NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (22 page)

Urinalysis results came back. Over thirty student candidates came back hot on the piss test. Most of them were positive for THC. Hashish smoking was a national past time in Afghanistan. I’m surprised that more of them didn’t come up hot. Five of the guys came up hot for opium and one guy for cocaine. The rule at the outset of training was that a positive result on the urinalysis was automatic dismissal from the course. With the positive results so high, Kabul was consulted concerning the results.

Before the curtain call on enrollment and the start of classes, I had to wait for the final decision on the drug users and “kidnap victims.” If they were all retained, I’d have to train them. If not, I could leave. Finally, we got the official word. We would keep the guys who’d been kidnapped for their own safety. If we dismissed them, they might be in danger. If they went AWOL after the course, that would be on Hajji Kaseem. The hash heads were kept in the course. The coke and opium addicts were dismissed.

I watched a lot of training that occurred while I was on the RTC. Some of these men were in no shape to be policemen. One afternoon, I saw a group of thirty-five or forty soldiers practice crowd control and how to wield a baton. It was comical. Baton training is easy. One holds the baton straight out to the front, takes a step, and then thrusts the stick forward towards the crowd. The first twenty-five guys were fairly solid. The last eight or nine guys in the formation were completely out of step, uncoordinated, and couldn’t keep up. They were breathing hard and looked as if they might fall out. Most of the guys in the back looked to be in their sixties. It was like watching a train wreck.

* * *

On a cold December afternoon, the police of Bala Baluk arrived at the Herat RTC at 1530hrs. Two buses, five police Rangers, and several civilian trucks pulled into the lot outside of the RTC gates. Men poured out of the buses. I didn’t know what was happening. The motley crew of miscreants who had arrived looked like a band of gypsy warriors. These men had never seen running water or any of the conveniences of the modern world. Some of them barely looked old enough to shave, while others sported flowing white beards. Most of them were attired in the Afghan manjams.

Greg Kahan was standing next to me when these men disembarked from their vehicles. Greg was running the logistics portion of the FDD program. He was a career cop who had taken a leave of absence to go on contract with DynCorp. He had been on station about a year by now. He and I had been stationed in the Army together at Fort Belvoir, Virginia back in the ‘90s. By coincidence, he had been assigned to the Herat RTC.

Greg turned to me and said, “Dude, these guys look like they haven’t bathed in months. Look at their feet. It’s December and they’re all wearing sandals.”

“Are they preparing to attack? I thought they were coming for training.”

“Dave, I don’t know what the fuck is going on. We don’t know if they’re willing to surrender their weapons or if they’ll get pissed and start shooting at us. We can’t let them on camp with their weapons.”

“What happens if they refuse to give them up?”

“They’ll have to camp outside the RTC until we can get the issue settled.”

When an older “policeman” in white manjams pointed a loaded RPG rocket launcher our way, my WTF
¹⁹
alarm went off the radar. The Gurkhas manning the squad assault weapons in the guard towers sighted in on him. The old man dislodged the rocket and casually let it drop to the ground.

Neither of the Bala Baluk commanders—Hajji Kaseem or Mansoor Khan—had arrived with this initial group. Hajji Kaseem’s deputy district chief had come instead. Roger Hickock walked out to the Afghans with a small escort. It was Roger’s responsibility to get the Afghans into the FDD for training. He was the RTC training coordinator and an Oklahoma State Cowboy. I watched from a distance as Roger and Hajji Kaseem’s district chief spoke for a bit. Heads nodded in agreement. Roger pointed towards my group and then walked over to us and said, “They’re going to eat first and then they’ll turn their weapons over to you guys. I’d say about an hour. You guys go grab some chow and be ready when we call for you.”

Greg and I grabbed a quick meal and walked back out to the front of the gate. After some time, the Afghans started lining up. There were three stations that the Afghans had to pass through to get into the RTC. Greg and I manned the first station. We disarmed the Afghans and inventoried weapons and ammo. Afghans wearing uniforms, half uniforms, and manjams and turbans handed over weapons, full magazines, and belted and boxed ammo. We took in about thirty-five AK-47s, three RPG rocket launchers, and one PK machine gun that looked like it was last used by the Soviets sometime in the 1940s. One guy walked up to me and threw an old PPSh-41 submachine gun on the table. That was definitely a World War II relic. It’s similar to the Thompson “tommy gun” from the gangster movies. The scariest moment was when an ancient, gnarled-looking Afghan walked up to the table and handed me a banged up, rusted RPG rocket. I could feel my balls in my throat handling that damn thing.

As nervous as everyone was, only half of us wore our personal protective gear. I wore mine to the gate. When I saw that I was one of the only ones wearing body armor, I took it off. When the old Afghan dude handed me the rusted rocket, I wasn’t sure that had been the right choice.

The next station for the Afghans was “identification.” Full names to include father’s name were annotated on a list. Badge and ID numbers were taken down as well. A number card was given to each Afghan. That number was how they were identified until they were given their official MOI ANP identification card at the end of the course.

The final station was the shakedown. The Afghans were patted down and checked for contraband. During training, the Afghans weren’t allowed candy, cigarettes, or dip. They weren’t allowed weapons—no knives, no brass knuckles, no shanks. Everything was taken from them and placed in bags that were tagged with their numbers. I watched as the mentors asked them, “Is there anything that you want to surrender? Guns, knives, drugs, cigarettes, candy. Anything? Better to give it up first than to have us find it. If you surrender it, we’ll tag it and give everything back except drugs.”

The mentors searched everyone including those who had surrendered contraband. At the end of the night, the Afghans had given up, voluntarily or otherwise, tins of highly addictive green snuff, packs of cigarettes, bags of hashish and opium. We confiscated enough drugs to start an opium den in Shanghai. Once the Afghans passed through this station, they were escorted in groups of ten to their barracks.

While we were searching and processing the Afghans, a number of them told us that they’d been picked up along the road. “I was kidnapped.” “I was forced to come.” “I am from Herat.” Bala Baluk was in Farah Province, a good hundred or so miles away. While convoying up, the district officers had waylaid men along the way. The ANP convoy would halt a group of men or single individuals. They pointed their AK-47s at random civilians and told them to get on the bus. They beat and threatened anyone who refused. I spoke with one recruit who said, “They told me if I didn’t get in the bus, they’d murder my family.”

I looked at Mirwais, “Dude, is he serious?”

“It’s what he says. I believe him. I told you the police are pieces of shit.”

“This is a bit above and beyond shitty behavior, don’t ya think?”

The next day a second group from Bala Baluk was due to arrive but no one knew when. Mirwais and I sat around smoking for an hour. Finally, I’d had enough of boredom. “Mirwais, I’m takin’ a nap. Go hang out in your room. I’ll call you when I need ya.”

I couldn’t sleep. About a half hour later, Greg Kahan called my cell. “Dave, let’s re-inventory the weapons from yesterday and prep for the guys coming in today.”

“I’m on the way, bro.” I walked over to the weapons storage container. Greg was there with a few other guys. We inventoried the weapons and annotated serial numbers and serviceability data in preparation for handing them over to the weapons repair group that was located on the RTC.

While we were inventorying the weapons, Roger called me on my cell. “Dave, we got you slated for training today at 1300hrs. You’ll have two classes with about forty-five guys in each. Class Room A. Stop by and I’ll give you the key.”

“Okay. We’re ready to go. I’ll be right over.”

As I walked over to get the key from Roger, I called Mirwais to tell him we’d gotten our class and to meet me at noon for lunch. At 1000hrs, there was an FDD brief that was more pep talk and propaganda. Colonel Foreman was the guy in charge of the FDD program. He was a stern-looking dude, but seemed realistic about what he’d seen so far. Aside from the leadership problems, Bala Baluk had recently been overrun by insurgents. Essentially, there was no police presence in the district. The bandits were winning the war in that corner of Afghanistan. Colonel Foreman explained that the Afghan leadership couldn’t decide who was in charge. Half of the troops were here with Colonel Mansoor Khan, while Colonel Hajji Kaseem would be bringing another group tomorrow. At the end of his brief, Colonel Foreman said, “We’ll sit down with the problem children tomorrow and try to hash out a deal.”

Mirwais and I set up the class at 1245hrs. At 1300hrs, the Afghans started rolling in. They were a rough-looking bunch. Within minutes the air was stifling. “Mirwais, open the fuckin’ doors and blast the AC. I can’t breathe in here. All I can smell is assholes and underarms. Jesus mother of god, these guys haven’t touched water in a year.”

“They live in the country, Dave. That’s how people live out there. They don’t have access to water.”

“Well, that don’t mean I have to like smelling ‘em.”

Mirwais opened the doors and windows. I blasted the air conditioner. It helped but I still tasted underarm funk until I brushed my teeth.

After we got the air circulating, Mirwais and I started the brief.

“
Salaam. Shoma naame
Dave Kaelin.
Wa ein tarjomaniman Mirwais
.” That’s my broken Dari introduction to all of my classes. “Hello. My name is Dave Kaelin and this is my interpreter Mirwais.” Mirwais translated for me even when I was speaking Dari. I continued, “Today we are going to discuss three subjects. First, we’ll talk about organizational clothing and individual equipment. Second, we’ll discuss responsibilities. That being your responsibilities when it comes to Ministry of Interior equipment and funds. Last, we’ll go over hand receipt procedures. What is a hand receipt? How do these documents affect you? What are your responsibilities and rights when signing a hand receipt? And so forth.” Mirwais translated.

I noticed that some of the guys weren’t following.

“Does everyone here understand? Raise your hand if you understand.”

Everyone raised their hands except about ten guys. I looked at Mirwais and told him, “Okay, here’s your chance. Break out your Pashto and ask them if that’s what they speak.”

All ten guys spoke Pashto. Luckily, a couple of the other guys in the class spoke Pashtu and Dari. I sat one of them next to the Pashtu speakers and had him translate as we went along, and then I continued with my spiel. I spoke, Mirwais translated into Dari, and our class assistant then translated Mirwais’s Dari into Pashto. The double translation extended our class time by a third, but at least it served to help Mirwais improve his Pashto.

As I instructed the class, I looked around the room making eye contact with each student. It was the best way to keep their attention. Guys nodded off all around the room. I felt for the guys as the subject matter is dry and boring. They needed to know it, though. One guy was absolutely knocked out. I walked back, stood beside him, and yelled, “Wake up!” He jumped up wide-eyed. Walking back to the front of the room, I said, “Look guys, I know this is some boring shit. I get it. You have to stay awake, though. If you feel like you are falling asleep go to the back of the room and stand up.” Towards the end of the class, a few guys were standing in the back of the room. Once class was finished, I stood at the door and shook each man’s hand as they filtered out.

Mirwais and I walked to the rear of the classroom for a smoke. “Mirwais, did you see the guy with one eye? How the hell is he a cop? His one good eye looks like it’s full of cataracts and the dude looks like he’s in his ‘60s.”

“Yeah, I kept staring at him. I don’t think he can see us, though.”

Mirwais and I walked out front to round up the next group of students. One of the Afghans walked up to me and told me that our class was “useful and had good information.” Then he started in on Bala Baluk. “Teacher, be careful. Half of these guys are Taliban. Be careful with them. They will remember you.” I’d heard that about Bala Baluk already, but to have one of their own come up and say it to me was mind blowing.

I called the new folks into the classroom. As they filed in, I noted the long beards, dark turbans, and manjams that many wore. This was no real police unit. These were a bunch of civilians who’d been forced to attend training to bump the numbers. I hurried through the next portions of my instructions and then started talking about corruption and the Taliban.

“How many of you guys have contact with the Taliban? A few hands went up. “Are any of you Taliban? Have you ever been ‘employed’ by the Taliban?” Another couple of guys raised their hands. “I think the Taliban are shit. Afghanistan could be a great country if it weren’t for those bastards. You guys have huge reserves of natural resources, gas, minerals. You have beautiful mountains that would attract big time tourist dollars. The history of Afghanistan is amazing. People would come from all over the world to see your mosques and the Buddhist temples, shrines, and other archaeological sites. None of that is possible because the Taliban are assholes who want to fuck everything up.”

I’m not certain how Mirwais translated my profane taunts. None of the Afghans understood what the word “fuck” meant. They did pick up on my frequent use of it, though. Mirwais was always faithful to my intent and meaning. He got the idea across. I saw a few ears perk up. After I had given my rant, a few of the guys wouldn’t look at me. Some of them stayed after class. “Teacher, we agree with you. The Taliban are evil. We want to defeat them.” “There is too much corruption. Karzai doesn’t care about the Taliban. He is too busy lining his pockets.” “Our generals are doing the same. When you [America] leave, they will leave with the money. We will be left behind to fight the Taliban.”