Enduring Freedom, page 20
“Yeah, about that,” Joe said. “I was promoted to the rank of specialist.”
“Oh, this is good news,” Baheer said. “Do you have some free time? I have a new football, er, soccer ball in the truck. We could kick it around a—”
“Actually, rafiq.” Joe jerked his thumb back toward the CA building. “I need you to come with me. The PRT commander and some other guys are waiting for us back there. We need to hurry.”
Joe met Baheer’s worried eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, rafiq. I did everything I could.”
“What do you mean?” Baheer said. “Killian, what’s happening?”
Back in the meeting room of the CA building, everybody stood up and greeted Baheer with a smile. Even Lieutenant Colonel Santiago mostly succeeded in putting on a happy face.
“Welcome, Baheer!” Jase said. “Come on in and have a seat.” Jase made all the introductions. “And of course you already know Specialist Killian.”
Joe’s cheeks were burning. He could see Baheer’s discomfort, even fear, in the way he looked around and fidgeted with the bottom of his shirt.
“Is there a problem with one of my family’s deliveries, sir?” Baheer asked.
“No. There’s no problem. In fact—” Jase reached down into a backpack beside his chair and pulled out a thick stack of cash, slapping it on the coffee table before Baheer. Joe watched it with wide eyes. Are they all ten-dollar bills? A stack of tens that big has to add up. “I myself and these other two you see with me in plain civilian clothes work for people who are very interested in learning as much information as they can in order to protect American soldiers and Afghan local nationals. They were very impressed with what you were able to find out about that truck full of explosives that the Taliban stole. You saved a lot of lives, Baheer. You’re kind of a hero. So we want you to have this, just to say thank you. There’s a thousand American dollars there.”
Baheer stared at the money for a long time. He shot a glance at Joe, then looked at the money again. “Sir, I cannot accept this money. My family only wants to drive trucks and be paid for our work.”
“Sure.” Jase reached over and slid the money closer to Baheer. “We want you to keep on truckin’. But we’d also like you to know we’re your friends, and if you hear anything else about the Taliban, stuff that might help us save more lives, please let us know.”
“I don’t want to work for you,” Baheer said. “I only want to help my father and uncles drive trucks. We are not soldiers, sir. We’re not in the war.”
“Of course,” Jase said. “I don’t want you to work for me. In fact it would work best if you keep driving your truck, and just let Specialist Killian know if you hear anything.”
Lieutenant Colonel Santiago had been watching Baheer closely. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “That thousand dollars is close to something like fifty thousand afghanis,” Santiago said in his deep voice. “Take the money. It will help your family. There’s no pressure here. You’re not in trouble with us if you find nothing. But in the last two months, the other PRTs around the country have reported over a dozen suspicious truck robberies just like the one you told us about. Your family works driving trucks. Maybe you’ll find something else that might help us. Maybe we’ll have more money to give you.”
They’re making him feel like garbage. Why can’t they just let him go? Joe watched Lieutenant Colonel Santiago, the highest- ranking officer at the PRT, in all of Farah Province, a man everybody knew was not to be messed with. He might chew Joe out or put him on a tedious work detail for speaking up, but Joe knew he couldn’t just sit there.
“Baheer has made his feelings about this pretty clear,” Joe said, his cheeks flaring hot. “He doesn’t want to be involved in intelligence work. He’s no spy. It’s too dangerous.” And if anything goes wrong we can’t protect him. But he didn’t say as much since Santiago glared at him with his icy, intense stare.
“I have no information,” Baheer said. “I cannot take this money. It is, how you say? I saw in a movie once—it is blood money. I will not accept. My family and I only want to continue driving our trucks to transport your supplies. Please, sir. That is all, please, sir,” Baheer said.
Lieutenant Colonel Santiago stood up and everybody rose with him. He looked intently at Baheer for a long moment before pushing the cash back to Jase. “I understand your fear. I do. But you really did a great thing, telling us what you did. You saved many lives. I think you’re a good man who will be willing to save more lives if you get the opportunity. Thank you for helping us and for helping your country.”
“I’m so sorry,” Joe said to Baheer a moment later, as he walked him back to his jingle truck. “I tried so hard to get them to leave you alone. I explained you didn’t want to be part of . . . of their stupid spy games. But there wasn’t much I could do when the PRT commander showed up.”
“It is OK,” Baheer eventually said. “I knew this could happen when I told you about the stolen truck. Hopefully it is over.”
“This is going to be the worst, most lonely Christmas of my life,” Joe said several weeks later as he walked with his squad across the PRT toward the front gate. They were just seven guys (Sergeant Hart and Specialist Shockley weren’t interested) on their way to the Christmas Eve all-denomination worship service.
“That’s pretty optimistic,” said Corporal MacDonald. “You might have much worse Christmases after this.”
Baccam slapped his back. “And you’re stuck living with us. Cookmaster says he’s got a big pan of baked beans to serve with our Christmas dinner tonight. You listen to and smell all our farts all night and then try to say you’re alone.”
“I spent last Christmas living under a bridge of a freeway overpass,” Specialist Quinn spoke up. “This Christmas I get a big meal, a bed. We got a heater in our room.” The Mighty Quinn hoisted up his SAW, looking along its sights as if he were aiming up at the distant mountain visible over the top of the wall. “Rumor is they’re taking volunteers for deployment extensions. I’m gonna stay here in Afghanistan as long as they let me. I’ll just keep doing this, reenlisting, stay deployed. I’ll save up my money, and when we win this war and they make me go home, I’m gonna buy a few acres along the Cedar or Iowa River, buy a trailer house on the bank, up on blocks for when it floods. Then I’ll get some job. Whatever. And at night I come home and fish right off my deck.”
The squad walked along in silence for a long moment, the only sound the ever-present generator near the gate and the crunch of their boots on the gravel floor of the PRT. It was the most any of them had ever heard the Mighty Quinn say at one time before.
“Except for the part about staying in the Army longer, that sounds like the most perfect plan I’ve ever heard of,” Mac said.
Joe and the guys laughed.
Specialists Dodge and Welch were on gate guard duty. Joe felt bad for them. It was a miserably cold day to be out there.
“Hey, Killer!” Dodge shouted. “This guy here says you invited him or something? We’re supposed to be shutting down the gate! I’m not staying on duty longer for you! You get up here and take care of this!”
Joe jogged up to the gate, grabbing the barrel of his ever-present M16 so it didn’t keep flopping into his side as he ran. “Yeah! I’ll close up. Merry Christmas, you guys.” Outside the gate, Baheer stood shivering in the dark, holding a cloth bundle in his hands.
“Happy Christmas!” Baheer said, moving to place his feet between the two stacks of sandbags to be searched.
“You kidding?” Joe shouted. “Come on! I’m not feeling up any dudes this Christmas.” He pointed at the cloth-wrapped bundle Baheer carried. “Unless that’s a bomb.”
“It is the most new-baked naan I could get,” Baheer said. “Still warm a little.”
“Awesome,” Joe said. Afghan naan had turned out to be one of his favorite foods in the world. He’d had naan once in an Indian restaurant in Iowa City, but it wasn’t as light and soft and good as Afghan naan.
“Baheer!” Mac shouted when the two of them came back inside the compound and Joe locked the gate. “Merry Christmas, man! You still hanging out with this sad-sack Killer, here?”
“He says you Americans are supposed to have a big Christmas feast tonight.” Baheer held up his bundle. “I brought naan because I know you people will never get your food right. Probably just MREs.”
The squad laughed. Joe was pleased to see Baheer had figured out the art of giving the guys crap.
“Yeah, your favorite. Pork MREs.” Joe laughed.
Baheer shrugged, grinning. “Yeah, you eat up that pig meat. If you want to go to Dozakh. It will not bother me.”
“I think he just told us to go to Hell,” Mac said. “He’d be a good soldier.”
In the CA building’s main meeting room, the mood was a little more serious. Master Sergeant Dinsler was preparing to lead the worship service.
Joe and Baheer sat next to each other on plastic chairs dragged in for the occasion.
“Everybody sit tight while I hurry and get the worship- music CD I forgot in the barracks.” Master Sergeant Dinsler laughed. “I remembered the CD player but forgot the disc.”
This was Joe’s chance. “Speaking of CDs.” He unbuttoned the cargo pocket on his pants and pulled out a sweet new Sony Discman portable CD player and four mix CDs he’d had Krista burn on the computer at home.
“Yeah, and you better appreciate this,” Mac blurted out. “They weren’t even going to fly our mail out here in time for Christmas. Some general ordered a flight last minute. Chinook lands and the crew must have been pretty mad to have to fly on Christmas Eve ’cause they started throwing our sacks of mail and packages out onto the ground. Rotor wash blowing letters and cards all over.”
“That is terrible,” Baheer said.
“Yes!” Mac said. “It was terrible. So Shockley and I go right up on the back ramp of the bird, right in this officer’s face.” Mac held out his hand in the classic Army knife-hand gesture. “Hey! I don’t care what you rank! You throw our stuff all over Afghanistan, I’m gonna throw you!”
Baccam laughed. “Shockley was all, ‘You serve the cushy life on the big airbase! We’re in a forward area! What’s the matter with you? These are people’s Christmas presents.’”
PFC Zimmerman shook his head. “Corporal MacDonald and Specialist Shockley getting along and working together. A Christmas miracle.”
Joe handed the gift to Baheer. “Anyway, it’s a CD player, top-of-the-line Discman with bass boost and anti-shock. Headphones and four CDs with really good American music old and new.”
Baheer looked it all over with a smile. “Tashakor, rafiq.”
“Are batteries available in Afghanistan?” Joe asked. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Would Baheer just run out of batteries and the Discman would be useless?
“Yes, we have batteries.” Baheer laughed. “Sometimes you Americans think Afghanistan is a different planet. Yes! We have batteries.”
The master sergeant and three of the Afghan interpreters who lived next door to the CA building returned, and the worship service began. Joe looked around the room as they opened in prayer. All of the Americans, save for two Catholics, were Protestant of one denomination or another. This was their usual situation, and it wasn’t hard to work around. The Catholics simply mumbled as the Protestants finished the Lord’s Prayer. What was unusual was to be joined in prayer by four Muslims.
“. . . And we ask, Lord, by whatever name each of us calls you, that you please bless our mission, and please protect us as we all work together to stop evil and help the good people of Afghanistan build a better society for themselves. Amen,” said Master Sergeant Dinsler.
“Amen,” said the soldiers.
“Ameen,” said the Afghans.
Next they sang “Silent Night” and even one of the interpreters joined in.
“I am sorry,” Baheer spoke up after the song. “I am trying to listen to the words in the song. What does this mean? What is this Christmas? I know it is important to Americans, but why do you celebrate?”
“I’ll tell you what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown,” Mac joked. He summarized the story of Mary and Joseph finding no room at the inn as well as the birth of Jesus and his manger for a crib.
Baheer moved forward in his seat so fast, he nearly dropped his Discman. “Yes! Mary is mentioned in our Holy Quran. We call her Maryam. But in our Holy Quran Mary is not with Joseph. The Quran story of the birth of Jesus is very different. In the Holy Quran the baby Jesus speaks to a crowd of people even when he is still a newborn.” The interpreters nodded their agreement.
Joe watched the eagerness with which Baheer spoke. Since 9/11 there had been a lot of discussion about Islam, some condemning it as a violent cult, others defending it as a religion of peace. How in all this time have I never heard anyone talk about the Quran including a story about the birth of Jesus?
The four Afghans seemed to compete for who could tell the most about similarities between the Bible and the Quran. “We have ‘Yaqub’ for Jacob and ‘Abraheem’ for Abraham.”
As the group continued to marvel at the similarities and laugh about the differences between the two sets of scripture, Joe grew quiet, sitting back to watch and listen. Before he came to Afghanistan, he never would have thought something like this would be possible. “Before 9/11, I never thought very much about Islam. Then suddenly these handful of—” He stopped himself. “These people who attacked us were talking about Islam.”
“Those evil men are not Muslim!” Baheer blurted out. “The Holy Quran says—”
“I know!” Joe said. “I know that now. But back on 9/11, I never could have imagined that all of us could pray together like this. And it would be . . .” He struggled to find the right words. Come on, Joe! You’re supposed to be a writer! “I mean, this has been so easy.”
“I know, right?” Baccam said.
“Why can’t the rest of the world just relax and get along like this?” Joe asked.
They were all quiet for a moment after that. Finally Master Sergeant Dinsler smiled. “That’s a good question, Specialist. And before we head over to the chow hall for our Christmas dinner why don’t we close out our worship with a prayer about everybody getting along?”
Their deployment continued through January, and the soldiers were surprised when it finally rained. In the engineering and construction of the big, squared, walled-in PRT compound, nobody had thought about drainage. Why would they, when for many months they had hardly seen one cloud? Their shortsightedness caused a lot of trouble when, in a cold, heavy late January rain, soldiers had to scramble with pickaxes to create drainage holes in a few places at the foundation of the wall.
The rain also changed the desert in ways for which the soldiers were unprepared. Many convoy missions to distant villages were foiled or severely impeded by Humvees getting stuck in soupy mud that had looked reasonably solid on approach. Even when the desert appeared dry, it often tricked them, sucking their wheels down into deep, powdery sand that would swamp their vehicles almost as bad as the mud.
Because of all this, long-distance convoys were suspended, and soldiers were restricted to local missions. It was on one such mission that First Squad found themselves in early February.
Jase and his THT guys stood around outside their Toyota Hilux pickup, all of them wearing sunglasses, khaki or green civilian pants and sweatshirts, and 9-mil. handguns in drop holsters strapped to their thighs. The guy who went by the name Andy wore his camouflage Miami Dolphins hat.
As usual, Jase spoke for the group. “One of our local HumInt assets made us aware of an underground concrete bunker, sort of a giant cave, packed with unexploded ordnance. Now we have hired some Afghan workers to move all that UXO out of the cave and load it onto trucks”—Jase paused and nodded at Joe—“trucks owned by your friend’s family, which will then transport the UXO north to Herat to be destroyed by US explosive ordnance disposal units.” He put his hands on his hips. “All you guys have to do is provide security and make sure none of the workers run off with any explosives or ammunition.”
“Right,” Sergeant Paulsen said. “Specialist Killian, why don’t you run to the terp building and grab us an interpreter for this—”
“Oh, no, Sergeant Paulsen,” Jase interrupted. “We’re cool. We got Ahmad, our terp.”
“You sure?” Paulsen asked.
“Yeah. Let’s roll. It’s no problem.”
When First Squad arrived on site and surveyed the bunker, Corporal MacDonald said, “I think we have a problem. All these months we’ve been in Farah, and the whole time this arsenal has been down here?”
The large cave was dug down into the earth, leading to two big chambers. Old, rusted mortar rounds were stacked along one wall of the entry tunnel. In the first chamber, piled from the floor to the high domed ceiling, were wooden crates containing old, never-touched-after-the-factory Soviet mortars. A smaller second room contained belts of rusted machine gun rounds, loose bullets, more corroded mortars, and even old, cracked Soviet antipersonnel mines.
Specialist Quinn groaned. “Oh, this is going to take a long time.”
Nobody in First Squad was a mortar man, but their basic working wasn’t hard to figure out.
“It’s worse than just taking a long time,” said Corporal MacDonald. He held one of the big steel turkey- drumstick-shaped mortars by the narrow end in his left hand, and with his right, he tried to unscrew and remove the cone-shaped fuse sticking out of the fat tip of the other end. “I take it if this fuse gets knocked around too much, it will explode the mortar.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “So, we just twist them. They’ll screw right out to disarm.”
