That meant “motherfucker,” but it wasn’t a direct translation. Usually when an American said “motherfucker” it was just slang and really had no meaning beyond grabbing attention or being profane. It certainly didn’t mean that one had had sex with his own mother. In Dari, though, that is the exact way that they took it. Kos mathar literally means “one who has sex with his mother.” I kept getting kos mathar confused with Khuda hafiz.

I was standing there trying to say Khuda hafiz to the imam when I blurt out, “Tashakor, Emir Imam Fazl. Kos mathar.”

Rasul’s eyes popped out of his head. “David, what are you saying?”

“Dude, I’m saying that ‘God protect you’ thingie.”

“Khuda hafiz. Don’t say that other word in here.”

Luckily, the imam was hard of hearing. He either didn’t hear me or he let it slip because I was a dumb infidel. I began again. “Sorry, Emir Imam, I meant to say Khuda hafiz. Thank you so much for everything. This was awesome.”

The imam took both of my hands in his, “Khuda hafiz, Dawood Khan.”

When we got outside of the mosque, Khoda Daad said his farewells and rushed back to the PHQ. It was getting on lunchtime and he had to supervise final preparations for the noon meal. Rasul looked at me and said, “Dave, you crazy motherfucker.”

“What dude, I was trying to say Khuda hafiz. If you guys were good teachers, I’d not have made that mistake. You guys suck.”

Mirwais said, “Fuck you, you dumb bastard.” He was laughing.

We returned to the PHQ with no one realizing that we’d ever been gone. Another day, another adventure. I’d almost got our heads chopped off but we had survived.

Beautiful.

Ghalla Attar

July–August 2008

Ghalla Attar in Zinda Jan Province was the headquarters of the 4th Zone Afghan Border Police (ABP), which comprises the entire Herat region and shares borders with Iran in the west and Turkmenistan in the north. The ABP was charged with patrolling the border and collecting customs duties at border crossings. I spoke with the border police logistics officer about giving a class at their headquarters. Colonel Markinson, the 4th Zone ABP combat advisory team lead, bought into the idea. Colonel Markinson was informally known as Marky Mark. If you wanted to do anything with the border police in western Afghanistan, you had to talk to him. He had a great relationship with the border police commander and was all for any training that would make his job easier and get the Afghans going in the right direction. He told me to put together a plan and brief him on it.

I gave Jonny Fernandez a call. He had recently been moved to the ABP advisory team and was Marky Mark’s ops officer.

“Jonny, what’s the longest that you guys stay out at Ghalla Attar?”

“We’ve stayed out that way for a couple of weeks. When we need to go out to Turghundi or down to Islam Qala, we sometimes use it as a base so that we can leave early with the Afghans,” he answered. Turghundi and Islam Qala are border police outposts on the border with Iran.

“I’m planning a log course out there. Do you think we can stay for two weeks?”

“Hell, why not? They need it. Their logistics are in complete disarray. We’ll take all the help we can get on logistics out there. You should see their ammunition storage area. Talk about a goat fuck.”

“I can imagine,” I said laughingly. “If we can get this course going, I can get the logistics cadre trained up. We might even be able to get good accountability of their weapons, ammunition, and vehicles.”

“We’ve got an idea of what they have out there as far as weapons are concerned. Everything else is up in the air. We can never get a true count and the documentation trail is almost non-existent. The ABP need to be trained. We have no one on our team who is a loggie. Our logistics mentor right now is an infantry corporal. I peek in from time to time to see how things are going but I don’t always have the time to commit to logistics. I’ll talk to Colonel Markinson and we’ll get this going.”

On the morning of the mission, I met up with the border police advisory team at their staging area. Mirwais and I stood off to the side and smoked as the team prepped their vehicles and loaded weapons and ammunition. I had met most of the guys on earlier runs. We stood around the MRAPs—those huge Mad Max-looking vehicles—waiting to depart.

On earlier trips with this team, we traveled in M1151A1 HMMVWs. Hummers are more susceptible to being disabled by a blast than the MRAPs. I’ve seen MRAPs take an IED and keep rolling. I’ve never seen a Hummer take a blast like that and stay intact. The MRAPs are lifesavers. The military calls them combat multipliers. I call them Bouncing Betties. When you were rolling down the road, they bounced even the biggest of men around like basketballs in a dribbling contest. But only if you didn’t have your seat adjusted correctly.

Before we mounted up, we’d gathered in a circle for the mission brief. The operations non-commissioned officer, Sergeant First Class Newcastle, gave us the travel brief and the BOLO list. Then one of the guys began to recite The Lord’s Prayer:

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

“Amen,” said the whole group. I recovered enough to add my “Amen” to the chorus. I was a little taken aback. I’m not religious. Even so, I bowed my head. I was a little annoyed at first. Then I thought to myself, who the hell am I to deny this small comfort to anyone. In the end, I was moved by the prayer. Surprised the shit out of me. There is an old saying: “There are no atheists in foxholes.”

After the prayer, Sergeant Newcastle assigned the group of tag-alongs to our vehicles. I was assigned to vehicle one. They placed Mirwais in the trail vehicle. There was also a medic and a medical officer going out with us. I’d be in the same vehicle as Jonny. I think he just liked to have someone in his vehicle who wasn’t always calling him “sir.” He knew that I wasn’t going to bitch and whine or ask stupid questions. We usually talked politics or cracked jokes as we headed down the road.

Captain Jonny Fernandez was always laid back. An active Army type. Will probably be a Lifer. I think he was mid-20’s or so. He was also a real fitness freak. I saw him working out with boulders while we were at Ghalla Attar because there was no weight room out there.

As we departed Camp Stone, I put on my headset. I heard Captain Jonny announce over the intercom: “Weapons are hot. We’re red and on.” Each vehicle in the convoy repeated the phrase affirming that all electronic countermeasures had been turned on and that crewed-served weapons were ready to be fired at the bad guys should we be engaged. Over the intercom, I heard:

We do not ask for your poor, or your hungry. We do not want your tired and sick. It is your corrupt we claim. It is your evil that will be sought by us. With every breath we shall hunt them down. One day you will look behind your shoulder and you will see Border and on that day YOU WILL REAP IT! And we will send you to whatever God you wish.

Fucking beautiful! The Lord’s Prayer and the Boondock Saints “Creed” all in fifteen minutes.

Once we arrived at the border police compound at Ghalla Attar, the military guys got out and did a perimeter check. I know it sounds strange. We were in the middle of a border police compound. These were the guys on whom the U.S. is spending millions of U.S. dollars per year. They were supposed to be our allies. Yet, we still had to protect ourselves from them. The dangers were real. Saboteurs and every kind of crazy were about at all times. The police were sometimes infiltrated by the Taliban or bandits. Afghan security forces were known to get religion suddenly and turn on us. We’d had soldiers across Afghanistan fire their AK-47 rifles on us.[21]

Once we were given the all clear, we went to our sleeping quarters to stow our gear at our cots. After we got settled in, Marky Mark took Jonny, Mirwais, and me to the general’s office. It was a long, white room. Dank walls in dire need of a coat of paint or a good scrubbing. The room was musty smelling with a hint of cigar odor. We were asked to sit on the long row of sofas and chairs that lined the walls of each side of the room. Colonel Markinson briefed the general about the security situation of the border and the districts bordering Iran. He motioned me over and introduced me as the MPRI logistics expert. This was my time to convince the general that the district needed my logistics course. It was a bit like selling a vacuum cleaner to a guy who already had one that worked well enough.

It annoyed the hell out of me that I had to sell the logistics system that I was teaching until I found out that the U.S. had basically foisted it upon the Afghans because the U.S. Army didn’t want the Afghans using an old Soviet system. Honestly, the Soviet system was good enough for the Afghans. Why we decided to take them from one manual logistics system to another always baffled me. If we were really looking to improve their logistics system, we should have taken them to an automated system. For the money and time that it took to get the Afghans to half-ass commit and convert to the new system, I could have converted them to an automated system five times over and it would have added value.

I entered the general’s office. It was my first meeting with him. He reminded me of Ricardo Montalban on Fantasy Island. I kept waiting for a midget to pop up and start yelling, “De plane, Boss, de plane!” He was sharp and competent looking in a ruthless Mob boss kind of way. Many of the Afghan generals reminded me of Sicilian crime bosses. I could easily imagine them being handed brown envelopes full of cash at the end of each month. Major General Mulham had the look of a stone cold killer. Michael Corleone in an immaculately tailored police uniform.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Dave Kaelin and this is my interpreter Mirwais. I am part of the MPRI logistics team. We’ve been sent here to assist you with getting your log systems in line with the rest of MOI and MOD. We have a two-week course designed to instruct your men on everything from equipment accountability and inventory processes to requisition and disposal of equipment.”

I must have sold my program well enough. General Mulham called Colonel Aminullah, his logistics commander, into the meeting as soon as I finished, and directed him to make ready a room for my course and to have his men attend. He also called all of the battalion commanders and had them send their guys up for the course.

Lieutenant Colonel Aminullah was a graying, heavily-built guy in his early fifties with a great disposition. He always seemed to be smiling. Soft spoken and always good humored, his men seemed to both like and respect him. His problem, as in most of the Afghan security forces, was a lack of trained and literate officers and men. A man who can’t read is not easily adaptable to logistics functions. A logistician must be able to at least write and count. Many Afghans do not possess these rudimentary abilities.

After lunch, I headed over to meet with Colonel Aminullah. His office was in one of the buildings across from where the border team and I were staying for the week. I entered the building and walked halfway down the hall to the colonel’s office. I knocked on his door and turned the door handle. When I walked in, Colonel Aminullah got up from his desk and walked over to me. He greeted me like an old friend. Air kisses. Man hugs. The works. Then he introduced me to the other two men in the room. They were all older gentlemen who had come up for my course. Colonel Yusuf had been a tanker in the old Afghan army. He had switched to the border police sometime back before the Taliban had taken over. Another throwback to the Soviet days. He’d spent five years in Moscow learning armor tactics and attending university. He had a degree from Moscow Military University. He was mid-fifties-ish and had this huge caterpillar of a mustache under his nose. I grew to like him a lot. He immediately invited me to his office for tea. I told him that I’d stop by the next day after class. Colonel Yusuf was the clothing and personal equipment officer. His job was to make sure that all of the soldiers had uniforms and all of the accoutrements that go with being a soldier on the border between Afghanistan and Iran. Sleeping bags, utility belts, holsters, slings, riot batons. Any item that was needed for the mission.

The next guy in the room was Major Aziz. He was in charge of weapons and ammunition. I immediately nicknamed him Wolverine. He looked like he had jumped right out of the X-Men comic books. His hair pointed out at the top sides. His canines stuck out in a way that would do Dracula proud. The guy’s eyes were a deep, almost golden maize color. It freaked me out. I couldn’t look at him without breaking into a wide smile. The comparison ended there, though. He was rail thin, lazy as hell, and spent most of his days napping. It was a bitch trying to catch him and get him to follow up on any plans that we made. But when I was in his office with him, we smoked and joked and cut up like there was no tomorrow. All we needed was a bottle of Jack and we’d have been great, old friends.

We discussed the various problems of Afghan logistics. The lack of responsiveness of the Ministry of Interior and the logistics command in Kabul. They had a junkyard full of old Soviet vehicles that had built up over the years. There was also the issue of what to do with the one thousand Hungarian AMD-65 rifles that they had been issued. These were mostly ineffective weapons that jammed constantly. No one wanted to use them. They issued them to lower echelon units, but the commanders complained and sent them back. There was also the problem of defective Chinese ammunition that similarly jammed their rifles instead of firing.

After discussing the logistical issues, we sat for a while chatting and sipping chai. The Afghans were curious about Westerners and our culture. They were especially curious about Americans. Out of the blue, Colonel Aminullah asked me about my religious beliefs. I stood up and showed him my tattoos. I’ve got a Jesus fish on my right ankle. The word “heretic” is on my right bicep. I also had a Buddha on my left shoulder. I showed them all the tattoos and they looked at me like I was from outer space. “I’m going to get an Arabic Allah tattoo next.”

Colonel Aminullah said, “David, you have to pick a religion and stick with it.”

“I don’t believe any of them but I think truth is hidden in each of the philosophies behind them.”

Rolling his eyes and sighing heavily, Colonel Aminullah said, “Religions are all the same. It doesn’t matter which one chooses you. They are about peace and understanding. We should all respect each other and let it be. All of this killing in the name of God is madness.”

I thought it was interesting that the colonel characterized religion as “choosing you” rather than one choosing a religion. “I agree. I believe that all religions are the same. We simply project our cultures onto our chosen Gods and prophets.”

Colonel Aminullah nodded his head. “Yes, David. These things should be left to the individuals. Nothing good comes from forcing my religious belief on Hazaras or the Persians. I don’t need the Jews to believe in Mohammad or Islam. If I respect you and you respect me, there will be peace. The Taliban forced us to believe in the Arab Islam. Our Afghan Islam was much more peaceful.”

* * *

The second morning at Ghalla Attar, Mirwais and I set up at 0830hrs. Thirty minutes passed and no students. We walked outside to have a smoke. 0930hrs came and went. Still no students. Not a single look our way by soldiers and officers passing by. I looked at Mirwais and shrugged. He looked at me and smiled. I just laughed. We waited another fifteen minutes and I looked over at Mirwais and said, “Your fuckin’ brothers will be late to their own damn funerals, bro!”

Mirwais flicked his cigarette and said, “They ain’t my brothers. My dad taught me to be on time.”

“Yeah. Insha’allah time on time, you bastard.”

Mirwais laughingly replied, “Fuck you, Dave.”

“Listen, bro. You stay here in case someone shows up. I’m going to walk over to Colonel Aminullah’s office and see what the hell is going on. These bastards could at least swing by and tell us if something is going on.” I stalked off. I was expecting this. I shouldn’t have been pissed but I was anyway.

When I got to Colonel Aminullah’s office, the lights were off and the door was locked. No one was in the building except for a couple of dozing guards. As I walked out of the building, I saw a gathering of soldiers by the storage containers near the entrance to the compound. There were a couple of trucks being loaded with supplies by a detail of soldiers. I stormed over and immediately spied Colonel Aminullah in the middle directing the operation. He started talking to me excitedly in broken English. He was explaining that a mission had come up. I texted Mirwais to come to me, so I could get the full scoop.

Seems there was a big operation going down up north. The ANA and ANP hadn’t prepared themselves well and were getting their asses handed to them because of their lack of supplies. The 4th Brigade had been tasked with pulling their butts out of the fire. The police and army units on the mission in Bala Marghab were low on ammunition, water, food, and petrol. You name it, they were suckin’ for it. An emergency logistics operation was thrown together to take supplies up north to Bala Marghab in Badghis Province. Colonel Aminullah had been scrambling to slam together a supply convoy since late the previous night.

Since the 4th Brigade was deep into a real world op, I decided to evaluate them in action. They weren’t terribly organized, but I knew that already. I walked over to the ammunition storage facility. There were half a dozen soldiers dozing in the morning sun. I stood outside for a moment peering in and watched them prepare ammo for transport to Bala Marghab. The facility was a single room in one of the barracks. Wolverine was in there with his assistant and a couple other guys whom I’d not seen before. There were stacks of ammunition of all sorts. Many of the boxes were broken open. 9MM rounds for the pistols were scattered all over the floor. Mixed in with the 9MM rounds were 7.62MM rounds for the AK-47s and PKMs. Wolverine and his men sorted and counted rounds. It was a mess. They seemed to have just thrown the ammunition boxes in the room willy-nilly. Slapped on top of that were boxes of grenades. RPG-7 rockets were thrown into a corner and seemed to have been neglected and rusting. The whole damn thing was chaos.

As I walked into the building, I asked Wolverine, “Dude, this place is a mess. Why don’t you have soldiers in here helping you get this straight?”

Major Aziz looked at me like I was an idiot, “Dave, we can’t let the soldiers in here. They’ll steal ammo so they can sell it at the bazaar.”

After I walked out, Colonel Aminullah told me the class would have to wait for the next day. Understandable given all the chaos created by the emergency mission. The operation in Bala Marghab was a cluster fuck because of piss poor planning. Rear echelon police and army units were scrambling to make up for the shortcomings. Colonel Aminullah was told to keep three day’s worth of fuel, ammunition, and water. The Ministry of Interior in Kabul promised to replace the supplies within that three-day timeframe. Colonel Aminullah and his staff worked until late that night. Even so, the next day, he had his logistics officers in the class at 0900hrs.

When everyone had settled into their seats that next morning, I asked them their opinions on the state of the ANP and ANA. Why did they think the operation up in Bala Marghab had been so poorly planned? Mostly, they answered that the ANP was ill-disciplined and had low morale.

[21] These attacks are the now infamous “green-on-blue” shootings. They’ve occurred since the beginning but only began to get serious media coverage in 2012.

Motorcycles, Politics, and Sex Videos

Mid-August 2008

Another day in class, a guy from Farah Kandak stood up and sheepishly told me his accountability concerns. “Teacher, I have tried to document all of my vehicles. My commander has issued all of our motorcycles out to the Commandahn of Check Point 4. Twenty motorcycles. I have tried to inventory these vehicles. I have attempted to get the Commandahn to sign for this equipment. He refuses.”

I interrupted saying, “Stop taking ‘no’ for an answer. Make the guy sign for them or take the motorcycles back to Kandak headquarters.”

He laughed. “Oh, Teacher. The motorcycles are no longer there. My Commandahn told me to stop asking about them.”

I asked Mirwais to repeat. He told me again what the guy had said. I shouldn’t have been surprised but I guess you never get over the insanity of Afghanistan. So, I was a bit dumbfounded.

The guy then continued as if everything that he was saying was normal. “Teacher, I know where the motorcycles are. They are in Iran. My Commandahn sold them at the bazaar.”

At this point, I started tripping. From flabbergasted to WHAT THE FUCK! in six seconds flat. “If you know where they are and that they’ve been sold illegally, why haven’t you reported it or started an investigation?”

“Teacher, I don’t have the authority to start an investigation. If I report my Commandahn, I would be in danger.”

I asked him what he meant by danger. “Teacher, I would be dead. Who would take care of my family?”

What could I say? I stopped the class right there for the morning. I was too frustrated. All of the other students had followed along in the conversation. I’d noticed them agreeing emphatically with choruses of “baleh, baleh, baleh,” which is Dari for “yes” when the guy told me that he’d be killed for reporting his Commandahn. What could I expect from these guys? Are twenty motorcycles worth your life? Would twenty motorcycles be worth my life? I don’t know what I’d do in the same circumstance. In an earlier class, I had gone on about having to sacrifice your life if you wanted change in Afghanistan. But would I do that with my own life? At the time, I couldn’t even figure out if I wanted to report that information up the U.S. chain of command. Hell, I might’ve been responsible for the death of that guy if I had alerted the higher ups. In the end, I told the story to Colonel Markinson, but did not repeat it on the Afghan side of the house. He passed it up the chain of command. As far as I know, nothing ever came of it. Based on my experience in-country, that didn’t surprise me.

Over the course of the next week and a half, we finished up the course. I’d have eight to fifteen students each day ranging in rank from first lieutenant to colonel. I encouraged interaction in the course, always trying to keep them talking as much as I could. I enjoyed the give and take. I never knew what I’d learn. We didn’t always stay on the course subject in our conversations. It ranged wildly at times. We discussed politics and the upcoming election of Obama. My students didn’t seem to like the idea of a black man becoming president. Afghans have a strange fascination with complexion. They look down on darker peoples and think that white women are more beautiful. Of course, this is all relative. White is not always white. Just as black is not always black. An Afghani thinks of the Persian people from Iran as white. They consider Europeans to be white as well. Pakistani and Indian women such as Aishwarya Rai, the Indian film actress who was immensely popular in Afghanistan, are considered white. Halle Berry who has nearly the same complexion is considered black. I’ve seen the two women side by side and there’s not much difference between their skin tones. Some Thai women have fairly light complexions. When I showed them pictures of Thais I had met, the Afghans told me that they were black. I can only speak about the folks with whom I spoke. Overwhelmingly, they do not seem overly fond of darker skinned people. It was almost a mania with them once they got started on the topic.

On the subject of Obama, the Afghans were scared silly. Democrats are reputed to be soft. The Afghans kept telling me that Obama would pull America out of Iraq and Afghanistan immediately upon being sworn into office.

“David, do you think that Obama will be elected president?” one of the students asked.

“I have no idea. But the chances are looking good.” I smiled since I knew this would get them.

“David, if Obama becomes president will he take America home and abandon Afghanistan?”

“Colonel Aminullah, I have no idea. I don’t think it’s possible to simply pull us out. There would be enormous chaos which would not play well politically for him. Pulling out too early would mean certain defeat in a second term. It would completely justify the Republican stance that Democrats are soft on terrorism. Highly unlikely that Obama could pull out even if he wanted to do so.”

“I hope you are right, David. Afghanistan is too fragile to be left alone right now. We would descend into chaos.”

On that we agreed. If Obama had come into office and pulled out of Afghanistan immediately, the Taliban would have been back in power within a year or less. The violence would have been worse than the years of the Muj wars because the stakes would have been higher. By this time, the U.S. and Coalition forces had supplied so many weapons and so much equipment that the country would probably have broken up into armed enclaves. Even the Afghans admitted as much. Neither 2008 nor 2009 would have been good years to withdraw from Afghanistan. I’m not sold on the idea of a 2014 departure either.

Aside from politics and prejudice, we discussed sex. Once Afghans get comfortable with you, they’ll talk your ears off and no subject is off limits. They were always good for a few lewd jokes centering on anal sex. At the end of class each day and on breaks, I put up PowerPoint presentations from my travels around Afghanistan or the world. The Afghans enjoyed seeing pictures and were always inquisitive about them. I’d also play music videos from my iTunes collection. Many of them absolutely loved these. Especially the videos with women in sexy lingerie or bikinis. It always happened, though, that some officer would ask me to play “sexy videos.” They meant porn, of course. I would refuse them time and again. I had porn videos but I’d definitely be fired if I showed them. Sitting around with old Afghan men watching porn wasn’t my idea of a good time. Afghan men were repressed sexually as it was. I had no desire to add to their problems.

We ran through the rest of the course over the next few days. Students would come one day and not the next. I don’t think I ever had a full class. They had real world missions going on all the time. I expected that I’d have five to ten students each day. The course is broken down into modules, so that missing one day doesn’t leave a student lost for the next day’s class. The class usually ran in the morning from 0800hrs to 1200hrs. After lunch, I would attempt to mentor the brigade headquarters officers. When I couldn’t find them or wake them from their naps, I’d lie down and read one of the books that I’d brought with me. Afghan, Islamic, and Central Asian history were the main subjects that I was reading at that time. I wanted to get into the head of the guys whom I was supposed to be mentoring.

Kidnappings and Drive-Bys

Late August 2008

On one of my trips out of Ghalla Attar, we were passing the Gozara police headquarters when we came upon two police vehicles on the side of the road. Both vehicles were bullet ridden and I could still see blood inside the vehicles. We didn’t stop to ask questions but instead proceeded on to Camp Stone.

The next day, I went to see Jonny Fernandez to ask if he’d heard.

“Yeah, Colonel Murad was killed along with some of his security detail.”

“The Gozara police chief? We just talked to him a few days ago. That guy?”

“Yes. He was killed by a local thug. The word is that the two were in on some big drug deals and kidnapping/ransoming rings. The police captain shorted his partner. So, the thugs did a drive by and shot them up.”

“Jesus. I’m glad we weren’t there. I’d have hated to have been mixed up in that.”

“We suspected that Murad was corrupt. We could never prove it, though. Guess we don’t need to now.”

“Guess not. I reckon he got greedy. I’ve heard stories about him. Mirwais told me about his ransom ring. His thug kingpin kidnaps somebody’s kid. The family calls the police. Colonel Murad brokers the money exchange and keeps half.”

“That’s how it’s done here. I don’t know if any of these dudes can really be trusted but we still gotta try.”

“I guess we do but sometimes, it seems a huge waste of time. These guys aren’t interested in changing.”

* * *

We departed Ghalla Attar for our return to Camp Stone early morning on the last day of our mission. Everyone was loaded up and ready to go by 0730hrs. Captain Fernandez ran through our movement briefing and went over the BOLO list again. Nothing new. Same list of non-descript Toyota Corollas with nervous, lone occupants against whom we should all be vigilant. We did a last minute police and check of the area, pulled on our body armor, and jumped in our vehicles. Then we rolled out of the gates and were on our way.

It was an uneventful ride until we got to the other side of Herat proper. I had my internal headset on so that I could talk to Jonny. Things got tense as we hit the Farah-Herat Highway. A white Toyota Corolla was spotted about a mile back. The vehicle was driving erratically and kept speeding up and slowing down behind us. Colonel Markinson decided to intercept him and try a takedown. This was a possible vehicle- borne improvised explosive device (VBIED). The Taliban had been known to attempt hits on this stretch of road. I started to sweat a little. The convoy slowed down except for our vehicle. We sped up and halted at a police checkpoint at the next major intersection. It was a wide open area where we could attempt to intercept and pull the suspect vehicle over.

Once we’d pulled over, Jonny asked me, “Dave, can you record this on your vidcam?” I was like, “Hell, yeah!” So, I jumped out of the Hummer and got my Sony recorder out and prepared to record. Sitting there waiting, the dialogue in my head was a little nutty. “Damn, this is wild. I hope that thing blows sky high. It’d be cool as hell to get that on video.” Then I thought, “Shit, I better get back in that vehicle. It’s armored and will save my ass if that bastard blows up, especially if he decides to ram my vehicle. That wouldn’t be too fuckin’ cool.” I compromised. I stood behind the open armored door and waited there with my vidcam at the ready.

I was on a great adventure and helping out with the mission in some way. That was the amazing part. Actually being useful. No one lives forever and I’d never know what’d hit me in all likelihood if the jackass Taliban bastard was loaded down with a 105mm high explosive artillery round.

Jonny got out with his interpreter and explained the situation to the police officer at the checkpoint. Those were some brave sons of bitches. The convoy rolled in and halted right behind us. Jonny jumped into a police Ranger with the police officer and a couple of soldiers. When the suspected vehicle attempted to pass us, the police Ranger pulled out in front of it and caused him to swerve off the road. Jonny and the Afghans jumped out and ran over to the vehicle. The Afghan police officer yanked the driver out of the vehicle almost before the vehicle came to a stop. They checked the vehicle for wires and bombs. In the trunk there were bomb-making materials but no bomb. They asked him what he was doing and why he was following our convoy. Colonel Markinson told the police officer to take the vehicle driver to the regional police headquarters. We continued to Camp Stone.

About a month before, a suicide bomber had hit an Italian convoy only a mile further down from the spot where we stopped this potential bomber. That’s why we were on edge when we saw him following us. We knew they were out there and we knew that they were willing to die to hit us. A few days later, Jonny told me that the driver of the suspected VBIED admitted to being a test-run for a suicide bombing. He was casing us. He would have hit someone later that week had we not pulled him over.

Major Zahir Arrives

Fall 2008

I spent thirty months altogether in the Herat region. Late 2008 was the most tumultuous period. One of the first things that happened was that Zach got fired over pocketing something you’d buy in a dollar store back in the States. The guy lost a 180,000 U.S. dollars job over a .99-cent gizmo. I didn’t want to be walking on some poor sucker’s grave, so I waited three days before asking for Zach’s job. They interviewed a few candidates and finally offered the position to me. I was now the team lead of the Western Regional Property Assistance Team—a team of one for the time being.

After Zach was put on a plane packing, the Regional Logistics Office changed out four times. When I first arrived, the regional logistics officer was Subhan, General Ak’s wastrel. I rarely saw him do his job. When I went to mentor him, he was only interested in what he could get from me. If he was in the office, he was begging someone for something.

Every time I walked into his office, he’d say, “Salaam, David. Have you brought me a laptop?”

“Well, Colonel, did you fill out a Form 14 and request one?” Even though Subhan was a major, we called him Colonel Subhan because that’s the rank that he wore. He’d been a colonel when the police force was first created but the U.S. Army had conducted what was called “rank reform.” All officers were administered a test. The rank that you were assigned after rank reform was based upon your test scores. Subhan hadn’t scored high enough to retain his colonelcy. He’d been reduced to a major. He refused to wear the rank. To keep his ego in check, we went with it and called him “Colonel Subhan.” Subhan lasted about six months and was removed from the position in a fuel pilferage investigation.

The next guy who sat in the Regional Logistics Office was Lieutenant Colonel Khalil. He had been the province logistics officer. I knew him well and was happy to see someone who was competent assigned to the position. One month later, Colonel Khalil was implicated in the fuel scandal that had taken Colonel Subhan. He was ordered to Kabul where he was placed under house arrest.

Next came Colonel Safiullah. He’d served as depot officer for Herat Province. I could never quite get a handle on exactly which depot he’d supervised. I visited the ammunition and fuel depots and never saw the guy. Anytime I asked at which depot he served I got a different answer. I finally stopped asking. Colonel Safiullah always sat at his desk looking confused. He refused to sign anything because he “didn’t want to go to jail” and “wasn’t authorized to sign.” General Ak was running logistics since Colonel Safiullah had taken over. Colonel Safiullah just sat there doing basically nothing. I would never see a sadder looking Afghan the whole time that I was in-country. Safiullah had one foot out the door and wasn’t going to risk anything. He wore the same worn-out uniform with the same rips and tears in it every day. The guy refused to do anything more than breathe, and I wasn’t quite sure that he was always doing that.

To my knowledge, Safiullah was never implicated in the fuel scandal which was surprising. Over half of the regional and Herat Province logistics officers were implicated at one time or another. Miraculously, every person involved in the scandal was exonerated. None of them were returned to their old jobs immediately. Eventually, though, most of them got their old jobs back. The investigation was a farce. It was a big show put on for the eyes of the Coalition. As soon as the Coalition stopped paying attention, everything went back to normal, which meant that the children were given the keys to the cookie jar once more and the thieving commenced as per normal. I wasn’t involved in the investigation. The only reason that I knew about it was that suddenly all of the loggies whom I had trained over the past year started disappearing. When I asked what happened to them, I got the same answer every time. “They were sent down to Kabul for the investigation.”

A month after Safiullah arrived, he had requested retirement. Once his papers came through, Major Zahir was brought up. Zahir was being groomed for command in Farah Province. This position was part of his training. He was fast tracking. The day that I met Major Zahir, I was expecting to see Colonel Safiullah. I had walked into the RHQ, turned into the old log office and found that it was empty. Everything had been moved out. I look around at a loss. “Mirwais, what the hell is going on? Where’s Safiullah and the crew?”

“Hell if I know, dude,” Mirwais mimicked me in his best Kentucky accent.

“Let’s walk around and see.” I went out into the foyer and ran into Brian, a DynCorp guy that I knew from the RTC.

“Bri, is Safiullah still the Log OIC?”[22]

“Nope, he’s been replaced.”

“Again, Jesus fuckin’ Christ. They run through loggies like bad diarrhea around here.”

“I think you’ll like the new guy. I knew him down in Farah. He’s good people.”

“If he worked in Farah, then he’s one of Noor Ahmad’s guys. That speaks well enough for me. Noor Ahmad is a sharp bastard.”

“Nah, he didn’t work logistics down there. He was operations.”

Brian filled me in on the latest scoop. He was also the guy who’d finally given me the low down on the fuel scandal. Brian had worked for DynCorp for two years already in several positions all over the region. He’d worked with me as a logistics mentor for a while, and had helped me quite a bit with student involvement. Brian was one of those guys who went above and beyond. He didn’t just send students to my course. He attended the course with his students and assisted in getting buy-in to the program. His influence helped us get the Afghans involved and moving towards conversion.

Brian walked me to the new logistics office. It was now next door to General Ak’s office. That showed a level of influence not held by the previous occupants of the position. Major Zahir’s office was about half the size of Ak’s office. He had new furniture with a large desk and those ugly brown flowery couches favored by the Afghans. There was also a stand with plastic flowers sitting behind Zahir’s desk. I never understood it but Afghans loved fake plastic flowers. Every promotion, every award, every occasion demanded fake, plastic flower arrangements.

Brian walked in first and greeted Major Zahir. Zahir rose from behind his desk and greeted Brian with the Afghan man hug and double-cheek kiss. Then Brian introduced me to Major Zahir. With Afghans, it always helps when someone whom they know and admire gives you an introduction. It serves to get you in the door. Zahir shook my hand and asked me to have a seat in front of his desk. “David, Brian would you like tea?” The Afghans rarely spoke directly to my terps. The only acknowledgement was a simple nod and then it was as if the terps weren’t there.

Baleh, tashakor, I answered. “Yes, thank you.” One never turned down tea when one first met an Afghan. Never. It was considered bad manners. Usually, you spent the whole first two or three meetings discussing anything but business. We talked about family. We talked about the weather. Business would come once you were “friends.” Rapport building was extremely important. If you didn’t spend time shootin’ the shit with the Afghans, you weren’t going to get anything out of them. Even when it was you who were offering them a service. In my case, I was offering training. It didn’t matter. Each time the logistics officer was replaced, I had to spend two or three meetings getting to know the new one.

So here we were at it again. It was starting to drive me insane.

“Major Zahir, where are you coming from?”

“I was working in Farah. I was the operations officer.”

“Is that where your family is from?”

“Yes, I grew up there.”

“Are you married? Any children?”

“Yes, I’m married. Only one wife, though. I don’t have enough money to have more than one.” I couldn’t tell if that was a joke or if he was serious. Afghans are Muslim and are allowed to have four wives. Some of them do have that many. Others told me that one was enough.

“And children?”

“Yes, two boys and three girls.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Really? You’re the first guy to work this job who is younger than me.” I was amazed. Zahir didn’t look old but it still took me by surprise that a guy in this senior of a position was, relatively speaking, a baby. All of the others had been well into their fifties.

“How old are you, David?”

“Guess?” I smiled.

“Fifty-four?”

“Come on now. I know I don’t look that old. I’m forty.” The conversation went on like that for a few minutes more. Brian and I taking turns talking with Zahir and sipping our tea with Mirwais translating.

That’s when Mir Ali walked in. I think he was a captain but he never wore rank and was always in the same soiled uniform as the last time I’d seen him. I’d first met Mir Ali down at the Herat Province Headquarters on an assistance visit. He’d been reassigned to the RHQ some time before. Mir Ali looked like an old drunk right off the street corner. The guy was 5’6” if he was lucky and weighed about 130 pounds soaking wet. He always had a sly grin on his unshaven face.

“David, I need your help,” he said to me as he seated himself.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“I have a container that is locked and I have no key for the lock.”

“What happened to the key?”

“The mentors didn’t give me a key when I signed for the container.”

“So, what’s in the container and how long have you had it?”

“I’ve had it for six months and it’s full of uniforms for the soldiers.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve had a container full of uniforms for six months and you have let it sit there? A container full of uniforms for your men. Men who’ve just spent a summer sweating their butts off in winter uniforms because you are too goddamned incompetent to grab a pair of bolt cutters and cut a lock. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“It’s not my fault. The mentors didn’t give me the key. It’s the mentors’ fault.”

The more he talked the more I wanted to slap the shit out of him. “Look Mir Ali, if you were my subordinate …” I stopped and looked at Mirwais.

“Mirwais, you tell him this word for word. Do not censor it. I don’t care what anyone thinks about what I’m about to say.”

“Mir Ali, if you worked for me, I’d have you arrested for gross incompetence and dereliction of duty.”

“It’s not my fault. I can’t cut the lock without the General’s permission.”

“Okay, well, I know the General. Let’s walk over to his office. He’ll let me in. I want you to go with me. You can explain to the General that you’ve had a container for six months with summer uniforms in it. You explain why in six months you’ve not taken the initiative to cut a fuckin’ lock or to seek permission to cut the goddamned lock.”

Mir Ali starts stammering, “It’s not my fault. It’s the mentors’ fault. They should have given me the key.”

“Look, Mir Ali. I was there when the uniforms were issued. I was there when you were given the key to that container. Your incompetent ass lost the key and are now looking to blame it on a mentor who is now gone. I’ve been here for nearly eighteen months. I know the standard for issuing containers to you guys and I know they let you guys lock the containers after you’ve inventoried them. Why do they do that? So that you know that you have the key to the lock, and so that you can lock the container yourself. That gives you positive control.”

He started stammering again and then he said it, “It’s your fault. You’re my mentor and you should have helped me unlock the container.”

I lost my mind. “You’re lucky I’m not your boss. If you worked for me, I’d have you shot. You’re the laziest loggie I’ve met since I’ve been here.”

“Major Zahir, give me your pistol so I can shoot this piece of shit or you shoot him for me.”

At that, Mir Ali jumped up and ran out of the room.   I looked over at Major Zahir and then Brian and Mirwais.

“Shit, did he think that I was really going to shoot him?” I asked laughingly.

“Hell, Dave. He might come back and shoot you. That was some rough treatment,” Brian said with a wry smile.

“Man, Bri, that irks the shit out of me. These guys look to blame us first for everything. They never look for solutions. The first thing that comes to their pea-sized brains is the mentor. The mentor. The mentor. The fuckin’ mentor. If I hear someone say ‘it’s the mentor’s fault one more time,’ I’ll shoot the bastard. They’re lucky I don’t have a gun or I’d have shot someone already.”

Zahir sat there smiling and laughing. I had thought that he might get offended. He didn’t seem to be. I looked at him and was about to ask him what he thought when Mir Ali burst into the room with a look of supreme accomplishment. He walked up to me and handed me the lock to the container.

“David, I will issue the uniforms immediately,” he said and walked out.

I was floored. When he’d appeared, I’d half expected him to start shooting. Mission accomplished. I’d finally made an impact.

[22] OIC—officer in charge

Boy Buggin’ Pashtuns

Spring 2009

When I was in Herat, I didn’t jump outside of my lane too often; that is I minded my own business. I stayed on my mission and let everyone else do their jobs. I didn’t want anyone stirring my soup, so I didn’t go stirrin’ up anyone else’s soup. That made me oblivious to many of the stranger occurrences on Camp Zafar. I’d learn about weird incidents weeks or months after they had occurred.

Such was the case with the RBWT security fence. Regional Battle Warrior Training was the official name for the ANA basic combat training. In the infinite wisdom of the chiefs down in Kabul, the ANA basic training had been split up and sent out to the ANA Corps bases. Camp Zafar’s RBWT had gotten off the ground sometime in 2008. I wasn’t paying attention because it didn’t affect me. I was strictly ANP. The ANA was someone else’s problem. RBWT was someone else’s headache as well.

That someone was Jimmy Joe. He was a retired Army major from West Virginia. Hence that name. I think he had a cousin named Bobby Joe and was cousins with the Hatfields or McCoys. Jimmy Joe was the RBWT mentor. He’d had a hell of a time setting up the training compound. The ANA Corps didn’t have operational control of the RBWT and, therefore, did everything in its power to see that it failed. The ANA Corps commander was rumored to have stolen the first convoy of mattresses that had been sent up for the RBWT soldiers to sleep on. He was always attempting to divert their weaponry to the Corps instead of to the RBWT for training. That combative attitude of non-cooperation between the RBWT and the ANA Corps command filtered down to the troops.

I was sitting in the office one fine summer day when Jimmy Joe walked in cursing. He began talking to Mick Rivas and Bill Temple. Bill Temple was a retired Army lieutenant colonel who was team lead of the Mobile Training Team (MTT), which taught advanced Army doctrine to the ANA Corps and was sometimes detailed out to instruct the ANP. Like me, the MTT traveled around the region.

Jimmy Joe started going at it. “Those fuckers keep cutting the fence and nabbing trainees.”

“How long has it been going on?” Mick asked.

“Since we got here and started training.”

Bill jumped in, “So, you put up a chain link fence to stop them and they cut the fence?”

“Yep. Two or three times a week, I have to repair the fence,” answered Jimmy Joe.

“Guys, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Dave, you don’t want to know. It’s fuckin’ disgusting,” Jimmy Joe replied.

“Okay, I don’t want to know but tell me anyway.”

Jimmy Joe cocked his head. “Mick, you tell him. I’m tired of talking about it.”

“Well, Dave, it’s like this. The ANA are a bunch of closet faggots.”

“What? I’m not surprised. Not after the shit I’ve seen and heard.”

Mick continued. “When the RBWT was first set up, we built them a separate barracks to bed, train, and feed the trainees. We pushed it as far back into Camp Zafar as we could to keep the trainees separate from the permanent party, because that’s how we do it in the U.S. Army. Trainees are separate from permanent party soldiers.

After the barracks were built and everything was set up, we thought everything was cool. No problems. But there were a lot of AWOLs. Guys sneaking off and running back home to mommy. So, we put up a real fence. We also asked the RBWT NCOs to talk to the trainees and find out why so many of them were going AWOL. Well, they did and they told us. And, it was gross. Apparently, the permanent party NCOs were breaking into the barracks at night, grabbing the youngest kids and taking them back to their barracks to gang rape them.”

“Dude, what the fuck? Did you do anything? Anyone go to jail? Anything at all?”

“Nope. No one will talk. The kids who were raped are scared for their lives. None of the NCOs on the Army side will talk about it. The officers say that it’s none of their business. We built a fence around the RBWT and put concertina wire around it. That didn’t stop it, though. The NCOs cut the wire and nabbed more kids and gang rape them. Then they threatened them. If they talked, the victims were told that they’d be killed and buried out in the mountains. So, no one talks and kids are getting raped regularly. We even put guards on them but it does no good.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s what we’re discussing. There really isn’t a whole hellava lot we can do about it. It’s cultural. The NCOs have been raping the younger soldiers since before the RBWT moved here. Now, instead of targeting their own soldiers or soldiers in other companies, they grab trainees,” Mick sighed.

The situation was never rectified to my knowledge. No matter how many times they fixed the fence, the senior Afghan NCOs would break in and nab a few trainees. It reminded me of the Catholic priests in America. Sexual repression is a hell of a thing. Afghans, being Muslim, are forbidden from pre-marital sex with females. However, the Qu’ran says nothing about butt sex with boys nor does it specifically prohibit sex with animals. We had that odd situation occur regularly as well. Afghans diddling with donkeys and sheep, goats, and even camels. Google “Afghan + animal sex” and you’ll come up with plenty of videos of Afghans molesting goats and donkeys.

Later, I spoke with Afghans about this strange idea that sex with boys is okay. “Dude, so you can’t have sex with women before marriage but you think that sexin’ up young boys is okay? What’s up with that?”

“David, the Qu’ran prohibits sex with unmarried women.”

“Yeah, but it also prohibits homosexual activity.”

“Ah, but we are not homosexual.”

I was told only the guy who is “receiving” is homosexual. It didn’t matter how I phrased the question, the Afghans always rationalized it away. “Dude, if you are fucking a guy in the ass, you are homosexual.” The Afghans would deny it. They stuck with the rationalization that only the guy receiving was the homosexual. The dude sticking the other dude in the ass was not violating Islam.

I never understood the rationalization and never will. I don’t have anything against homosexuality. I was just attempting to direct the Afghans’ attention to the inherent contradictions of their attitudes vis-à-vis homosexuality and premarital sex. In a land where homosexuals are persecuted and murdered in cold blood, there was a lot of homosexual boom boom going on in the background.

Chaghcharan

Late Summer 2009

In August, my phone rang. “Is this Dave Kaelin?” the voice asked.

“Yep, ya got me. How can I help you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Jones. I’m up in Chaghcharan and I’d like to get you guys up here to help us out with logistics.”

“Dude, when do you want me? I’ve been trying to get up there for an age.”

“As soon as you can do it. The sooner the better. We got real problems up here and I need someone to teach me the system so that I can mentor the ANA. If you can get up here and give a course and coach me in their processes, I’d appreciate it.”

“No prob. I’ll get on the first bird smokin’.”

Chaghcharan is the capital seat of Ghor Province. It is a small village nestled along the Hari Rud river in the high passes between the Safed Koh and Siah Koh mountain ranges. It’s remote and difficult to access. ISAF had a small base located a few miles to the east of the town proper called FOB Whiskey. The FOB held no more than two hundred inhabitants at any given time—a mix of Georgians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Swedes, and Americans.

Chaghcharan remains a frozen wasteland for much of the year. The snows start to fall in early September and usually do not melt until late May or early June. The weather is usually so bad that travel is impossible. Snow drifts in the mountainous region can be found twenty-feet deep. The surrounding region is a harsh, forbidding, and unforgiving landscape. Yet for all of that, it is beautiful to behold. The Hari Rud winds its way down and around granite peaks and lush river valleys. The province itself is named for the Ghorid Empire that once called the area home. The Minaret of Jam is the only marker of that empire. This sixty-five-meter tall structure, built in the early twelfth century, is a relatively new discovery that was lost to history for centuries. It is made entirely of elaborate brickwork and etched in relief with geometric patterns and floral designs, as well as verses from the Qu’ran, including the Sura of Maryam (mother of Jesus).

I was so excited about heading out to Chaghcharan that I tried to get Mirwais and myself manifested that night. We got on the list only to be bumped. Two days later, we were manifested again. This time, it was weather. Flight cancelled again. I kept trying. I manifested us once again. This time, we made it.

The next morning, we convoyed out to Camp Arena for our flight. The SECFOR guys transferred us to the flight line. An hour or so later, that big bad C130 was rolling down the strip, wheels up. I kept expecting the SOBs to cancel my flight. I figured something would get in the way. I was prepared to get a case of the ass and start cursing the Army.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, we landed at Chaghcharan Airfield. It was a dirt strip cleared of rubble and potholes with some gravel thrown down for good measure. We came in smoking and landed hard. The dust exploded as we touched down. There was no air traffic control tower. The only buildings on the airfield were a little ramshackle hut and an outhouse. As soon as the C130 stopped and lowered its ramp, Mirwais and I jumped off and started grabbing our gear. We traveled light—one box, two bags, and two backpacks.

As we grabbed our gear, I heard, “Dave! Dave!” I raised my hand. First Lieutenant Jones walked over to me. “Nice to finally meet you. We’re over here,” he pointed to a convoy of civilian and military trucks parked in front of a shack. “Throw your stuff in the back. We’re ready to roll.”

As Mirwais and I tossed in our gear, I asked, “How long will it take to get to Whiskey?”

“Oh, less than five minutes. It’s right there.” Jones pointed east behind the airstrip to a Hesco-lined compound barely a quarter mile away.

“Fuck, that’s close,” I said.

“Yeah, we head over as soon as we hear the bird coming in and we usually arrive before it stops its engines. You got everything?”

“Yeap, we didn’t bring much.”

“Let’s roll.”

True to his word, it took us about three minutes to get to camp. Mirwais and I were shown to our living quarters, which was an old Army tent that looked like it had been there for centuries and smelled the same. It was drafty and I don’t think it had been well-maintained. I woke up in the mornings freezing my ass off. I was in there with the Army interpreters and a couple of other camp guests. I grabbed the first bunk on the right when we walked in and set up my little space.

Chaghcharan was cold. I knew it would be cold, but holy mother of God was it cold. Each morning, I walked half way across camp to shower. I was tempted a few days to skip the shower. The cold air and the cold water woke me up. One morning, the showers had no electricity. No heat. No hot water. I was surprised that the water wasn’t frozen. My body shivered for a good two hours afterward.

After we dropped our bags at our tent, 1LT Jones gave us a quick tour of the camp. I was interested in finding the gym, as Mirwais had told me that he’d work out with me while we were in Chaghcharan. I was looking forward to torturing his ass for an hour every night. When we walked into the gym, I said, “Mirwais, you ready for the pain. I’m gonna put a hurtin’ on yer ass.” Mirwais gave me a pained look and walked back outside.

We made our way back to the office where the rest of the team was waiting to meet us. When I walked in, I spotted Brad. He and I had worked together down in Herat. He was former Navy and had been working as a sheriff out in Arizona before signing up for the Afghan police training mission. He moved up to Camp Whiskey a few months before when another guy resigned and went home. Brad was a welcome sight. It is always good to have someone on the ground with whom you’ve worked at other sites. He and I got along well on our last mission together. His word went a long way towards bolstering 1LT Jones’ confidence in me.

The other folks on Jones’ team were Army Sergeant First Class Smith and Air Force First Lieutenant Grant. Grant worked at NASA back in the States and was an MIT graduate. It was unfathomable that they’d send a guy smart enough to work at NASA to the ‘Stan to mentor police. Grant was always frustrated with the Afghans. “Dave, how can these guys be this dumb? It’s not possible. They’re playin’ us. These guys are criminals. They steal everything. We gave them a laptop for their command center. It disappeared two days later and no one knows where it went. My ass! They know. The commander took it home or they sold it downtown. They can’t get fuel from the generator to run the office because the log officer won’t give them any because he sells half of it. How can I mentor them if I can’t keep them from stealing their own equipment?”

“Grant, that’s the ‘Stan. These guys will steal their momma’s pacemaker if they can make a dollar. But, you can’t let them frustrate you. We’re here until we abandon the joint. While we’re here, try to leave your mark. If you can get to one guy, you’ve done a great service. It’s a ripple effect. You have to start small and hope to gather momentum.”

Honestly, these guys were screwed in their mission. The Army had set them up for failure. In order to make a dent, you had to be on the ground constantly. You had to build rapport. You had to drink gallons of chai. You had to learn to speak their language. It was all about building relationships. Those relationships were not built in a week or a month.

SFC Smith was a good old boy from the South. He just let it all roll off his shoulders and plugged away. He told me, “Dave, I don’t let this shit bother me. If the Afghans steal their laptop, I’ll tell them to break out pencil and paper. If they run out of fuel, open the windows and door to let the sunlight in. No wood for the stoves. Put on a jacket. It’s their country. I’m here to teach them operations. I don’t care what they do with their equipment. Sure, it chaps my ass that they’re wasting taxpayer dollars. I’ve seen plenty of waste in the U.S. Army as well. If they’ll listen, I’ll teach them a thing or two. If I can pass on a skill or a few lessons in organization or how to run an operations staff, I’ll be happy. I’ll do my time here and then I’m going home to retire.”

We chatted for a few hours discussing the plan for the next three weeks. The primary challenge was that the commander of FOB Whiskey had a five-vehicle convoy rule. We weren’t allowed to leave the base unless we had five vehicles, three of which needed to have crew-served weapons. U.S. Army rules prohibited Army personnel from traveling in anything lighter than an up-armored Hummer.

When we left camp, we had to piecemeal the convoy. The Lithuanians and Croatians went out with us for security. We crowded into a circle for the convoy brief. We were given the usual warnings to “maintain situational awareness.” “Be on the lookout for a white Toyota Corolla with the single, nervous passenger.” Even in Chaghcharan, we were looking for the white Toyota Corolla. That bastard got around.

After the brief, we loaded up and headed out. I was wearing my personal protective equipment and was feeling all HOOAH! The addition of my shaded safety glasses, combat gloves, body armor, and Kevlar helmet made me look like a combat soldier. The only thing missing was a weapon.

After driving past the airfield and down a dirt road, we forded the Hari Rud and drove into town. Downtown Chaghcharan was fifty or sixty mud brick buildings. A few of them were two stories. It reminded me of an old West town. I could almost hear the guy whistling in that Clint Eastwood spaghetti western A Fistful of Dollars. We drove past locals gathered about for their morning business. People stopped and stared. Children ran out waving frantically for candy or water. At the first right, we turned into the province headquarters.

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.

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.

Colonel Noor Ahmad wore a tailored cotton dress uniform whereas most of the other guys were wearing camouflage or the wool-issued uniform. They looked frumpy. The colonel looked sharp, like an Afghan Napoleon. He had close trimmed silver tinged hair and a neatly trimmed matching silver beard.

Noor Ahmad had brought up fifteen guys with him. I knew about half of these men from earlier classes. I skipped the usual round of “getting to know you” on the first day of class. About three days later, after I put the guys on break Colonel Noor Ahmad walked up to me.

“David, you and I know each other. I’ve been in your class before. We have had many talks. My men feel like you don’t like them. You gathered information about them but you didn’t tell them anything about you.”

I guess because these were supposedly hardened men, I’d completely forgotten that they’d want to know anything about me. Who I was. Where I came from. What I believed. I kind of chuckled and gave a sly grin, “Well, Colonel, what do your men want to know? I figured that you had filled them in on me.”

“David, I can tell them many things but they don’t know until they hear it from you.”

“That’s fair, I suppose.”

As the students returned from break, I gathered them up. “The Colonel says that you guys want me to tell you about myself. What do you want to know?”

They started firing all the standard questions at me: “Where are you from?” “How old are you?” “Are you in the Army?” This went on for some time and finally, to no surprise, we came to religion. They asked me if I was Christian and I shook my head, “Nope, I’m not Christian. I’m more of a quasi-Buddhist. I’m learning about Buddhism.”

“But, David, you are from America. Americans are Christian. How can you be Buddhist?”

“Well guys, I just don’t like those religions. They’re too structured. Too many rules. Too much pain and animosity in there for me. Too much guilt. Too many restrictions. I want to be free and I don’t believe that any God worth my devotion would enslave me with Christian guilt or ask me to submit to his will or burn in hell. It’s all bogus to me.”

To my surprise, they all shook their head in agreement.

As they left for lunch, one of the students pulled me aside. He told me with a look of resignation, “David, I don’t like Islam. This damn religion that we have was forced on us by the Arabs. They brought it here, forced us to become Muslim and then they left us to fight over it. We have been killing each other over this religion for hundreds of years. I wish it never existed.” Then he shrugged and walked away.

I was dumbfounded. This was apostasy. To publicly say such a thing would be an automatic death sentence. I was nervous just having heard it spoken aloud in a Muslim country.

Colonel Noor Ahmad wasn’t there when his man made that statement. Something tells me that in private, he wouldn’t give a damn. I don’t think the colonel was all that religious. He was a hard drinker and he liked women. Two things that don’t sit well with Islam. I know this because he had invited me to his house on several occasions for one of his infamous parties. The good colonel was a man of appetites that ran not only to good food and fine wines. The order of the day for a Noor Ahmad party was hard liquor and loose women. I never made it to one of his parties. However, my terps did get to go. What they described was damn near Roman orgiastic in proportion, bacchanalian in flavor. Prostitutes and whiskey flowed. The affluent of Herat attended. Of course, no wives were in attendance. Mirwais and Rasul went to one party that had over a hundred guests not including the women. Rasul was wide-eyed when he described the scene.

These parties and this house made me curious. Colonel Noor Ahmad had a million-dollar house in Herat. He lived and worked in Farah District. His wives and children lived in Farah as well. His house in Herat was his bachelor pad. I’m sure it still is. Rasul told me that there were tables filled with food. More tables filled with every type of booze imaginable. How does an Afghan police colonel afford all of this? An Afghan colonel has a government salary that is under 1,000 U.S. dollars per month. It’s difficult to pay for a million dollar home on that kind of money. More difficult still to hold debauched parties for one hundred of your closest friends. Add in the black market booze and prostitutes and, well, you get where I’m going. Who pays for this? Does he? I never did find out.

Colonel Noor Ahmad smoked with me during class breaks. He did the strangest thing with his cigarettes. He soaked them in Russian vodka. “Imported from Moscow,” he would say. Anytime he visited, he’d give me a pack of Russian vodka soaked Seven Stars smokes. We’d shoot the shit like we were best friends. Honestly, I really liked the guy. He wasn’t greasy. He never begged. He never once asked me for anything. The only thing he wanted was to talk politics or learn the new system.

The last three days of the Farah workshop were devoted to creating property documents. I started walking the men through the process of annotating data and applying document numbers. I’d show them where to write the information on the documentation, but I kept getting blank looks. Finally, I stopped and walked around to see how the class was doing. No one had written anything.

“Guys, do you understand what I’m explaining here?”

“Yes!” Heads nodded. Everyone seemed to be on page with me.

“Okay, we’ll start again.”

I ran through the process again. Again, they seemed to be following along. But just to confirm I stopped again. “Is everyone following along?”

“Yes!” Heads nodded.

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve done.” I walked around the room. Only three guys had annotated data on their property sheets.

“Okay, what’s the problem? Why is no one adding their data?” I got no answer just more blank stares.

“Dudes, what is the problem? I’ve explained this process for a week. I’ve walked you through the process two times. Why aren’t any of you filling in your data?”

I looked over at Noor Ahmad. He’d been scribbling away with Rasul and Mark, my senior mentor, the whole time. Mark had been promoted and brought up from Qandahar when I’d been promoted last year. He’d spent the majority of the last two days sitting with Noor Ahmad discussing the conversion process in the rear of the room. I hadn’t paid attention figuring that they were perfecting his provincial property documentation. Noor Ahmad looked up at me and winked.

“Okay, guys. Am I not explaining this well enough? Is there some kind of problem?”

Noor Ahmad looked up at me again.

Rasul translated, “No, we understand. You are a good teacher.”

“So, why aren’t you guys filling in the documents?” And then it hit me. “How many of you guys can read and write?” Three of them raised their hands. I started seeing red. I’d just wasted a whole week and a half. We’d get no results from this workshop. I was pissed. I had told Noor Ahmad to bring me guys who could read and write. He’d brought me a collection of illiterate bumpkins who were not going to be able to accomplish anything. I looked over at Noor Ahmad.

“Colonel, how the hell are these guys going to be able to convert. I thought you were going to bring me men who could get the conversion done during the workshop.”

“Finished,” Noor Ahmad smiled.

“What?”

“Finished.”

“Finished what?”

“The province and districts are all converted.”

“What? How?”

“My men needed a break from Farah. Herat is a vacation. We stayed at my house. We enjoyed a vacation. We came here and enjoyed your company.”

“Okay, but how does that finish the conversion?”

“David, while you were instructing my men, I converted their books with the help of your men. Farah Province is completely converted to the new decree. I have everything here. Come see.”

“You son of a bitch. You were fuckin’ with me. I’ve been frustrated all day long thinking that I was an idiot and couldn’t explain the process to your men.”

Noor Ahmad smiled and broke out into a belly laugh. “David, I have to have my fun, too. I told my men to pretend that they were writing, so you wouldn’t know what I was doing. I wanted to finish everything before I showed it to you.”

I turned to Rasul, Mark, and Mirwais. “You fuckers were in on it, too.” Then I laughed. Mission accomplished and a good joke on me.

I looked over Noor Ahmad’s books. They were nearly perfect. I showed him a few things to shape them up but there wasn’t much. The Farah guys came back the next day but the class was essentially over. We spent the last day smokin’ and jokin’. Noor Ahmad brought in some pastries from downtown. We had a little ceremony and I gave Farah their certificate of conversion signed by myself and Colonel Zahir. Zahir stopped by to see Noor Ahmad on his way out.

Getting Farah knocked out put pressure on the other provinces. Farah got the ball rolling for us. Half of Badghis came down and finished their district conversions. Herat was already halfway complete. By the time I left, Herat would be at 90 percent conversion. Noor Ahmad had done me a huge favor by completing his conversion. He had influence and standing in the western region.

Land of the Great Conquerors

January 2010

We returned to the RHQ. It was my first trip back since my latest R&R. By this time, I was familiar enough with General Ak to walk into his office alone. Most folks went through his assistant to gain access to the man. I knocked and walked in. General Ak stood up and came over to me. “Welcome back, David. Why has it been so long since I’ve seen you?” He grabbed my hands in his and kissed me on both cheeks. Mirwais sat there in astonishment. Apparently, not many people get this treatment from General Ak.

“General, I’ve been on holiday.”

“Oh. Did you go home? How is your family? Did you tell your mother hello from me? I hope everyone at home is well.”

“Thank you, General. Everyone at home is well but I didn’t go home. I’ve been to Thailand and Cambodia again. I brought you back a gift as well.”

“Thank you, David. You are always thoughtful.”

“Well, General, I’m just suckin’ up, so you’ll keep supporting my training program.”

“Ah, David, so you are playing on my emotions,” he winked at me.

“These are dried fruits from Thailand.” I handed him bags of dried mangoes and pineapples that I’d purchased at the Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok. “And this is a statue of Jayavarman VII,” which I’d picked up in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I had not been certain that giving a statue of a person to a Muslim would be acceptable. I’d felt General Ak up on the subject before I’d departed for my holiday. He seemed to like the idea of a statue for his office. He was especially open to a statue from a far away country. I’d come upon the idea of giving him a statue of Jayavarman VII because of the similarities between the two countries. Both Afghanistan and Cambodia had turned themselves inside out, literally destroying themselves at the command of an internal enemy. With Afghanistan, it had been the Taliban. With Cambodia, it had been the Khmer Rouge. Yet both countries had overcome their internal enemies and were working to rebuild themselves. Corruption was a parallel in their struggles as well. Cambodia was wracked with corruption with their prime minister and their late king. Afghanistan was ruled by a corrupt cabal of Islamists and greedy warlords and drug lords. With both countries, it would be a long road out of the darkness of war and internal turmoil. I explained all of this to General Ak.

“General, Jayavarman VII was a great king of Cambodia. He ruled Cambodia during the golden era of the Khmer Empire at about the same time that the Ghaznavids ruled in Afghanistan.”

“Thank you, David. I will put this in a place of honor in my office, so that we will always have a memory of each other.”

“You’re welcome, General. I wanted to give you a token of my esteem for all of your help with my mission here in Afghanistan.”

“David, we are all happy that you have come to help us. There is no need to thank me for doing my duty. You have traveled thousands of miles and left your family behind to help Afghanistan. We are grateful for your assistance.”

I had just about decided to leave contract but didn’t want to tell anyone yet. The statue was one way of leaving something behind. Something to mark my presence and something to serve as a reminder to the general that Afghanistan wasn’t the only place with a rough history. Other places in the world had been through the grinder. Part of it was also my conceited way of being remembered.

A month later, I walked into General Ak’s office. “General, this is it. I leave at the end of the month. It’s time for me to go home and see where the future takes me.”

“David, we will miss you. You have spent a long time with us. I think it is good for you to go home to your family. Will you return to America or is Thailand home now?”

“General, I’ll go home first. See my momma in Kentucky. Then I’ll head over to Thailand. Maybe I’ll buy a hotel and regale travelers with stories of my adventures here. I’ve got a few good stories to tell.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, David. What can I do for you? Is there anything that you want from Herat? Anything that I can give to you?”

“General, you have given me plenty. There is one favor that I’d like to ask of you, though.”

“Anything, David. Tell me what it is.”

“I’d like to take a tour of Herat. If you could arrange that, I’d be forever grateful. I’ve been to the Masjid Jami. But I want badly to go out and touch the minarets and the Alexander Citadel.”

“David, we will make that happen for you.”

We scheduled the tour a week later. I had to arrange to stay at the regional training center for a couple of nights. That wasn’t a problem as there was a Focused District Development in session at the time. I pretended that I had to assist with the course. The RTC commander knew that I was full of crap but he approved my stay as a favor. I brought with me a set of manjams, a leather jacket, and a pakol—Muj hat—to blend in while I was out in the city. There was no way that I could slip out of the RTC in manjams, so I changed from my ACUs into my “disguise” in Colonel Zahir’s office.

As I changed, Colonel Zahir looked on approvingly. “David, you look like an Afghan. You should come live with us. You would make a fine Afghan. You’re just as stubborn and loud. You’d fit right in with us.”

I laughed. Colonel Zahir was always good for the backhanded compliment. That’s what I loved about him. “I don’t think I’m fat enough to be your Afghan brother. I’d have to have a big belly like you.”

“Ah David, you are halfway there. You’ve put on too much weight since you’ve been here.” He was right about that.

Mirwais, Rasul, and Colonel Zahir sat their staring at me as I disguised myself. Rasul helped me get the manjams situated so that I looked like “a real Afghan.” After my successful conversion to a local, Colonel Zahir had lunch brought to us from the dining facility. Oddly enough, I never felt endangered eating with the Afghan police. Their dining facilities always seemed more sanitary. I think it was a mind game that I played on myself. I never got sick eating with the ANP and escaped Afghanistan without any three-foot-long tape worms crawling out of my ass.

Eating with the Afghans is always an adventure. They give you a plate full of rice. Three or four bowls containing potatoes, soggy french fries, and meat were placed in the middle of the table. Your rice was your own. Everything else was communal. I was fine eating that way with Mirwais, Rasul, and Colonel Zahir. After scarfing down chow, Colonel Zahir walked us over to where we’d be meeting our escort. Colonel Nasim was waiting there for us. Nasim was the regional security commander. I’m pretty sure that he was acting against his wishes. He looked nervous as hell. Zahir winked at him and said, “Dave, you are not an important person.”

“Damn, I thought I was the shit. Now you tell me I ain’t shit, Colonel?”

“No one is going to try to assassinate you or kidnap you but if something happens, it will look bad on us. We are sending two trucks with you. You’ll have six security guards in the truck following you. My nephew and my driver will be with you in your truck. I’m also sending two security guards along in your truck. One of these men will always be within arm’s distance of you.”

“I got ya big daddy. No problems. I’m in disguise. No one will even know I’m out there.”

We waited around for another few minutes for the second truck to arrive. Colonel Nasim gave the security detail a long talk before we departed.

“What’s he saying to them, Mirwais?”

“He told them that if anything happens to you that General Ak will kill them and their families.”

“Holy shit! That makes me feel safer,” I said laughingly.

We stood there for a while longer as we waited for the weapons to be checked and extra ammo for the M249 machine gun to be brought up and loaded on the vehicle. As we stood there waiting, a police unit was standing in formation waiting to enter. Afghan discipline was lax as hell. All of the soldiers kept turning around in formation to stare at me. Finally, one of the Afghan NCOs started exchanging words with Mirwais.

“Mirwais, what was that all about?”

“He was asking who you were. Those guys think that you are from the Panjsheer Valley. That’s what he asked me. ‘Who’s the Panjsheeri?’”

“Get the fuck out of here.” Panjsheer Valley was the home of Ahmad Shah Massoud. Panjsheer is northeast of Kabul on the other side of Bagram Airfield. “Are there white Afghans living in Panjsheer or do they think I’m an albino?” I continued.

“There are light-skinned Afghans in Panjsheer. I guess you could pass for one dressed like that.”

“Really? Well that should make it better out in town. Now we know that I can pass for an Afghan. At least at first glance. With all the security around me, I doubt anyone will risk approaching me. I guess we’re good to go. Besides when I scowl, I’m a scary lookin’ mofo.”

After the ammo was loaded, we rolled out the compound gate. We passed a couple of DynCorp guys whom I knew on the way out. No one recognized me. Zahir’s cousin sat in the front seat and directed us around the city. First stop was the minarets and the Sahn e Goharshad shrine. There are five remaining minarets and the shrine housed in the Mosallah Complex which was once an ancient place of learning. It was built in the late 1300s by Shahrohk, the son of Tamerlane (Timur the Lame), for his wife Goharshad. This university of antiquity was quite progressive for its time since it schooled both men and women. The genders did not mix, of course, because it was an Islamic institute but still women were allowed and even encouraged to become educated.

After Mosallah, we continued up into the foothills to the north of the city in order to reach our next stop—the Martyr’s Museum. This museum was dedicated to those Afghans who were killed during the March 1979 uprising against the Soviets. It was a round building with a panorama of the events of the uprising depicted in paintings and models. Surrounding the building are Soviet military hardware. There are several air defense and artillery pieces plus an Mi-21 Hind helicopter. We were the only visitors and I was given a tour by the museum curator, an older gentleman who told me that he’d been in some of the major firefights against the Soviets.

We went to several other sites such as the People’s Monument which is a Soviet T-72 tank with statues of Heratis attacking it with pitchforks, sledgehammers, and other farm tools. The tour culminated with a visit to the Alexander Citadel. This ancient fort had been leveled several times since it was built by Alexander the Great. The base of the great fort is the only original piece of the citadel. I had to go up and touch the foundation that had been laid by Alexander over two thousand years ago. It was a spiritual experience walking on ground that had been conquered by Alexander, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane—three of the greatest conquerors in the history of mankind.

Instead of heading straight back to the Regional HQ, the convoy stopped at a shishah bar. It was a pleasant day for that time of year. Our security squad stayed outside to keep prying eyes away, while we entered the place. The restaurant was a collection of tent like rooms on elevated platforms surrounded by curtains. The floors were lined with Afghan carpets. The proprietor brought us shishah pipes with mint flavored tobacco. Mirwais, Rasul, Zahir’s nephew, and I sat on the carpets, smoked shishah, and sipped mint tea. I was transported back in time. Perhaps I’d walk outside and see Tamerlane or his son gallop by on the way to battle.

We took the long way back to the RHQ. As we drove around the city, we passed gold and jewelry shops, the Herat bazaar, men on horseback, and families in carriages mixed on the streets with military vehicles and zaranjs (three-wheeled miniature pick-ups). The mix of the ancient with the modern was incredible. Old buildings and mud brick hovels stood amidst buildings of glass and steel.

After an hour of joyriding, we stopped at a bridge near the Hari Rud. We stepped out and stretched. A few of the security guards walked off to relieve themselves. Rasul, Mirwais, and I took photos holding our security’s AK-47s. The policeman driving our escort vehicle decided to drive his truck into the river to wash off the dust. There were a few other vehicles in the general vicinity being washed by their owners. I looked over at Mirwais and Rasul, “Dudes, what did you think of all that?”

“You’re a lucky guy, Dave. I’ve lived here almost my whole life and I’ve never seen most of that stuff,” Mirwais answered.

“Well, I still didn’t get to see everything that I wanted to see. No Minaret of Jam. But this day was cool as hell. Maybe someday I’ll get to come back and get out to Jam. Maybe I can get a newspaper or magazine to pay for an article about Herat and its antiquities, shrines, and monuments. I’ll bring you along as my terp.”

We drove back to the RHQ from there. Across the Hari Rud and on through Gozara and Injil districts one last time. This would be my last time passing this way. In the morning, I’d be heading back to Camp Stone. The next time that I would leave Stone would be to convoy to the Herat Airport on my final flight out.

The last thing that I did that day was visit my friends outside the gate. Jalil, Ali, and Nahida. These were three kids who sold soft drinks, snacks, smokes, toilet paper, and a few other items to the police out of a small store near the entrance of the regional training center. As soon as Jalil saw me, he ran towards me yelling, “Uncle!” I walked over to their small store and took a knee next to Jalil, who was about eight years old. His older sister Nahida and younger brother Ali stood nearby.

“Mirwais translate for me.”

“Jalil, Ali, Nahida, I’m leaving Afghanistan. You won’t see me anymore after this.” Jalil put his arm around my neck and hugged me. Ali walked over to me and held my hand. Nahida stood in the doorway of their mud brick store. “Bubbas, I’m gonna miss you. Hanging out with you guys has been the highlight of my stay in Herat.” They didn’t say much but just kind of clung to my neck. I tried to think of some kind of words of wisdom to tell them. Something that might stick with them or spark their curiosity of the world someday. Nothing came to me. Finally, it was time to get back to Camp. “I’m gonna miss you guys. I’ll try to come back and see you someday.” I hugged Jalil and then Ali. Then I stood up and walked over to Nahida. Muslim culture prohibited me from giving her a hug. I shook her hand and told her, “Remember, you’re beautiful and strong. Remember.” With that, I turned around and walked to the RTC. As I walked away, tears streamed down my cheeks. That was the last time that I saw them.

It had been a hell of a month. The whole of it had been one long farewell tour. Everywhere I went I had been shown love, respect, and fellowship. Fond fare-thee-wells greeted me at every turn. The contrasted feelings that the Afghans evoked in me was profound. These men were alternately spoiled, corrupt, loving, hospitable, respectful, and reverent human beings. Some of them were stone cold killers. They were enforcers of the worst kind. They dealt in death, drugs, kidnapping, and ransom. They also cared deeply for those around them. I had trusted them with my life and they had repaid that trust with hard work and effort. Sometimes. Other times, they ignored me. Brushed me off and made me feel as pathetically useless as a third nipple.

Even so, it had been worth it.

Epilogue

I have no regrets about my decade in Afghanistan. I went seeking adventure, the world, and a good paying job. What I hadn’t counted on was becoming jaded with American intervention in the world. Two years removed from the Army, I was a fairly idealistic young man in 2003. When I accepted the job with KBR, I believed that I was joining the “fight for freedom and democracy” in Afghanistan. By 2009, the U.S. had either abandoned that fight or it had all been a good round of propaganda used to fool Americans into going to war. We were not supporting democratic leaders. We were not supporting women and minority groups. Instead we were putting the warlords back in power. The same warlords who stifle the voice of the Afghan people. Every voice for real change in Afghanistan has been quieted by the warlords. In many cases, this has been accomplished with our acquiescence and support.

When I first started mentoring the Afghan National Security Forces, the U.S. Command and ISAF were “committed” to a professional force. In 2008, when Stanley McChrystal took over the ISAF mission, we adjusted our sights. We went from a goal of a 90-percent proficiency rating as success to “good enough for the Afghans.”

The problems that I detail in this book were common place when I was in Afghanistan. There was constant infighting between the State Department and the Defense Department. The military personnel with whom I worked were usually overwhelmed and unprepared for the mission of mentoring. They did not stay in position long enough to develop relationships with the Afghans. Many of them hated working with the Afghans.

Corruption was, and is still, rampant within the Afghan National Security Force. Our leadership refuses to acknowledge this corruption officially in many cases. The Afghan government does likewise. Why shouldn’t it? Its officials benefit from corruption both professionally and personally.

During the two and half years that I mentored the Afghan police, we saw improvements in professionalism and competence. Corruption, however, was on a steady rise. Over half of the fuel sent to western Afghanistan never reached its intended destination. Afghan logistics officers were still hoarding equipment rather than issuing that equipment to lower echelons. Checkpoints were still routinely abandoned primarily due to the neglect of soldiers. Contractors were still required to pay a bribe in order to win bids. Many projects were never completed due to embezzled funds. A decade later, the corruption within the Afghan police is still pervasive.

Before leaving Afghanistan I went to the Babur-e Bagh—Babur’s grave site—to reflect on my time in his beloved land. How different it would seem to Babur. Outsiders had again invaded. War ravaged the land and people. A fundamentalist brand of Islam had seeped into the culture along with these outsiders that Babur would not recognize. Babur was a faithful Muslim. Even so, he much admired other cultures. He had stopped to gaze upon the Bamian Buddhas and never had the thought crossed his mind to destroy them. They were windows to the past for him. Nothing more.

Being from one of the countries that had facilitated the incursion of fundamentalist Islam, I could not help but think of the part that America had played when it had pulled the Saudis into the effort to defeat the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The Saudis had brought money. They had provided intelligence. They also brought with them the parasitic form of Islam created by al Wahhab. That Wahhabi creed was the brand of Islam that became the backbone of Taliban Islamic belief.

The Taliban are the source of the majority of the violence in Afghanistan and Pakistan. They are the riddle that the U.S. and Coalition governments have not been able to solve for more than fifteen years and counting in Central Asia. The heart of that riddle lies in Saudi Arabia. As long as the West pumps money into Saudi coffers in exchange for oil, Wahhabism will be a major challenge across the Muslim world. Saudi Arabia is the head of the beast.

I have come down hard, at times, on the military and civilian forces at play in Afghanistan in this book. However, there are many soldiers, sailors, airmen and women, and marines who put their spirit and soul into the mission in Afghanistan. From instilling trust and confidence to building schools and installing water pumps in villages, these individuals have worked miracles across the country. At times, I was truly inspired by the devotion, not only to duty and sacrifice, but a love and devotion of and to humanity by these wonderful people. If the mission fails, it will not be due to these folks.

I include Afghans among this number. I have met countless Afghans who wanted nothing more than a stable Afghanistan in which the rule of law was on the side of humanity. Afghans who wanted nothing to do with the heinous extremism of the Taliban or their Saudi and Pakistani masters. Afghans within the security forces as well as civilians who wanted nothing more than peace, stability, and security for their families, their communities, and their nation. These men and women worked diligently, taking nothing for themselves, to instill a spirit of cooperation and fraternity amongst their fellow Afghans and with the Coalition.

Obama has stated that the U.S. would withdraw most of its forces in 2014. Since that announcement, NATO countries have basically called it a day in Afghanistan. Karzai has complained that Afghanistan will be unable to maintain its armed forces without the international community at the same time he has been embezzling funds from the Kabul Bank, while the Afghan army and police commanders steal everything that isn’t nailed down.

Here at the end, my feeling is that we have lost a decade in Afghanistan to corruption and incompetence—their corruption, our incompetence. We still have no clear mission and no clear goals. The desired outcome is ever-shifting in the quicksand of international politics and the murky waters of partisanship in the United States. Our leaders have failed to consistently define the mission. We have gone from the goal of defeating the Taliban to a resignation of working with “moderate” Taliban somewhere in the hazy, distant future.

If we depart from Afghanistan and Congress defunds our efforts there, Afghanistan will descend into chaos and violence. The east and south will likely become a home to the Taliban or Pushtoons warlords who are not much different than the Taliban. The north and the west will likely become petty fiefdoms of Warlords who are mostly Western friendly. If we continue to fund Afghan recalcitrance, there is no guarantee that Afghanistan will ever become more than a patronage based nation which outsiders view as a corrupt cesspool of violence, poverty, banditry and religious fundamentalism.

Either way, the West and American politicians will not get what they want.

Regardless, nothing can stop the coming of Spring.

Glossary

Allahu akhbar

Islamic phrase meaning “Allah is great”

assalaam alaykum

Islamic greeting meaning “Peace be with you”

ba khair asti

Dari phrase meaning “How is everything with you?”

baleh

Dari for “yes”

Dari

One of two official languages in Afghanistan. An offshoot of Farsi from Iran/Persia. Language of the Tajiks.

decree

A regulation, e.g., Decree 4.2, which is the logistics regulation for units of the police and army

grunt

Military slang for infantryman

gun bunny

Military slang for artilleryman

Hadith

The sayings of the Prophet Mohammad of Islam

hamesha khub

Dari phrase for “Always good”

Insha’allah

Arabic meaning “If Allah wills” (God willing)

jor asti

Dari phrase meaning “How is your health?”

kandak

Dari word for “battalion”

keffiyah

Traditional Arab headdress, also known as shemagh

khub asti

Dari phrase meaning “Are you good?”

Khuda hafiz

Dari phrase meaning “May God protect you.” Used as a farewell blessing for friends, family, travelers, and guests.

kos mathar

Dari phrase meaning “one who has sex with his mother.” Dire insult that will usually result in violence and bloodletting.

La ilaha iI-Allah, Mohammad-ur-Rasullalah

Arabic for “There is no god except Allah, and Mohammed is the messenger of Allah.”

lap o jap chetor asti

Dari phrase somewhat equivalent to “What’s up?” in colloquial English

manjams

Coalition slang for the shalwar chameez, traditional clothing worn by Afghan males

masjid

Islamic term for mosque

mihrab

Arabic for a semi-circular niche in a mosque that indicates the direction of Mecca

mullah

Islamic religious leader

pakol

Round-topped man’s hat, sometimes called a Mujahideen cap, mainly worn by certain ethnic groups in Afghanistan

Pashto

Second official language of Afghanistan. Spoken by the majority Pashtun tribe.

Pashtun

A member of the Pashtun confederation of tribes in Afghanistan. Practitioners of Sunni Islam. Overly religious, clannish, oppressive, sexually repressed, less educated than their Tajik cousins in Afghanistan. The majority of the Taliban as well as suicide bombers and bandits come from these tribes.

salaam

Arabic/Dari word for “peace”

Salafism

The official brand of Islam of the Saudi monarchist state. A strict version of Sunni Islam characterized by extreme interpretation of the Qu’ran (Koran) and the Hadith.

shalwar chameez

Traditional dress worn by Afghan males

shemagh

Traditional Arab headdress, often used as a scarf or face covering against desert sands; also known as keffiyah

subha al khair

Islamic phrase meaning “Good morning”

Tajik

A member of the Tajik tribal confederation of Afghanistan as well as Central Asia. Tajiks have historically been the more educated and represent the political elite of Afghanistan.

talib

Arabic for “student.” Usually refers to one who studies Islam in a mosque.

Taliban

Plural of talib. Usually used in reference to the strict followers of Salafist Islam in the FATA and NWFP areas of Pakistan as well as a majority of the Pashtun tribe of Afghanistan.

tarjoman

Dari word for “interpreter”

tashakor

Dari word for “thank you”

Uzbek

A member ethnically affiliated with Uzbekistan inhabitants of Afghanistan.

wa shuma

Dari phrase for “And you?”

wa ’alaykum

Islamic phrase for “And on you be peace”

yalla! imshi!

Arabic/Dari phrase for “Hurray! Let’s go!”

zaranjs

Three-wheeled miniature pick-ups used as a popular mode of public transportation in Afghanistan

Acknowledgments

Much love went into the writing of this book and there were many folks who helped me along the way. The most important among those were Lisa S. Keary and Wendy Goldman-Rohm. Lisa was my editor. She pulled the essence of truth out of my ramblings and gave coherence to my scribblings. Wendy inspired me to keep writing and to find my voice in the beginning when I thought I had none. Without these two, there would be no book but a collection of aimless thoughts collected in a maze of nothingness.

Next, there are the people who encouraged me to write. Kostas Dirmikis, my Greek brother, with whom I served in Afghanistan at Camp Alamo. “Remember the Alamo!” It was Kostas who kept me writing in Afghanistan, introduced me to authors whom he thought similar to my style of writing, and told me to stop whining about the “ass-monkeys” who were rioting over burnt Qu’rans outside our gates in Kabul. My cousin John in Philadelphia. Piotr in Oslo. Anca in Romania. Arik in Alaska. Iain from Scotland who now lives in Cambodia. All offered invaluable insight into the strictly civilian mind that I find so bizarre. Having spent more than a decade in the Army and another decade working in Afghanistan as a contractor, I sometimes find it difficult to relate to folks who’ve never been in or around the military. Iain, Arik, Piotr, cousin John, and Anca helped to ensure that my “militarese” was more easily understood by regular folks who had not grown up to the sound of acronyms, ranks, flags, and the other archaic symbols and jargon that are part of military life. These good folks read and offered opinions on the value of each story. Each, in turn, motivated me to keep going.

I have to include Don Vandergriff – author, Professor of History at Georgetown and a fellow contractor. I met Don on my latest mission in Afghanistan. Don and I were at the range qualifying on our Beretta pistols when we struck up a conversation. We talked about politics, the ridiculousness of the contracting world and the Army. We hit it off immediately. Don read my book and told me that it was brilliant. I told him that he was crazy and that my book was simply the mad ramblings a Kentucky boy what barely escaped high school. He attempted to help me get with a publisher telling me; “Dave, this my book must be read. He boosted my confidence and helped me get closer to being published. It didn’t work out but I appreciate his efforts nonetheless.

I must, also, thank my mother. Without her, none of this would have been possible. She encouraged, pestered, cajoled, and was, generally speaking, a pain in the ass at various times. She pushed me when I needed pushing. She kept me on target when I lost motivation or became frustrated or unfocused. This book, and my life, would not be without her support and loving guidance.

And, finally, there is Unny. She sat patiently as I typed away on my MacBook night after night. I ignored her for weeks on end. I ran off to find solitude in Cambodia. I made her sit and read my drafts innumerable times and grilled her on her opinions. I’m sure that she thought me mad at times.

There were other friends and family who read various pieces throughout the writing of this book and to those I give my thanks as well but the aforementioned individuals stuck with me from beginning to end, offering support, guidance, and motivation. For that I am thankful.

Finally, I would like to thank the men and women with whom I have served across the years, throughout the globe. Those who kept me safe and those who brought me along. No success or failure is authored by one person. We are each beholden to many contributors to our life story. Some assist us along our path. Others drag us down or hold us back. I have been fortunate to have had been assisted by many and held back by very few.

May the Gods bless you all.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Abbreviations

Maps

Part I

Defense Contractors, Mercenaries, and War Profiteers, Oh My!

Fort Knox, Kentucky

Into the ‘Stan!

Operation Enduring Freedom

Taliban Rocket Show

Fallen Soldiers: The Pat Tillman Story

Balkans Invasion

$35 Haircut Special

Camp Cupcake—The Easy Life

Phoenix Rising

Bombs, Bullets, Insurgents

Part II

The Nights of Kabul

White Collar Mercenaries R Us

Arriving in the Mile High City

The Taliban’s House of Murder

Wazir Akbar Khan and the Chinese

The Kabul Beauty School

Part III

Herat: The Revolutionary City

The Pearl of Khorasan

Tarjomani-Man

Meeting the General

Terp Boot Camp

Training the Afghans

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Masjid Jami

Ghalla Attar

Motorcycles, Politics, and Sex Videos

Kidnappings and Drive-Bys

Major Zahir Arrives

Boy Buggin’ Pashtuns

Chaghcharan

No Greater Love

The Boys from Farah

Land of the Great Conquerors

Epilogue

Glossary

Acknowledgments