Enduring Freedom, page 18
“Sure. Of course.” Baheer’s words cut through a flood of conflicting feelings and ideas.
Farah, Afghanistan
October 4, 2003
That night, Joe and a bunch of other soldiers were gathered in the new recreation building, all with their cardboard trays from the chow hall. They sat on the floor or on upside-down buckets if they could find them, waiting for the last of the guys interested in watching the movie to get their food and join the group.
An explosion rocked in from the distance like a sharp crack of thunder.
The crude jokes, laughter, and stupid conversations froze silent.
Joe closed his eyes and didn’t move, a bite of chicken on his fork inches from his mouth. Come on. Not tonight. Can’t we just watch the movie? First Squad was on Quick Reaction Force. If there were any emergencies that required a rapid response, they’d call for QRF.
But nothing happened. The guys went back to talking, Joe ate that bite of chicken, and they started the movie. But just as on the screen the Rebel Alliance shut down the main reactor on the blockade runner, they heard the leaders shouting from across the PRT and radio traffic on the half dozen handhelds in the room lit up.
“Let’s go, Del-tah!” First Sergeant Dalton shouted over the radio. “Full battle rattle! QRF to your vehicles!”
“Didn’t even get to eat,” Baccam said. Soldiers left their food trays on the floor and the movie still running as they sprinted out of the rec building to their stations.
Outside, the Tactical Human inTelligence guys were gathered around Captain Higgins.
“Sir,” Jase said. “If you want, we can put on our Afghan clothes and go into town. We could blend in with the local nationals and see what they’re saying about what’s going on.”
“Blend in?” Mac said quietly to the squad. “They’re bright white and don’t speak the language. Do they think the Afghans won’t guess that they’re Americans?”
“Um, no thanks, Jase,” said Captain Higgins. “Better stay here. But, um . . . wow. Thanks.” The captain rushed toward the command center. The THT guys wandered off to do whatever it was they did.
When a squad was on standby for QRF, they left all their gear, save for their individually assigned weapons, in the QRF Humvees. As Joe and the rest of First Squad were finishing scrambling into their armor vests, Lieutenant Riley ran up in armor and a helmet, 9-mil. strapped to his thigh. Their chief medic, Master Sergeant Dinsler, another medic named Specialist Gooding, and one of their Afghan interpreters were with him. The lieutenant pointed at the vehicles. “First Squad! Let’s go! Mount up!”
Staff Sergeant Cavanaugh shouted, “Alpha Team, Humvee one! Bravo Team, number two! Have your night- vision goggles ready!”
Joe fought to keep his hands from shaking as he clicked the four-inch single-eye night-vision scope onto the flip-down mount on the front of his Kevlar. He was suited up, but he wasn’t sure he was ready.
“Move it!” Sergeant Paulsen shouted. “Baccam, drive. Killer on turret. Mac—”
“Ride behind the driver and try to stay awake,” Mac said.
“What do we got?” PFC Zimmerman asked as the squad scrambled into their armored Humvees.
Not knowing mission details was not unusual. Their job was to provide security for the CA soldiers who would be rolling out in a small civilian SUV. The squad rarely knew why they were going somewhere or what the CA guys would be doing, only that they had to protect them and the vehicles. The system had annoyed Joe at first. The journalist in him was always hungry for information, but he was getting used to not knowing much by now.
What I’m not used to is scrambling to roll out on QRF after an explosion has gone off somewhere. No time to think about it now. Do your job, Killian. Move!
Joe put his foot on the front bumper and heaved himself onto the hood of Humvee two. Two steps and a jump put him on the roof of the vehicle, and then he dropped into the circle hole of a turret, leaving only the top half of his body still visible outside. He unzipped and removed the light blue nylon cover from the Mk 19 in front of him on Humvee two’s roof, dropping the cover onto the empty rear passenger seat. He unslung his M16 and lowered it into the vehicle, too, before gripping the handles of the Mk 19. Ahead, Alpha Team’s Humvee spit gravel, racing toward the gate, with Shockley on the .50-cal. machine gun that pointed forward. The Toyota Land Cruiser with the two medics, the Afghan interpreter, and Lieutenant Riley followed.
Baccam peeled out after them. Joe pulled the turret release lever and twisted his body to rotate his Mk 19 to cover the rear, steadying himself with one hand on the gun’s handle and the other on the support strut that held the turret hatch open. Down in the Humvee, Mac yanked the charging handle on top of his rifle to chamber a round. Joe flipped up the Mk 19 feed tray cover, set the chain of 40-millimeter grenades in place past the feed pawl, and slapped the cover back down, the standard posture for their missions so far.
“Killer,” Paulsen called out. “Lock and load. Keep the safety on till you need to fire.”
“OK. Here we go,” Joe whispered. The situation must be really serious if he’d been ordered to chamber a round. That procedure on the Mk 19 was a bit tricky, requiring solid manpower. If a soldier didn’t give it full strength, the link holding the lead grenade to the chain of grenades wouldn’t break right, and the weapon would jam up. He pulled the charging handles back until the bolt locked to the rear. Then he hit the butterfly trigger, sending the bolt slamming forward to grab and position the lead grenade. The second pull was much harder. He yanked the charging handles with everything he had, breaking the grenade away from the others. With the bolt locked in the open position, the weapon was ready. He checked the safety switch below the trigger to make sure bumping the trigger wouldn’t accidentally fire a bunch of grenades.
The sun had nearly set. “Quiet, everyone!” Sergeant Paulsen shouted. “Delta Actual, this is One, Bravo. Go ahead, over.” Silence while Paulsen listened to whatever came over the net. “Roger. One, Bravo out.” He shouted to everyone, “The UN compound was bombed. Multiple casualties.”
A fresh wave of dread hit Joe. Baheer was supposed to be helping with a delivery to the UN compound tonight. If these Taliban monsters . . . Joe shook his head. Focus. Do the job.
Paulsen continued. “We’re gonna close the street in front of the place. Lead vehicle will stop beyond the compound, Land Cruiser will park in front, and we’ll stop short of the compound. Killian, the commander doesn’t want you shooting a bunch of grenades in the tight space downtown. Leave the gun ready in case the Taliban show up way down the street and we need heavy firepower. We’ll all dismount and establish security perimeter. The medics may call some of us to go inside and cover them.”
Joe let out a long breath. That was one bit of good news in this mess. He’d been wondering what he was supposed to do with a grenade-launching machine gun downtown right next to the bazaar. The Mk 19 wasn’t a surgical-precision fire weapon.
The convoy passed the mountain of fifty-gallon drums at Farah’s main fuel distribution point, the cemetery with its crude headstones and human-shaped mounds, and the police checkpoint, and then they were onto the paved bazaar road, passing more and more people and vehicles as they went along. A few more turns and they were on the right street, with the UN compound four blocks away.
Bright flash.
A boom!
The Humvee braked hard, throwing Joe toward the front of the vehicle, his ears ringing from the explosion. His back hit the turret lid, his head snapped up, and then he bounced forward, his front armor plate crashing into the rear of his gun.
“Secondary explosion!” Paulsen shouted. “Scan your sector, Killer, these guys aren’t done!”
As their Humvee rolled ahead again, Joe regained his footing and watched behind his convoy. More than anything, Joe wanted to turn around to see what was happening. He wanted to see if Baheer’s family’s jingle truck was at the UN compound. Screams. Shouting. He couldn’t look. He had his sector to cover.
“Get ready to dismount fast!” Paulsen shouted as the vehicle slowed. “Now! Go!Go!Go!”
Joe grabbed his M16 and was out of the turret, scrambling down. He jumped, having just missed stepping on a bloody human hand, shredded at the forearm. This can’t be real, can’t be happening. Focus, Joe!
“I’ll cover down the street,” Joe said, glancing to his guys so he could get his interval right.
A Land Rover burned in front of the UN compound, its top shredded. The explosion had collapsed part of the compound wall. More blood, debris, and human . . . stuff . . . littered the street.
Joe chambered a round in his M16, keeping the safety on. “You wanted real war, Joe?” he whispered to himself. “This is too real.” It was getting dark, but the burning vehicle lit the place up too bright for night vision to work, and it cast a bunch of areas in shadow, giving the enemy concealment.
Like that day he and Paulsen had hurried to the roof, Joe’s heart thundered through his body, his breathing came heavy, and his thoughts flew: Are they coming?When are they coming?We got no cover out here.Shoot fast if anyone makes a move.
A crowd of Afghans gathered on his side of the perimeter. Joe tried to hold them back. “Boro! You people gotta leave! Taliban could hit us again!” Where’s an interpreter when I need one? The terp they’d brought with them must have gone into the compound with the medics to offer assistance.
The problem was, this road was the center of Farah’s shopping district. Joe could tell from the pointing and sacks of goods that people had been shopping and were now trapped by the soldiers’ barricade.
One man tried to walk through. “Road’s closed! Back up!” Joe hurried in front of him to push the man back. “Boro!”
“Mac!” Sergeant Paulsen yelled. “Get inside with the medics. Got a radio?”
“Roger that, Sergeant!” Mac answered.
“I need help keeping these people back,” Joe called to the others.
“Baccam, shift over there,” said Sergeant Paulsen.
A jingle truck slowed to a halt behind the crowd, engine still running.
“No way that truck comes through here!” Sergeant Paulsen shouted. “Shoot the tires. Shoot out the radiator. Whatever you have to do. They are not driving that thing through here. In fact we need to back that truck up. Could be loaded with explosives.”
The passenger door on the jingle truck swung open, and Baheer swung out, surveying the area.
Joe perked up. Thank God! He’s alive. “The truck’s no bomb, Sergeant Paulsen,” Joe shouted back to his team leader without taking his eyes off his sector. He beckoned to Baheer. “Come here! I need your help. I need a terp.”
“I need to get home,” Baheer said.
Joe wanted Baheer as far from the area as possible, but without Baheer’s help, even more people would be in danger. Move fast. Get all these civvies, including Baheer, out of here.
“Come on,” said Joe, looking Baheer in the eye.
Baheer appeared nervous, taking in the horrible scene. Then he ducked back into the cab, and when he emerged, his head and most of his face was wrapped in a shawl.
What’s he doing? “Baheer! Help me help your people! Please. Tell them they cannot pass through here. The Taliban might attack again. If they do, people here are going to get hurt. Tell them to leave. Now.” Joe bit his lip and tried not to think of the boy on the roof as he brought his weapon up a little. “Tell them I have orders to shoot anyone who tries to come through here.”
Baheer made his way through the crowd to Joe’s side. “You would shoot—”
“No, Baheer, but just tell them that to make them leave. Now translate! Hurry!”
Baheer talked to the crowd. Some men argued. “Hey!” Joe showed his rifle.
Baheer kept talking. Gradually the crowd retreated.
“Thanks, man,” said Joe. “Can you help out my guys on the other side of our perimeter?”
“Let me get my uncle out of here.” Baheer ran to his truck and shouted up to the cab. The driver argued with him for a moment but then finally seemed to calm down, and the truck began a six-point turn so it could head back the way it had come.
“Bah—” Joe stopped himself. Maybe Baheer doesn’t want to be recognized here. Joe shouted to his squad, “Our friend is coming through! He speaks English.” To Baheer he added, “Go quickly. Tell anyone on the other side the same thing you said here, then get home!”
“Bale,” Baheer said.
“Hey.” Joe grabbed Baheer by the shoulder. “Tashakor.”
Baheer nodded and ran, already shouting at the crowd down the street. Soon Joe didn’t hear him anymore, and Joe assumed he must have cleared them out.
Eventually someone extinguished the vehicle fire, and Joe scanned the empty street through his green-tinted night-vision scope. The place settled into an eerie quiet save for warnings from his leadership to stay alert and the voices echoing from the compound. “Put pressure right there! Hold it! You gotta really press on it! Hold that IV bag up, I’ll run . . . there. That’s gonna need a tourniquet. He’s gonna lose that leg. Twist that, Corporal! Tighter!”
Hours later, Corporal MacDonald returned, blood soaking his uniform sleeves, the front of his armor vest, and his pants down to his knees. A red-brown streak swept across the right side of his face.
Joe risked looking away from the dark empty street before him, flipping his night-vision scope up to look at Mac in the little light out there. The guy looked like a zombie, exhausted, wide-eyed, kind of in a trance. I’m so glad I didn’t have to go in there.
“You OK, Corporal?” Baccam asked.
Mac pulled a canteen from its pouch near his waist, unscrewed the top, took a long drink, and poured water on his face, trying to scrub the blood off. He took another drink.
Then he bent over and threw up.
Farah, Afghanistan
October 6, 2003
A cool breeze brought a chill to the gray evening as Baheer stood on the roof of his house, watching his cousins Patoo and Roma kick a ball around the back courtyard. They kept trying to get Maryam and Sapoora to play, but the two older girls preferred to sit beneath the mulberry tree talking about whatever girls talked about. Baheer backed up a little and sat down on the dome roof to avoid being seen. He didn’t want to play either. The last time he’d come up here to get away from his family and to think, he’d been filled with hope about school.
Now Baheer’s insides were seized by a mixture of guilt, doubt, fear, and—as had been a constant for the past two days—the horror of what he’d seen outside the United Nations compound Saturday night. So much fire. So much blood. He’d stepped right over a human hand. Five Afghans and a United Nations woman from Germany had been killed by the blasts. If the Taliban had timed the second explosion better, they would have killed several Americans.
If Uncle Feraidoon and I had made our delivery a little earlier, we’d be dead, too. Aloud, Baheer whispered, “Did I know about this? Could I have stopped it?” A week! I knew about the Taliban’s stolen explosives for a whole week and I did nothing! But he didn’t know if the explosives used at the United Nations compound were the same ones the Taliban stole from the man Haji Dilawar had spoken of to Baba Jan. The Taliban blew stuff up a lot. “This isn’t my fault,” he whispered.
“What’s not your fault?” Baba Jan said from behind him. Baheer jumped. He’d whispered too loudly. Baba Jan chuckled. “Sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”
“No. no. It’s OK,” Baheer said. “I’m fine.”
“I do not think you’ve been fine since Saturday night.” Baba Jan grunted as he sat down next to Baheer. “That bombing was a terrible thing. I give thanks and praise to Allah the Most Merciful for sparing my son and my grandson.”
“Not everyone was spared,” Baheer said very quietly.
“No,” Baba Jan agreed. “You know I have worked hard all my life. My sons work hard. And now you work hard. I have insisted upon this because it is every man’s duty to make a better life for his family if he can. Allah says in the Holy Quran chapter Al-Jumu’a in verses 9 and 10, ‘O ye who believe! When the call is proclaimed To prayer on Friday (The Day of Assembly), Hasten earnestly to the Remembrance Of God, and leave off Business (and traffic): That is best for you If ye but knew! And when the Prayer Is finished, then may ye Disperse through the land, And seek of the Bounty of God . . .’ Seek of the Bounty of God. Even on our day of prayer, Friday, we are encouraged to work hard . . .”
This was a new idea for Baheer, but before he could deeply consider it, Baba Jan continued, “But we have to have faith in Him, the Almighty.”
“You have provided a better life for all of us, Baba Jan,” Baheer said. “Tashakor.”
“But the one thing I have never been able to provide for long was peace.” Baba Jan stroked his gray beard. “Food, yes. The chance to go to school, yes. And we have been blessed sometimes with a bit of extra money, so I have paid zakat and given money and food in charity in the name of Allah as he asks us in chapter 2, verse 110, ‘And be steadfast in prayer and regular in charity.’” He was quiet for a moment. “We can plow the fields. We can read all the books. But we cannot seem to stop the fighting.” From the courtyard below echoed the sound of the girls laughing and screaming as they played. “It is never easy to see these violent things. When I was younger I saw what a Soviet helicopter gunship had done to a line of cars filled with Afghans. When the cursed infidels had finally flown away, we rushed from our hiding to see if we could help those who had been shot. Oh. I nearly wept. There was nothing we could do for those people. There were no people left. We were far too late.”
