Enduring Freedom, page 16
The guard towers were unfinished in the corners of their football-field-sized square, and the steel doors were not installed on the north and south gates. That meant two soldiers were always posted on either gate, and two more manned a Mk 19 atop the big steel shipping container in the center of the PRT construction zone.
There was a lot of time to think while gazing into a barrel of flaming crap.
“This isn’t what I thought war was supposed to be like,” Joe said quietly.
“You didn’t expect to be up in the middle of the night stirring burning poop soup?” Sergeant Paulsen asked.
“No. They didn’t train us for this super-important duty.” Joe laughed.
“Well, the good news is, Sergeant Walden says the latrines will be ready for use tomorrow, so this will be the last night we’ll be burning off the contents of the Porta-John.”
“Flush toilets,” Joe said. “A miracle. But, I mean, at first I thought war would be all about hunting down the Taliban and Al-Qaeda, fighting real terrorists. But then I looked around this place, saw all these poor kids, got to know people like Baheer—you know that English-speaking kid who lived next door to the Unsafe House?”
Sergeant Paulsen nodded. “Shows up on the jingle trucks all the time now.”
“Yeah, well, I met people like that. Other Afghans. They’re nothing like what our training back at Fort Hood made me expect. So, OK. We’re on a reconstruction mission. Help protect Civil Affairs soldiers so they can help the Afghans. But all we’ve done so far is pull guard duty while our base is built.”
“Base is about done,” Sergeant Paulsen said. “Rumor is we’ll be starting convoy operations soon, driving all over Farah Province, maybe down south into Nimruz and north into Herat Provinces, providing security so CA can do village assessments, meeting with the town elders to see how we can help.”
“Sure.” Joe stirred the bar around, opening up a rich vein of fuel in the poo ash so the fire flared up good. “But let’s say the rumors are true for once and we do go out on some missions. The Daily Iowan, the University of Iowa student newspaper, is one of the best college papers in the country. I thought if I could bring them some stories about what’s really happening in this war, it might be a good way for me to get on as a reporter or columnist for the paper. But what am I going to write? Even if we go on these missions you talk about, escorting the CA while they talk to a village chief doesn’t tell anyone anything about how the war is going and how we’re doing against the Taliban.”
Sergeant Paulsen was silent for a moment, then asked, “Why do you want to be a journalist? Why do you want to write the news?”
“You remember how on 9/11 everybody—well, everybody who wasn’t in New York, at Ground Zero, or at the Pentagon or something—was watching coverage on TV? Those reporters and desk anchors were bringing everybody the information as it happened, about how we were suddenly at war again. That’s what I want to do, tell the story of war in a way that really matters to people.”
Paulsen poured on a little more kerosene. Flames shot up. “And it’s hard to see how what we’re doing connects to the larger movement of the war.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Joe took a step back from the heat. “I’m burning poop!”
“And this is a war,” said Sergeant Paulsen. “Isn’t burning poop part of the truth of war?”
“A stupid truth. Nothing anyone wants to read about. It’s disgusting.”
Paulsen shrugged. “War is disgusting. Weren’t you reading that book of Ernie Pyle columns when we were back at Fort Hood?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “He was a master. But he was writing about World War Two, the most intense war in history. Way more dramatic than—”
“No he wasn’t,” said Sergeant Paulsen.
Joe was confused. “What? Have you read it?”
Sergeant Paulsen nodded. “In college. Majored in history. Took a World War Two class. And Ernie Pyle was not writing about the war.”
“Every story in there is about the war. Army engineers rushing to build a bridge on a cliff in Italy. Sailors on a Landing Ship Tank.” Joe struggled to remember the details. Army time was different than normal time. He’d read that book a lifetime ago. “Tail gunners in a bomber crew and how they—” Joe stopped, watching Paulsen smile. “He wrote about the people,” Joe said. He waited for Paulsen to swoop in with laughter or some kind of snarky “gotcha” speech. Instead, Paulsen was quiet. Joe continued. “The infantry guys, the regular common soldiers. How they lived. How they survived.”
“You’re infantry, Killer,” said Sergeant Paulsen. “You don’t have to storm a beach at Normandy. You’re in a forward area, not back on the safe Air Force base at Kandahar. What you’re doing here is important. And even when your duty stinks—ha ha—it’s still a part of the story. It still matters. Figure out the right stories to tell about this time.”
Joe watched the light flicker on Paulsen, who stood shadowed on the opposite side of the fire. As a sergeant and team leader, he could have easily ordered two of his men to do this nasty duty themselves, while he relaxed on a guard position. But Sergeant Paulsen never pushed the worst of the duties onto others, never asked of his soldiers something he himself was unable or unwilling to do. He was in charge, but he worked with his soldiers. Joe promised himself in that early morning hour that he would find a way to tell the story of his team leader.
The next night, instead of having a squad-level nightly meeting, every soldier who wasn’t on guard duty gathered outside the CA building. The Delta Company commander, Captain Higgins, motioned for everyone to quiet down. He was standing next to three American men, all in civilian clothes. “Listen up, men! I gathered you all here because I want to introduce you to some new personnel we have here at the PRT. You’ll see them going around in civilian clothes with relaxed grooming standards, meaning they’re allowed to grow beards if they wish. These men work in Tactical Human inTelligence, or THT.”
Baccam elbowed Joe. “THT? Shouldn’t tactical human intelligence be THI?” he whispered.
Captain Higgins continued. “I’m going to let them take it from here.”
One of the THT guys, a redhead with a thin, patchy beard, waved at everybody. “Good evening. My name is Jase. In order to preserve our covers for the kind of intelligence work we do, we don’t use our rank or last names. So, again, I’m Jase.” He motioned to his right at a skinny man wearing a Miami Dolphins hat. “This is my buddy Andy. And the big guy with the black shaggy beard is Eric. Our Afghan American interpreter, Ahmad, is a civilian, but he’s an American citizen with the high level of security clearance needed for the kind of operating we do.”
Mac coughed loudly, trying to cover his laugh. “Did he just say ‘operating’?”
“Operating” was the word used to describe being engaged in highly classified super-spy stuff, deep Special Forces action. Joe had a lot of respect for the National Guard, but not a lot of people working with the Guard could accurately be described as operators.
Jase looked over the group in silence for a moment, nodding with his hands on his hips as though expecting everyone to be impressed. Finally, he continued. “I’ve been asked to tell you all that one of our regularly scheduled delivery trucks was stolen en route to the PRT. Our asset, the driver, was beaten up but survived. From what he tells us, it sounds like the Taliban stole his truck at random but got real lucky. Because that truck was hauling a lot of ammunition and explosives. So everybody needs to remain alert out there for IEDs.”
The big black-bearded THT guy, Eric, spoke up. “Some of the intelligence streams from our various assets are coalescing around the idea that Israeli intelligence operatives may be in the area planting IEDs to kill Americans. We’re still working to confirm that, but be advised.”
Joe whispered to Baccam. “Why would our allies come all the way over here to kill us?”
Baccam shook his head. “The guy’s crazy.”
“Or they heard from some angry Muslims who don’t like Israel and just made some stuff up. And be advised?” Mac whispered. “About what? We’re supposed to keep a lookout for Israelis? It’s not like they’d be in uniform.”
“And that’s all we have,” said Jase. “Except that if you come across any information that might be of use to us, please come let us know.”
The meeting broke up with the guys more confused than before.
One day near the end of September, Joe was stuck on front-gate guard duty with Baccam. Of all duties on the PRT, guarding the front gate was the worst. The four corner guard towers were finally completed and they had air-conditioning and a plastic chair. A soldier could sit and sip coffee, eat snacks, and listen to music or audiobooks. But gate guards had to search incoming jingle trucks for bombs, pat down visiting Afghans checking for the same, and spend the whole hot shift in heavy body armor and helmets. Third and Fourth Squads had finally come out from Kandahar, so they had better guard rotations, allowing for better sleep. But that also meant that gate guard was six hours of hard work, and although Joe and his fellow soldiers were settling into their new life, there was still a risk on gate duty. If a truck bomb was launched against the PRT, the gate guards would be toast.
That day Joe and Baccam had the front gate. After patting down dozens of Afghans coming in for construction work that morning, they had three jingle trucks to search. Joe walked with an interpreter way out to the wire perimeter where Afghan guards had stopped the trucks.
The interpreter was about to tell the driver that he needed to climb down out of the truck to be searched when Baheer leaned out the passenger-side window. “Salaam, rafiq!”
“Baheer!” Joe called back. To his interpreter he added, “Hey, man. This guy’s good with English. You can head back to the PRT and relax. We won’t need you for this one.” As the interpreter returned to the base, Joe shifted his attention back on Baheer. “I didn’t recognize the truck. All the blue. And are those flowers painted on the side?”
Baheer said something to the driver and they both exited the truck and climbed down. “Business is good, so my grandfather say we must buy a second truck.”
Joe brushed his boot along the dusty chains on the bottom edge of the vehicle. “Sweet jingle chains, man.”
Baheer laughed. “Ah, yes. They are extra jingle, I think.”
Both Baheer and the driver—his uncle, Joe thought Baheer had once told him—put their arms out, expecting a pat-down. Joe quickly searched them and then used a mirror on the end of a pole, looking under the truck, searching for weird wires or explosives. After inspecting the cab, Joe grabbed his radio and called the truck in clear.
“Roger that, Ernie Pyle,” Sergeant Paulsen radioed. “They’re still unloading the first two jingle trucks of the day, so that driver’s going to have to wait awhile. Stay with the truck just to make sure nobody messes with it before it’s clear to roll in.”
“Roger that,” Joe radioed back.
“We are stuck here,” Baheer said. He explained the situation to his uncle, who yawned, stretched, and said something back. “My uncle wants to know if it is OK if he goes to sleep in the cab. He’s tired from the long drive.”
“Sure,” Joe said. As the driver went back into the truck, Joe said to Baheer, “Your English is getting even better. How do you learn so fast? I mean, I can’t imagine you had much of a chance to study English while the Taliban were in charge.”
“I began to learn it in Pakistan.”
Joe nodded. He’d read about thousands of Afghans fleeing to Pakistan or Iran during the wars. “The camps at Peshawar? I read those were terrible.”
Baheer spoke slowly, as if concentrating on the right words. “The . . . how you say? ‘Refugee’?”
“Refugee camps, yeah.”
Baheer smiled. “We were refugees. But we didn’t live in Peshawar. The refugee camps were very bad. My grandfather said to us not to go near the camp people.”
“Why?” Joe asked.
“Many diseases in the camps. The kids there were going to mujahideen schools.”
“That’s good, right?” Joe asked. He’d read about the Mujahideen, the Afghans who had fought the Soviets. A lot of the Northern Alliance Afghans who had helped America remove the Taliban from power were Mujahideen. “Those guys were tough. Killed tons of those dirty Commie Russians.”
Baheer shrugged. “It’s hard to know. Mujahideen schools were no good. They make their own math books. Two plus two? Their book says two guns plus two guns equals four guns.”
“They’re not wrong, I guess.” Joe laughed.
Baheer laughed, too. “Everything with them is more fighting. It must stop.”
“Yes. It must. I guess that’s why we’re here,” Joe said. “So you learned English in Pakistan?”
“Yes, there I was studying English. But now, I go to school here in Farah. And I am working to better my English.”
“Why?” Joe wondered. “Why are you learning English? Do you want to work as an interpreter?”
“I am too young,” Baheer said. “I have been thinking about this a lot. You will laugh. My idea is a silly dream.”
“No, I won’t,” Joe promised. “I want to be a writer. I’m a sucker for silly dreams.”
“My grandfather reads many great books, Afghanistan’s and Iran’s great old books. He talks about how good my country used to be. And why it is bad?” Baheer shrugged. “I think the Taliban? They were ignorant. They could not read. They knew nothing, especially not the Holy Quran. So, maybe . . . maybe we need school. We will know more, build more, do better. The Taliban hate girls going to school. I say send the girls to school! The Taliban say one thing, then we do the other thing. I want to maybe be a teacher, or Insha Allah, I want to make a new school that teaches English and also Afghan culture.” He laughed. “But right now, I just study and help with the trucks.”
Joe was about to ask more about Baheer’s dream school, but Baheer continued with his own question: “What city are you from?”
“You wouldn’t know if I told you.” Joe laughed a little. “I’m from a tiny town called Riverside, in a state . . . er . . . a province called Iowa. In the middle of America. All green corn fields. The opposite of this desert.”
“You are a soldier there?” Baheer asked.
“It’s hard to explain,” said Joe. He did his best to tell Baheer about the Army National Guard, and how, since 9/11—especially since the war had expanded to Iraq—the Guard had been activated a lot.
“You study at university?”
“Journalism.” Joe saw that Baheer didn’t seem to understand. “I’m learning to write for newspapers and magazines.” He thought maybe he could show Baheer. “Here, I’ll show you my notebook. Wait, can you read English or only speak it?”
“I speak it better than I read, but I can read it a little,” Baheer said.
Joe reached into his pocket for the notebook so he could show Baheer some of the news stories he’d been trying to write, but when he pulled it out, an envelope from the last mail call fell to the ground. The wind picked up at that moment, and the paper skittered along the ground.
Baheer rushed for it, snapping it up and handing it back to Joe. “What is this?”
Joe smiled. “That is a letter from a very beautiful girl at my university that I started talking to before I had to come here.”
Baheer looked up to the cab as if to see if his uncle was listening. He took a few steps away from the truck and spoke quietly. “And this is allowed? It is OK with her family for her to write to you this letter?”
Wow. He’s not even allowed to communicate through letters with a girl? Afghanistan was growing on him, but Joe couldn’t help but pity Baheer for growing up in such a gender-segregated society. He hoped that with the Taliban out of the way, some of that would start to change. “Yes.” He was careful not to sound condescending as he explained. “A letter is innocent. Not for you?”
Baheer shook his head. “No, no! We do not speak to girls outside of our family.” He glanced nervously up at the truck again and spoke even more quietly. “We do not even speak about girls outside our family.”
“Wow,” Joe said. “I don’t want to sound like I’m bashing on your country, but I’m sorry to hear that. Lindsey is pretty great. I hope to ask her out on a date when I get home.”
“What is this date?” Baheer asked.
“Oh.” How can I explain this? “It is when two people go to dinner or to a movie, and they talk and get to know each other. And maybe they will have feelings for each other. You know, romantic feelings? Like, eventually love.”
Baheer shook his head again. He looked super embarrassed, like Joe had just been talking about the most pornographic stuff in the world.
“We do not have dates here,” Baheer said. He was quiet a long time. He wiped his sweaty brow. “I am going to tell you a secret. You must tell absolutely no one. There is this girl I have seen when I walk to school. I do not know her name. That would be unthinkable for me to know her name. To me she is Mystery Girl. I would like to communicate with her, but this is not done.”
It almost seemed like Baheer was asking Joe’s permission, and although Joe was glad Baheer felt he could trust him, Joe wasn’t sure how strongly he should advise him. “Well, I’m not going to tell you what to do. It’s a . . . well, a complicated system you have here. But you say stuff like ‘this is not done.’”
“It isn’t!” Baheer said. He immediately checked himself and looked back to the cab of the truck to see if he’d been overheard.
“Yeah, well, about a year ago if you’d talked about people openly listening to music or girls going to school, you’d also have said ‘this is not done here.’”
Baheer looked at him, then looked away. That seemed to be the end of that subject. Joe wondered if Baheer knew what he meant. “It’s a new Afghanistan, man.” Maybe the old ways had to change.
