NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (20 page)

I could, however, change our program of instruction, and how I taught the course, the forms, and decrees. Rasul seemed the most skilled translator. I gave him the go ahead to alter the translation of the POI. I also went in and made alterations in the English portion to remind myself to speak about the linguistic challenges that had surfaced. It took a couple of weeks to get that all straightened out—ON PAPER. We had to wait and see how it would go down in class.

I spent much of my downtime with the terps practicing for the courses. I knew that we’d eventually get a class and I wanted to be ready for it.

* * *

I got a call from the Farah Army mentor team. They were interested in having a class for their province logistics personnel. The class would be held on Farah’s forward operating base (FOB), and they would bring the Afghans to us. I knew this was going to cause some consternation. Farah was one of the most dangerous places in our region. Bombs, IEDs, rockets are daily occurrences. Drive into Farah and you are definitely going to take some rounds.

I walked over to the terp shack on Camp Zafar.

“Guys, we’re going to Farah.”

All three sets of eyebrows raised. Rasul looked up and said, “Okay, no problem. When do we leave?”

“Rasul, you aren’t going. It’ll be Nasrullah and me.”

Nasrullah looked up with furrowed brow. “Dave, I cannot go.”

“Why the fuck not? You’re not scheduled on holiday. And, you don’t look sick to me.”

“I can’t go, Dave.”

“If you want to keep this job, you’re going. You’re my terp. I’m going, so that means you’re going.”

“Dave, I can’t go.”

“Nasrullah, you gotta give me something more than ‘I can’t go.’ What’s the reason?”

“My mother will not let me go,” he said sheepishly.

“Get the fuck out of here. Your mother won’t let you go?!”

“No, Dave. I am serious. My mother won’t let me go.”

“Shit. That’s the real reason, uh? As big as you are, you can’t go to Farah because your momma won’t let ya go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check it out Bubba. I refuse to believe that any man who’s damn near thirty years old has to get his mommy’s permission to go anywhere. It’s unbelievable. You’re killin’ me. Fuckin’ killin’ me!”

“Sir, I am serious. Afghans are different than Americans. We live at home. We have to obey our parents. It is our duty.”

“You’re serious now. Breaking out the ‘sir’ routine on me. Well, okay. I’ll give you until tomorrow to give me a definitive answer. Part of this job is travel to the outlying areas. Even the country ass, Afghan hillbilly fundy joints. You were told that when we hired you. You acknowledged that portion of the job when we hired you. This is
unfucking believable!
My big ass, tough-looking terp is a momma’s boy.”

“Okay, Dave.”

“Tomorrow, if you come to work, it means that you’re going to Farah. If you still can’t go to Farah, don’t bother coming in. Leave now. Take the rest of the day to make your decision.”

That was the last time that I saw Nasrullah. He called me the next day to let me know that he wouldn’t be coming in. After I hung up with him, I told Rasul, “Well, dude, you’re comin’ with me! Unpucker yer ass and get ready.”

Rasul answered, “I already knew that Dave. Here is my cousin’s CV.”

By this time, I knew that we had a good guy in Rasul. If he vouched for his cousin, that was good enough for me. Rasul and his cousin Mirwais (pronounced Mer - whayz) had worked together in Chaghcharan for a few years with a Lithuanian contingent of the ISAF. They’d also worked with the United Nations in a program where they took weapons from surrendering insurgents. The “former” insurgents were then placed in a Muj repatriation program that essentially made them local militia/police in their hometowns. They were built up into a quasi-National Guard-type organization. They acted as neighborhood watch until called upon to assist the national security forces in times of emergency.

I took Mirwais’s CV to Mick Rivas and said, “This is the guy I want. No need to do any other interviews.”

“If you’re sure, we’ll call him up and bring him on board.”

“Yeah, get this guy on board. If he’s half as good as Rasul says, he’s golden.”

Mick consented but we brought in other candidates for a few other openings that had opened. Mirwais blew the other candidates away. He was proficient in translating and knew MS Office almost as well as any Army PowerPoint Ranger. We hired him about two weeks later. The bitch of it all was that Farah was cancelled. Nasrullah had quit for nothing.

C’est la vie
, my friend.

Training the Afghans

October–December 2007

We’d been working towards our first class since the moment we arrived at Camp Stone. It had been a long time coming and
finally
all that effort was bringing results. “Zach, I’m heading over at 0730hrs to wait for the students to arrive.”

“Okay, Dave. I’ll be over at about 0830hrs. Call me if you need anything.”

Just stay out of my way, I think but I say, “Okay, Zach. See you there.”

I got over to our classroom on Camp Zafar at 0735hrs. Fawad, Mirwais, and Rasul arrived about fifteen minutes later. I handed off my laptop and projector to Rasul. “Set everything up for the class. I’ll wait out here for the students with Mirwais.” I gave Mirwais a cigarette and lit it for him. There was nothing left to do but wait.

“Mirwais, man, I’m nervous as fuck. I haven’t been this nervous since drill sergeants were punkin’ my ass in basic training.”

“Don’t sweat it, Dave. What the hell are you nervous about? We know this stuff. You know it better than all of us.”

“I know. But I want this shit to be smooth.”

Class was supposed to start at 0830hrs. Mirwais and I were waiting outside when 0830hrs came and went. I walked inside the classroom. “Mirwais wait out here in case they come.”

“Yes, sir!” Mirwais said laughingly.

“Fuck you, Mirwais. Ya Muslim bastard …”

Inside the classroom, I yelled to Rasul, “Are we ready? Projector set up? Laptop on? Do we have the sign-in roster ready?”

“Everything is ready, Dave. Stop stressing.”

“Can’t help it man. First day jitters, I reckon. We’re supposed to have ten students, right?”

“Yes, Dave. Ten guys. But they’re Afghans. They’re going to be late. I guarantee it. Two or three won’t show up until tomorrow.”

“Do we have the memo for them to eat in the ANA dining facility, yet?”

“Zach is on the way with it now.”

“Well, as soon as he gets here, grab his incompetent ass, grab the memo, and make sure that our guys can eat chow in the ANA dining facility. I don’t want any problems today. Smooth. I want smooth.”

Finally, the students started arriving. It was 0915hrs. As they walked in, I shook their hands and greeted them. “
Assalaam alaykum. Subha al khair
. Please take a seat inside.”

It took nearly another half hour for all of the students to arrive. One bus had been held up at the gate. I had to send Zach and Rasul to get them in. The Army didn’t want to let the students in because they were in a civilian vehicle. Zach took one of our vans up to the gate to pick them up.

As the last of them arrived, I lit another cigarette. Rasul was busy taking their names and other information inside the classroom. Mirwais and I stood outside and finished our smokes. Finally, I looked at Mirwais and said, “Fuck it. Let’s do this.” Mirwais smiled at me. We walked inside.

This was the first time that I’d spoken in front of a group of strangers. Public speaking had never been my strong suit. “Mirwais, make sure that I don’t mumble. If I start mumbling, let me know.”

“Okay, Dave. No problem. Don’t worry. You’re the teacher. Afghans are respectful of teachers. It’s an honorable position in our culture.”

“Well then, I’d best earn it. Let’s do this.”

I waited for Rasul to finish the sign-in roster. We needed their names, family names, assigned district, duty position, and police numbers at a minimum. We tried to get cell numbers as well. Some of them had surrendered their phones at the gate. The Afghan army and police weren’t on real friendly terms. I was surprised that they’d let them drive the Ford Ranger into Camp Zafar.

When Rasul signaled that he was finished with the sign-in roster, I walked to the front of the room. “Good morning, gentlemen, I’m Dave Kaelin.” I pointed to Mirwais. “This is my translator.”

“Today is mostly a preview day. Unless everything goes really fast and smooth, we won’t get into the meat of the course until tomorrow’s class.” I paused so that Mirwais could translate for me. Consecutive translation is an excellent tool. While Mirwais was translating, I could prepare my next thoughts. That was a boon for the first class. When I got nervous, I tended to rush through things. I talked too fast and didn’t finish thoughts. Because I had to wait for Mirwais to translate, I could slow down and collect my thoughts. That helped a lot until I became accustomed to talking in front of larger and larger groups of people.

“Today, I’m going to walk you through the two-week syllabus. Before we get started, do you have any questions?” Hands go up across the room.

“Okay,” I pointed to a guy in the first row. “What’s your question?”

“You have our names and information but we don’t know anything about you. Tell us about yourself.”

“Sure. What do you want to know?” Questions flew at me.

“Where are you from?” “Are you in the Army?” “What is your religion?”

“Okay. Okay. Slow down. I’ll tell you. I’m from the U.S.—Amrikkiya. I spent some time in the Army but I’m a civilian now. I’ve worked in logistics for over twenty years with a heavy concentration in property accountability but I’ve worked nearly all facets of logistical operations. Warehouse ops, supply, company level up to division.”

“How old are you?”

“Guess? How old do you think I am?”

They all guessed that I was in my late twenties.

“Nope, I’m thirty-eight. I’ll be thirty-nine on Christmas.”

“Oh, you are a young man.” This was one thing that I had feared. I was scared that the Afghans would look at me and say that I was too young to teach them anything. Most of the other MPRI mentors were in their late 40s to early 60s. I was barely knockin’ on forty. These Afghans all looked to be in their 50s. But they didn’t seem to mind. They seemed impressed that I was mentoring at such a young age. Good sign, I thought. They hadn’t shut me out.

“David, you must be knowledgeable to have this job. I hope we can learn from you,” said one of the younger-looking students.

An older gentleman stood up and said, “David, we are thankful that you have come to our country to share your knowledge with us. We will learn from you and take what we learn back to our jobs to make us all more professional.”

“Thank you, sir. What is your name?”

“I am Khoda Daad. Lieutenant Colonel. Food Service Officer for Herat Province Headquarters. We need your help. Our kitchen equipment is old and barely usable. We need new equipment and training.”

“That’s what we’re here for. Zach and I will be making visits to your district and province headquarters. We hope to be able to help you solve some of your logistical issues. We’ll be working with the Army and DynCorp mentor teams to get you guys moving in the right direction.”

Another hand went up. I looked at the sign-in roster, “Yes, Captain Azizullah, you have a question?”

“Mister David, you still have not told us about your religion. What do you believe?”

I was scared of this question. Would my beliefs upset these guys? Were they all devout Muslims? Would they wish to hang me from a light pole until I was dead if I told them the truth? I decided that I’d be better off being honest.

“Well, I don’t really have a religion. I’m not Christian. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Are you Yehuda?”

“No. Not Jewish. It’s complicated to explain. I believe in prophets or what the Hindus call avatars. I believe that men and women have been sent to this world to give us wisdom. It is up to us to accept that wisdom and to not pervert it with our petty humanity.”

“You’re not Jewish. You’re not Christian. You’re not Muslim? What are you?”

They weren’t getting it. “I’m nothing. I follow my own faith. You can call it Davidism or Dawoodism, if you like.”

And from that day on I was called Dawood Khan.

“Okay, enough of this small talk. We can talk more at the break. We’ve got a lot of material to cover this morning. It’s ten-thirty now. I’ll cover the course syllabus then we’ll take a ten minute break. After that, if we have time, I’ll jump into the first class. It’s short, so we’ll be out of here by noon.” With that, I began the slide show.

The first class was a summary of the syllabus with terminology. It was an icebreaker to get them thinking in new terms and about the new system. I had decided to parse out the class literature on a daily basis. Give them the next day’s slides, so they could familiarize themselves with the subject matter the night before each class. In theory, they’d read the class the night before and be able to ask intelligent questions the next day.

I ran through the class schedule. “This is the material that we’ll be discussing over the next two weeks:

1.    Introduction

2.    Responsibilities

3.    Classes of supply

4.    Non-expendable vs. expendable property

5.    Delegation of authority

6.    Organizational clothing and individual equipment

7.    Document numbers

8.    Document registers

9.    Requesting and disposition of equipment

10.   Property accountability

11.   Assigning responsibility for property

12.   Hand receipting procedures

13.   Property book accountability

14.   Lateral transfer of equipment

15.   Investigation of lost, destroyed, and damaged property

16.    Supporting document files

17.    Ammunition consumption

“The class will begin at 0830hrs and end at 1200hrs. Do not be late. If you are absent more than one day, you will not receive a certificate. Each class will have a practical exercise and a quiz. At the end of the course, you’ll be given a test on the whole of the course. Don’t worry. It’s easy. Fifty multiple-choice questions. To pass, you must achieve at least a 70 percent score on the final test. If you don’t pass the first time, we will administer the test again. If you pass the second time, you’ll receive a certificate. If not, no certificate. So, pay attention. If you pay attention, you’ll have no problem passing the test. We will conduct a review before the test. There’s no reason that you shouldn’t pass the test.” I was surprised that they let me get through all of that with no questions.