Enduring Freedom, page 12
Baheer laughed. “OK. This is good. I must go. Goodbye.”
“Hey Baheer!” Killian called. “I say ‘thank you.’ You say? How do you people say ‘thank you’?”
“Ah! I understand!” Baheer smiled. “Thank you. Tashakor.”
“Tashakor,” Killian said with a terrible accent. “‘Thank you’ is ‘tashakor’?”
“Yes,” Baheer said. “Goodbye.”
“See ya later, Baheer,” Killian said as Baheer walked away. “Tashakor!”
Farah, Afghanistan
June 26, 2003
The officers called the place the Safe House. The men called it the Unsafe House. Nobody ever accused soldiers of being really original comedians. And there wasn’t a lot to laugh about in their current location, except for the tragic joke of their miserable situation and their meaningless deployment.
Not for the first time, Joe surveyed his strange surroundings in disgust. The Unsafe House wasn’t a base, but a regular Afghan residential compound. Joe spit on the dusty ground. It was like Luke Skywalker’s house on Tatooine in the first Star Wars movie, all tan mudstone, but without the cool robots. The rooms even had domed ceilings and roofs.
The whole thing was surrounded by twelve-foot-high, two-foot-thick mudstone walls and was divided in half by another wall. River rock covered the ground on this side of the compound, where the vehicles—the four brand-new armored Humvees and the two little civilian Toyota Hilux pickups—were parked.
A row of converted stable rooms lined the back of the compound, where most of the troops would be staying. Someone had come in before to shovel out the manure, but not all of the stench had left. The floor in their baking hot barracks was roughly finished concrete. The bunks were poorly welded black metal frames with plywood beds and thin foam mattresses covered in fabric printed with colorful swirls and the words welcome 2003.
“Yeah, me and 2003 are gonna have a serious talk,” Mac had said when they’d moved into their crappy barracks and claimed racks. “Because so far this really sucks.”
Baccam had chuckled. Joe only shook his head. “Yeah, and Captain Higgins said we’re staying here until the base is complete. Could be months.”
“You wanted a real war.” The Mighty Quinn had spoken up for a change. “War ain’t about staying in a fancy hotel.”
Joe didn’t know what he hated the worst, the fact that he was a little afraid to argue with Specialist Quinn or that the big guy was right.
In the back corner, beyond the row of trucks, was a rough room for ammo storage. That was kind of impressive. There were ammo cans full of 5.56 rounds for their M16s, 7.62 rounds for their M240B machine guns, and .50-cal. rounds for their big M2 machine guns. Other cans contained chains of 40- millimeter grenade rounds for the Mk 19 grenade-launching machine gun. They had four shoulder-fired AT4 antitank rocket launchers and a half dozen Claymore anti-personnel mines. There were boxes of live M67 fragmentation grenades, M18 smoke grenades, and M14 incendiary grenades.
It was all stacked in the mud-brick cave of a room, unlocked and unguarded. Joe smiled a little as he surveyed it all. Never before had he been allowed such easy access to so much deadly military inventory.
Baccam approached, his boots crunching in the gravel and his rifle hanging from his shoulder. “There you are. What are you doing in here?”
“Just curious, I guess,” Joe said. “Look at all this. Why do we need all this firepower for reconstruction?”
Baccam shrugged. “I know you were bummed about our mission, but you gotta remember the Taliban don’t care what we’re doing here. Doesn’t matter if we’re trying to kill them or working to help the people. The Taliban hate us. They want us dead.”
Joe ran his fingers over the green AT4 tube. “All this ought to make it a lot harder for them to get what they want.”
“Yeah, man,” Baccam said. “But it’s crazy hot and smelly in here.” He pointed toward the metal door in the center dividing wall next to the palm tree. “Cook has coffee.”
“Hot coffee? In this heat?”
Baccam laughed. “Fine, but he already ran a shopping mission to the bazaar. There’s an ice factory somewhere. Cooler full of cold water in there.”
The two of them went to the other half of the compound, the center of which featured a one-story mud-brick house with a big center room and four rooms in the corners: three barracks and a kitchen.
Sergeant Tanner, their cook, waved his hands around a small electric stove like a model showing off a sleek car. “Look at this electric powerhouse! One step up from my daughter’s Easy Bake Oven!”
Joe chuckled with the other soldiers hanging around.
“Got your work cut out for you, Cookmaster,” Mac said, entering through the back door.
“Where did all this stuff come from?” Joe asked quietly.
First Sergeant Dalton overheard him. “A team of Army intel guys contracted with Afghans to rent this place and turn it into a palace fit for kings!” He slapped the cheap metal table. “Probably charged us two grand for this flimsy thing.”
“Well, ya’ll better not be counting on chow like in Kandahar.” Cookmaster pointed at the small fridge in the main room. “Because that thing is our only cold storage. I hope you like MREs and T-rations.”
Joe wiped his sweaty brow. How did these people live in houses like this? It was more animal den than house. No, not a den, more like an oven, like the wood-fired oven at his favorite pizza place back in Iowa City. Joe sighed, wondering if he’d ever return there again.
Baccam handed him a bottle of water from the cooler, and Joe pressed it to his face for a moment before drinking, then swatted an annoying fly.
“Hey, PFC Killian,” First Sergeant Dalton said.
Joe froze. Generally, it was not good to catch the notice of the first sergeant. He took his role as the highest-ranking enlisted man in the company very seriously. He was notorious for dropping soldiers for many push-ups because of minor infractions.
Joe stood straight with both hands behind the small of his back. “Yes, First Sergeant.”
First Sergeant Dalton chuckled. “At ease there, Private. This isn’t a parade review.” The man sipped coffee from a paper cup. “I heard you talked to one of the local nationals while on guard duty the other day.”
“Sorry, First Sergeant,” Joe said. “It won’t happen again.” Would he be dropped for push-ups in this heat?
“It’s OK to talk to them. Just be sure you don’t get complacent. Maintain situational awareness.”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
The first sergeant leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “He gave you a pop? Was it factory sealed?”
“Yes, First Sergeant. It was sealed.”
“Good,” said First Sergeant Dalton. “We need to be careful about accepting food or drink from local nationals. Stuff could be poisoned.”
“Understood, First Sergeant.” Joe spoke like he agreed with him because he was not allowed to disagree with him. But he thought back to that soda, and how good and sweet it had tasted in that terrible heat. Joe didn’t trust these people, but he was pretty sure Baheer hadn’t been trying to poison him. Surely maintaining situational awareness didn’t mean situational delusion. There were plenty of real threats to watch out for without imagining fake ones.
That night, after a meal consisting of a small square of imitation-meat lasagna and a scoop of corn, Joe’s squad sat in a bit of shade on the concrete front porch.
“I’ll give you guys the notes for tonight,” Sergeant Cavanaugh said. “The commander says under no circumstances should anyone go outside this compound without permission. OK? The Afghan who sold us ice said the Taliban contacted him, said they plan to try to kill us sometime this week.”
Mac flipped pages in his own pocket notebook. “Excuse me, Sergeant Cavanaugh. Can we send a message back through the ice man? This week’s not going to work for me. I’m afraid I’m booked solid sweating here in cesspit base. Won’t be able to see them anytime in the next three weeks.”
Cavanaugh, who was always super serious, cracked a smile and pretended to write something down. “I . . . will . . . pass that message along. Master Sergeant Dinsler put out a strict standing order reminding everybody to wash their hands with soap and water after the latrine and before eating anything. He’ll be setting up hand-wash stations soon. Until then, use bottled water.” He stuffed his notebook back in his pocket. “Right. OK. Now I know it’s hot, but we all must sleep. We’re due to relieve Second Squad on guard duty in a few hours, and that will start our three hours on, three hours off rotation. Try to get as much rest as you can because tomorrow, our squad will have its first mission, escorting our engineer to the PRT base to see how construction is coming along. Questions?”
Mac raised his hand. “When do I get my discharge papers?”
Cavanaugh snorted. “They’re working on them right now, no doubt.”
Joe laughed at Mac’s old joke. What would it be like to go to war at the end of my enlistment contract like Mac instead of at the beginning of my Army Guard time the way it is now? It was probably best to get the deployment over with right away. Then, with the war over, he’d be able to ride out his six-year enlistment without having to worry about shipping out again, probably getting promoted faster due to war experience. If you could call a reconstruction mission “war.”
Minutes later First Squad settled into their dark mud-brick cave barracks and hit the rack. Joe rested on his sweaty back, his head on his rolled-up uniform top, the pathetic foam mattress doing next to nothing to keep him off the plywood slab.
In addition to an extra notebook and a few pens, Joe had packed one other indulgence, a tiny battery-operated reading lamp. By that bit of light he tried once again to write.
June 26, 2003
Farah, Afghanistan
Soldiers of first and second squads of first platoon of Delta Company of the second battalion, 199th infantry regiment Iowa Army National Guard have taken the first step in establishing a lasting American military presence in the western Afghanistan province of Farah. In an effort to help revitalize the local Afghan economy, the U.S. Army has hired Afghan engineers and laborers to construct a permanent American base outside the city of Farah. The challenge is enormous for the men of first and second squads. Forced to endure primitive conditions in a rented Afghan residence, they are surrounded on all sides by potentially hostile by
Joe couldn’t think of what to write. Baheer and his family lived on the other side of the east wall. His offer of a cold soda hadn’t been hostile, no matter the first sergeant’s warning.
by people completely unlike any the soldiers have ever met before. Their mission is to somehow help the Afghans overcome centuries of mindless fighting in the hope that they will afterward no longer help terrorists to murder innocent Americans. Delta Company’s leadership continues to remind their soldiers to be alert for Taliban or other enemy forces that might seek to do them harm, and toward that end, the men are well armed. When they at last occupy their permanent base, they’ll be well positioned in an armed and fortified outpost. Until then, the soldiers find their greatest protection, their only protection, in one another, as their struggle through deployment has only begun.
“Killer,” Corporal MacDonald whispered. “If you don’t shut off that light, I’m going to shove it up your nose.”
Joe switched off the light and put his notebook and pen aside. He thought of the soldiers of Second Squad keeping watch on those guard platforms, making sure nobody hurt him tonight.
Someone shook his shoulder after what felt like an instant. “Private Killian.” It was Sergeant Paulsen. “Wake up, Killer. Time for guard duty.”
His cheap Casio Illuminator watch told him it was June 27, 0400 hours. He bit his lip and slapped his own face to wake up. Three-hour shifts didn’t work. It took about a half hour to get to sleep. Someone woke them a half hour before going on duty so they could get ready. They had round-the-clock intermittent duty punctuated by what were actually only two-hour sleep breaks. Waking and sleeping at odd hours around the clock blurred time and mushed his days together so he never knew what was going on.
There was nothing to do on guard duty but stand there making sure nothing happened. It was incredibly boring. Joe looked up to the clear night sky, gazing with his mouth open. “I’ll say this for Afghanistan,” he whispered to the billions of bright stars in the heavens. “It has just about the most beautiful night sky I’ve—” Joe cursed, jumped back, scrambled to pull his rifle to the ready. His heart pounded, muscles tense, ready to kill.
The black cat that had been slinking along the top of the wall arched its back and hissed. From the next guard platform over, down the wall in the direction the cat had come from, Baccam stood hunched over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard Joe worried he’d get them all killed by accidentally waking First Sergeant Dalton, who slept out in the open in the back courtyard near Baccam’s position.
“Get out of here!” Joe lunged toward the cat, sending it rocketing down the top of the wall and around the corner toward the neighbor’s compound. “Stupid thing.”
Sergeant Paulsen was the S-O-G, the Sergeant of the Guard, assigned to moving from post to post, making sure all guards were awake and had everything they needed. He nearly fell down from laughter as he approached Joe. “Way to be alert there, Killer,” he said quietly, wiping his eyes. “Nothing’s sneaking past your position.”
At 0700 Joe’s team was relieved. They’d lose sleep time if they ate breakfast—powdered eggs and oatmeal, flies buzzing over all—but there was so little food that nobody dared avoid eating. The only time they ever sometimes skipped a meal was in the blazing midday heat.
“Oh, you guys should have seen Killian last night,” Baccam said as soon as he sat down with the group around the table in the main room. He laughed again, telling the story of the stupid cat. “I thought he was gonna crap his pants.”
“Speaking of crapping your pants.” Z set his cardboard tray of eggs aside and ran out of the room.
“What’s his problem?” Shockley asked.
The Mighty Quinn looked up from his meal and grunted. “The Farah Flu.”
Shockley frowned. “What’s that?”
“The flies crawl around human-waste soup in the latrines. Then they land on the food we’re trying to eat.” Mac frowned, his hand to his belly. “So if you haven’t had the Farah Flu”—he quickly stood up—“you will,” he finished as he ran out of the room, also heading for the latrines.
Two weeks later, Joe woke with his sweat-crusted brown T-shirt stuck to his back. He sat up in his rack. Gross. Only 325 days to go. He peeled the filthy shirt off his grimy body and grabbed his little notebook from under the rolled-up shirt he’d been using as a pillow. He X-ed out one more day on his chart. 325. Almost at the end of the 300s. Almost the upper 200s. Still an eternity.
He needed sleep to prepare for guard duty, but this heat was making it impossible. At 0900, it was over eighty degrees. Somehow, in the racks all around him, his squad slept. Second Squad was still on guard.
There might not be a wait for the laptop. He could check his email.
He scratched his arm, disappointed to see he’d begun scraping off what he’d thought was a good tan. Just dirt. They were allowed one three-minute shower every three days, but on his last few shower days, the well was dry by the time Joe had his chance.
He hadn’t been clean in a long time. He pulled on a fresh pair of socks. Showers, clean underwear or T-shirts, clean uniforms, could wait. Socks could not. After three days sweating in the same socks, the flesh between his toes cracked and bled. He was now dressed save for his uniform top, crispy from yesterday’s sweat.
He heard a gunshot. No big deal. Guns went off around town a lot.
Another gunshot rang out. Close. Out the glassless window in front of their barracks room, Joe watched Lieutenant Riley tense up next to PFC Underwood on Position One. Underwood slipped into his armor.
Machine gun fire. Close. Again, from right down the street. Lieutenant Riley jumped from the guard platform.
What should I do? Where should I go? Taliban said they’d attack. Here they come!
Growing up, Krista had sometimes watched Star Trek: The Next Generation. When the ship was under attack, someone would shout, “Battlestations! Wake up! Battlestations!”
First Squad rolled out of their racks. Absurdly, Joe finished buttoning his uniform before scrambling into his armor vest and helmet. Then he was out the door, M16 in hand.
Sergeant Paulsen met him in front of the barracks. “Who’s ready?”
“Me!” Joe said.
“Can you fire the AT4?” Paulsen was already grabbing the big green shoulder-fired antitank rocket launchers.
“I guess!” Joe said. AT4 warheads were expensive, so soldiers trained by firing 9-millimeter tracer rounds from the enormous weapon. Worthless training. But he’d done it.
“You’re with me!” Sergeant Paulsen shouted. “To the roof!”
Joe shoulder-slung an AT4 and sprinted after Paulsen toward the house side of the compound.
More machine gun fire went off somewhere.
“Where are they?” someone shouted.
Joe and Paulsen grabbed the sun-baked steel ladder, heaving it from the ground and slamming it against the side of the house, cursing against the pain in their seared hands. Paulsen was up an instant later, reaching down to grab Joe’s AT4.
As Joe climbed, time seemed to stretch out the way it had when, as a kid, he’d realized he was about to fall from a tree or off his skateboard.
This is my last day on Earth. We don’t have enough men to defend this position if the Taliban come in force.
