My Share of the Task (51 page)

*   *   *

T
he first few days in Kabul, before I began the listening tour, were a whirlwind. I met with other Western leaders in Kabul, including U.S. ambassador Karl Eikenberry, as well as officials from NATO, the U.N., and ISAF nations. But my most important visit was to President Hamid Karzai on June 14, the day after I arrived in his country.

I'd never met Karzai, but I had watched from afar his evolution as his nation's chief executive. I sensed he had grown frustrated working with foreign governments and organizations that both provided necessary assistance and applied constant pressure. But a strong relationship with him was essential. On the recommendation of one of my aides, I put on my green army service dress uniform, one I typically wore only when forced to do so. I wanted to show respect for Afghanistan's head of state.

This visit, like the countless others that followed, had a similar rhythm and feel. We drove out of ISAF's compound and south on Bibi Mahru Road, a wide old boulevard now truncated by checkpoints and blast wall barriers. We passed the Spanish ambassador's residence, housed in a graceful old mansion, and after another checkpoint entered a traffic circle with an old building, now used by U.S. intelligence and overlooked by a machine-gun position mounted on a guard tower, on our left. It was near this circle in 1996 that the Taliban had coaxed former president Mohammed Najibullah from his refuge in the U.N. headquarters, then tortured and reportedly castrated him before hanging him for public display. The drive was a grim reminder of the perils of Afghan politics.

We drove straight and entered the palace grounds. The palace had the look of an old fort, but its location on low ground meant serious defense was never intended. The stone walls enclosed a compound of inner buildings, a courtyard, and modest but pleasant gardens. As we arrived, workers were repairing outer walls and some of the inner buildings, but the heaviest damage had been fixed a few years before. Even in its heyday, I suspect the complex possessed dignity, but no Versailles–like grandeur.

President Karzai's office sat in one wing of a two-story building within the compound, not far from what had once been the quarters of the king. Security was tight and each visit took me through the President's Protective Service, or PPS. By 2009 the U.S.-trained PPS, similar to the U.S. Secret Service, had become highly professional. Many spoke English and over a year of visits and multiple trips around Afghanistan, I developed a deep respect and fondness for them as they looked out for me with almost obsessive care, often pulling me through crowds or into vehicles.

After a friendly greeting to the PPS detail on duty, and a head nod to the uniformed military guards at the door, I'd walk up a flight of stairs to a large second-floor waiting room where an array of chairs and couches held waiting visitors. Some stood nervously alone as though rehearsing in their minds what they would say to their president; others huddled in small groups in animated conversations as if plotting. Three-piece suits mixed with traditional Afghan outfits from every region of the country. On some days, I ran into noted personalities who were there seeking favors, or chatting quietly with ministers or diplomats I knew. On other days, I'd smile at bearded men in turbans, often in from distant provinces, as we sat in silence, uncomfortably separated by our languages. And I was always amused by the practiced nonchalance some officials and visitors displayed, as though entering the president of Afghanistan's office was nothing remarkable. I tried to remember that it was.

In that room I was reminded of the intricate challenge of ruling Afghanistan. Tajiks and Uzbeks from the north; Hazaras from central Afghanistan; and Pashtuns from almost every corner of the country were represented by tribal or business leaders, many of them powerful khans or landowners, carrying demands, entreaties, and sometimes threats. In addition, government officials, foreign ambassadors, and even an occasional general like me would come to convince, cajole, and pressure. The flow of people placed a nonstop succession of issues and opportunities on the desk of a president with precious few resources to provide and little direct political power. His was a perpetual balancing act to retain support, influence, and legitimacy across a diverse range of constituencies. It was a high-wire act in the stiff wind of Afghan politics.

The president was invariably punctual. An aide would open a door to the waiting room and would ask me to enter. Even if the president's previous meeting had involved heated discussion, Karzai walked to the door and warmly greeted each visitor. I learned to appreciate the physical stamina, the compartmentalization of other frustrations, and the personal self-control required of the man. Karzai was now into his eighth year of a job that was not only exhausting but dangerous.
Nearly all his predecessors—the kings and leaders of Afghanistan—had been assassinated or deposed. The Taliban energetically sought to maintain this track record, and their attempts on President Karzai's life since 2001 were sure reminders of this history.

On that day, after greeting me at the entrance to his office, he led me to a chair and sat in its twin on the other side of a small table. Two sofas accommodated other attendees, normally his chief of staff and security ministers. An aide quickly served tea.

“General McChrystal, you are most welcome to Afghanistan,” the president said in fluent English with a slight British accent. I nodded my thanks.

“I know you have been to Afghanistan many times before, and all you did commanding special forces in Iraq is most impressive,” he said. “But welcome in your new position.” He'd done his homework.

President Karzai was familiar with my background, and was clearly trying to determine what it meant for his country now that I would command. After
five American ambassadors,
eleven other ISAF commanders, and a number of other interlocutors since 9/11, Karzai found himself unsure how to deal with the United States. Back in 2001 and 2002, following the Taliban's demise, both Afghans and the West viewed Afghanistan as a place of promise. The liberation of Afghanistan was proof positive of both our military might and the justness of our cause against terror—and Karzai was lauded for his part in this project. He was honored with state dinners at the White House, and given ready audience with all the top American officials. But as the military shifted to Iraq, and Afghanistan quickly proved more obdurate than fixable, the spotlight dimmed. Late in his term, President Bush had maintained weekly video teleconferences with Karzai, something President Obama's administration opted not to continue. Now, in the summer of 2009, as Karzai ran for reelection, I sensed he was almost desperate to figure out how to balance maintaining a firm relationship with the United States while reinforcing Afghanistan's sovereignty. I also guessed he was still gauging how influential I was, and how relevant I would be to his job as the nation's leader.

While President Karzai was curious, I was, more than anything, anxious to begin defining our relationship, which I wanted to be based on candor and trust. I don't know if wearing my dress uniform that day made any difference—though Afghan confidants told me it did—but as time passed I learned to place great importance on gestures of respect, large and small, for the Afghan people and their leaders.

The need for effective, productive relationships went far beyond President Karzai. Before deploying, I had sat down with Dave Rodriguez, who began as my deputy before moving over to lead the daily battle as the commander of IJC. We'd mapped out the important Afghans and Pakistanis, and divided responsibilities for establishing relationships with them. We needed functional ties, but we aimed for durable, genuine friendships. In these early weeks, we bonded with them over small dinners in my office, battlefield circulation trips, and regular meetings. Over time those relationships proved invaluable in addressing sensitive or fast-moving situations without being slowed by formality and bureaucracy.

The effort was not without setbacks, some self-inflicted. One day that summer, we'd invited Afghan partners to a meeting at ISAF headquarters. Then–Lieutenant General Sher Mohammad Karimi, the army operations chief, was asked to come. As a young lieutenant, Karimi had won a coveted spot at Britain's Sandhurst military academy, and later had gone to Fort Benning to earn American parachute wings and slither through the chilled mud pit at Ranger School. Following the 1978 coup, that Western training made him suspect, and the communists jailed him. In prison—dead for all his family knew—Karimi lived in the same pair of clothes for eight months, and endured relentless interrogations. Just as prison was about to leave his back crippled, he was released.

Under Dr. Najibullah's rule, Karimi found work in construction, and rejoined the military amid the communist regime's decline. But he refused to join any of the ethnic factions jostling for power in the civil war, and eventually he left the army and his country and lived out Taliban rule in Peshawar, Pakistan. There, while at home translating a newsletter for the U.S. consulate, his wife called him to the television where he watched, again and again, planes colliding with the World Trade Center. Not long after, he returned to Afghanistan. He'd spent the intermittent years working to rebuild an Afghan army few in the international community seemed truly interested in.

Karimi was a critical partner, but when the soft-spoken, sixty-four-year-old general arrived at our compound that summer day, just weeks after I'd directed a closer ISAF partnership with Afghans, our guards turned him away. Though an invariably gracious man and the ultimate team player, he was humiliated, and naturally livid. After years of hearing that we were partners with Afghans, and my recent renewal of that promise, the senior Afghan planner couldn't enter a base in his own country—one that had been an Afghan military club at the beginning of his career. We had habits to break.

*   *   *

M
y command team and I began our listening tour on June 18, with a visit to Regional Command–Capital, the French-led organization responsible for the security of Kabul and some adjoining areas. Brigadier General Michel Stollsteiner, a fifty-three-year-old veteran of operations in both Africa and the Balkans, commanded the French forces. He'd been in command only twelve days when, on August 18, 2008, an estimated 140 insurgents ambushed a French patrol in the Uzbin Valley, killing ten French soldiers and wounding twenty-one. In that ambush, France suffered its heaviest loss since the 1983 barracks bombing in Beirut. Shock waves had rippled in Paris, but France had maintained her commitment to the Coalition.

While French forces were highly professional, a combination of relatively short six-month tours and limited helicopter mobility constrained their potential effectiveness. In later visits to other ISAF forces, I found that the structure, training, and operational limitations—often called “caveats,” like some nations' prohibition from conducting offensive combat operations—prevented them from being as effective as they might have been. Invariably, I sensed the limitations frustrated these forces more than they did me.

Beginning with the listening tour, I made the decision that whenever I left the headquarters to visit forces, or meet with Afghans in Kabul and beyond, I would not wear body armor. I also did not carry a weapon, or wear sunglasses. (I stuck to this for all but a few trips where I accompanied actual combat operations.) As with my decision to go on raids with TF 714, it wasn't bravado. Rather, I quickly concluded it was necessary for me to be successful in my role. For Afghans, as the commander of international troops, I was a symbol. How I appeared in their offices or in their newspapers and newscasts would significantly impact their view of the international presence writ large.

The unadorned way I presented myself was specific to Afghanistan. During the occupation of Japan, General MacArthur drove in a large, black sedan car and conducted himself aloofly. To the Japanese, accustomed to their emperor as demigod, MacArthur's model was comfortably familiar. My situation required the opposite. We needed to appear humble and aware of our status not as occupiers, but as guests. Moreover, we needed to project calm. For that reason, when I met with Afghans, were I to be half-hidden by body armor, a helmet, and a retinue of guards, it would make the whole Coalition look scared, even as we were trying to convince the Afghans that the Taliban were not to be feared.

Showing up as we did in just our cloth uniforms often elicited useful feedback from the forces I led. On one visit to Surobi, east of Kabul in the fall of 2009, Mike Hall, ISAF's senior enlisted adviser, my team, and I visited a French unit. The French officer in charge—who had a great reputation for competence and bravery—looked at me, concerned, as we were preparing to get in the armored personnel carriers to leave his base.

“
General, aren't you going to wear your body armor?” he asked.

“I think things will be all right,” I said.

“You know, General, it's funny,” he responded. “I can come back from this mission and get completely run out of this province—but I'd get back to France and probably be promoted and get a medal. But if I have one soldier killed that didn't have his body armor on, I'd be relieved of command.”

The concern wasn't limited to a single nation's forces. German, Italian, British, and American commanders echoed the French officer's lament.

Also beginning with the listening tour, and for the duration of my command, I tried to travel as lightly as I could, typically with an aide or two; Charlie Flynn, my executive officer; and Shawn Lowery, my security detail. I knew it would be difficult for me to get an unadorned, fully authentic experience at the ground level. But as much as possible, I wanted to avoid anything Potemkinesque. We sought to simply slide into units' normal routines. Even so, I knew they could easily tell me what they thought the commander wanted to hear, so Rod and Mike Hall often followed in my wake. So too did the civilian and military members of a new group I set up—the Counterinsurgency and Advisory and Assistance Team—who dispersed throughout the country. These experienced veterans spread best practices and provided me direct feedback on whether my guidance was being followed, and whether it was working.