NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (27 page)

Major Zahir Arrives

Fall 2008

I spent thirty months altogether in the Herat region. Late 2008 was the most tumultuous period. One of the first things that happened was that Zach got fired over pocketing something you’d buy in a dollar store back in the States. The guy lost a 180,000 U.S. dollars job over a .99-cent gizmo. I didn’t want to be walking on some poor sucker’s grave, so I waited three days before asking for Zach’s job. They interviewed a few candidates and finally offered the position to me. I was now the team lead of the Western Regional Property Assistance Team—a team of one for the time being.

After Zach was put on a plane packing, the Regional Logistics Office changed out four times. When I first arrived, the regional logistics officer was Subhan, General Ak’s wastrel. I rarely saw him do his job. When I went to mentor him, he was only interested in what he could get from me. If he was in the office, he was begging someone for something.

Every time I walked into his office, he’d say, “
Salaam
, David. Have you brought me a laptop?”

“Well, Colonel, did you fill out a Form 14 and request one?” Even though Subhan was a major, we called him Colonel Subhan because that’s the rank that he wore. He’d been a colonel when the police force was first created but the U.S. Army had conducted what was called “rank reform.” All officers were administered a test. The rank that you were assigned after rank reform was based upon your test scores. Subhan hadn’t scored high enough to retain his colonelcy. He’d been reduced to a major. He refused to wear the rank. To keep his ego in check, we went with it and called him “Colonel Subhan.” Subhan lasted about six months and was removed from the position in a fuel pilferage investigation.

The next guy who sat in the Regional Logistics Office was Lieutenant Colonel Khalil. He had been the province logistics officer. I knew him well and was happy to see someone who was competent assigned to the position. One month later, Colonel Khalil was implicated in the fuel scandal that had taken Colonel Subhan. He was ordered to Kabul where he was placed under house arrest.

Next came Colonel Safiullah. He’d served as depot officer for Herat Province. I could never quite get a handle on exactly which depot he’d supervised. I visited the ammunition and fuel depots and never saw the guy. Anytime I asked at which depot he served I got a different answer. I finally stopped asking. Colonel Safiullah always sat at his desk looking confused. He refused to sign anything because he “didn’t want to go to jail” and “wasn’t authorized to sign.” General Ak was running logistics since Colonel Safiullah had taken over. Colonel Safiullah just sat there doing basically nothing. I would never see a sadder looking Afghan the whole time that I was in-country. Safiullah had one foot out the door and wasn’t going to risk anything. He wore the same worn-out uniform with the same rips and tears in it every day. The guy refused to do anything more than breathe, and I wasn’t quite sure that he was always doing that.

To my knowledge, Safiullah was never implicated in the fuel scandal which was surprising. Over half of the regional and Herat Province logistics officers were implicated at one time or another. Miraculously, every person involved in the scandal was exonerated. None of them were returned to their old jobs immediately. Eventually, though, most of them got their old jobs back. The investigation was a farce. It was a big show put on for the eyes of the Coalition. As soon as the Coalition stopped paying attention, everything went back to normal, which meant that the children were given the keys to the cookie jar once more and the thieving commenced as per normal. I wasn’t involved in the investigation. The only reason that I knew about it was that suddenly all of the loggies whom I had trained over the past year started disappearing. When I asked what happened to them, I got the same answer every time. “They were sent down to Kabul for the investigation.”

A month after Safiullah arrived, he had requested retirement. Once his papers came through, Major Zahir was brought up. Zahir was being groomed for command in Farah Province. This position was part of his training. He was fast tracking. The day that I met Major Zahir, I was expecting to see Colonel Safiullah. I had walked into the RHQ, turned into the old log office and found that it was empty. Everything had been moved out. I look around at a loss. “Mirwais, what the hell is going on? Where’s Safiullah and the crew?”

“Hell if I know, dude,” Mirwais mimicked me in his best Kentucky accent.

“Let’s walk around and see.” I went out into the foyer and ran into Brian, a DynCorp guy that I knew from the RTC.

“Bri, is Safiullah still the Log OIC?”
²²

“Nope, he’s been replaced.”

“Again, Jesus fuckin’ Christ. They run through loggies like bad diarrhea around here.”

“I think you’ll like the new guy. I knew him down in Farah. He’s good people.”

“If he worked in Farah, then he’s one of Noor Ahmad’s guys. That speaks well enough for me. Noor Ahmad is a sharp bastard.”

“Nah, he didn’t work logistics down there. He was operations.”

Brian filled me in on the latest scoop. He was also the guy who’d finally given me the low down on the fuel scandal. Brian had worked for DynCorp for two years already in several positions all over the region. He’d worked with me as a logistics mentor for a while, and had helped me quite a bit with student involvement. Brian was one of those guys who went above and beyond. He didn’t just send students to my course. He attended the course with his students and assisted in getting buy-in to the program. His influence helped us get the Afghans involved and moving towards conversion.

Brian walked me to the new logistics office. It was now next door to General Ak’s office. That showed a level of influence not held by the previous occupants of the position. Major Zahir’s office was about half the size of Ak’s office. He had new furniture with a large desk and those ugly brown flowery couches favored by the Afghans. There was also a stand with plastic flowers sitting behind Zahir’s desk. I never understood it but Afghans loved fake plastic flowers. Every promotion, every award, every occasion demanded fake, plastic flower arrangements.

Brian walked in first and greeted Major Zahir. Zahir rose from behind his desk and greeted Brian with the Afghan man hug and double-cheek kiss. Then Brian introduced me to Major Zahir. With Afghans, it always helps when someone whom they know and admire gives you an introduction. It serves to get you in the door. Zahir shook my hand and asked me to have a seat in front of his desk. “David, Brian would you like tea?” The Afghans rarely spoke directly to my terps. The only acknowledgement was a simple nod and then it was as if the terps weren’t there.

Baleh, tashakor
, I answered. “Yes, thank you.” One never turned down tea when one first met an Afghan. Never. It was considered bad manners. Usually, you spent the whole first two or three meetings discussing anything but business. We talked about family. We talked about the weather. Business would come once you were “friends.” Rapport building was extremely important. If you didn’t spend time shootin’ the shit with the Afghans, you weren’t going to get anything out of them. Even when it was you who were offering them a service. In my case, I was offering training. It didn’t matter. Each time the logistics officer was replaced, I had to spend two or three meetings getting to know the new one.

So here we were at it again. It was starting to drive me insane.

“Major Zahir, where are you coming from?”

“I was working in Farah. I was the operations officer.”

“Is that where your family is from?”

“Yes, I grew up there.”

“Are you married? Any children?”

“Yes, I’m married. Only one wife, though. I don’t have enough money to have more than one.” I couldn’t tell if that was a joke or if he was serious. Afghans are Muslim and are allowed to have four wives. Some of them do have that many. Others told me that one was enough.

“And children?”

“Yes, two boys and three girls.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Really? You’re the first guy to work this job who is younger than me.” I was amazed. Zahir didn’t look old but it still took me by surprise that a guy in this senior of a position was, relatively speaking, a baby. All of the others had been well into their fifties.

“How old are you, David?”

“Guess?” I smiled.

“Fifty-four?”

“Come on now. I know I don’t look that old. I’m forty.” The conversation went on like that for a few minutes more. Brian and I taking turns talking with Zahir and sipping our tea with Mirwais translating.

That’s when Mir Ali walked in. I think he was a captain but he never wore rank and was always in the same soiled uniform as the last time I’d seen him. I’d first met Mir Ali down at the Herat Province Headquarters on an assistance visit. He’d been reassigned to the RHQ some time before. Mir Ali looked like an old drunk right off the street corner. The guy was 5’6” if he was lucky and weighed about 130 pounds soaking wet. He always had a sly grin on his unshaven face.

“David, I need your help,” he said to me as he seated himself.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“I have a container that is locked and I have no key for the lock.”

“What happened to the key?”

“The mentors didn’t give me a key when I signed for the container.”

“So, what’s in the container and how long have you had it?”

“I’ve had it for six months and it’s full of uniforms for the soldiers.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve had a container full of uniforms for six months and you have let it sit there? A container full of uniforms for your men. Men who’ve just spent a summer sweating their butts off in winter uniforms because you are too goddamned incompetent to grab a pair of bolt cutters and cut a lock. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“It’s not my fault. The mentors didn’t give me the key. It’s the mentors’ fault.”

The more he talked the more I wanted to slap the shit out of him. “Look Mir Ali, if you were my subordinate …” I stopped and looked at Mirwais.

“Mirwais, you tell him this word for word. Do not censor it. I don’t care what anyone thinks about what I’m about to say.”

“Mir Ali, if you worked for me, I’d have you arrested for gross incompetence and dereliction of duty.”

“It’s not my fault. I can’t cut the lock without the General’s permission.”

“Okay, well, I know the General. Let’s walk over to his office. He’ll let me in. I want you to go with me. You can explain to the General that you’ve had a container for six months with summer uniforms in it. You explain why in six months you’ve not taken the initiative to cut a fuckin’ lock or to seek permission to cut the goddamned lock.”

Mir Ali starts stammering, “It’s not my fault. It’s the mentors’ fault. They should have given me the key.”

“Look, Mir Ali. I was there when the uniforms were issued. I was there when you were given the key to that container. Your incompetent ass lost the key and are now looking to blame it on a mentor who is now gone. I’ve been here for nearly eighteen months. I know the standard for issuing containers to you guys and I know they let you guys lock the containers after you’ve inventoried them. Why do they do that? So that you know that you have the key to the lock, and so that you can lock the container yourself. That gives you positive control.”

He started stammering again and then he said it, “It’s your fault. You’re my mentor and you should have helped me unlock the container.”

I lost my mind. “You’re lucky I’m not your boss. If you worked for me, I’d have you shot. You’re the laziest loggie I’ve met since I’ve been here.”

“Major Zahir, give me your pistol so I can shoot this piece of shit or you shoot him for me.”

At that, Mir Ali jumped up and ran out of the room.   I looked over at Major Zahir and then Brian and Mirwais.

“Shit, did he think that I was really going to shoot him?” I asked laughingly.

“Hell, Dave. He might come back and shoot you. That was some rough treatment,” Brian said with a wry smile.

“Man, Bri, that irks the shit out of me. These guys look to blame us first for everything. They never look for solutions. The first thing that comes to their pea-sized brains is the mentor. The mentor. The mentor. The fuckin’ mentor. If I hear someone say ‘it’s the mentor’s fault one more time,’ I’ll shoot the bastard. They’re lucky I don’t have a gun or I’d have shot someone already.”

Zahir sat there smiling and laughing. I had thought that he might get offended. He didn’t seem to be. I looked at him and was about to ask him what he thought when Mir Ali burst into the room with a look of supreme accomplishment. He walked up to me and handed me the lock to the container.

“David, I will issue the uniforms immediately,” he said and walked out.

I was floored. When he’d appeared, I’d half expected him to start shooting. Mission accomplished. I’d finally made an impact.

²²
OIC—officer in charge

Boy Buggin’ Pashtuns

Spring 2009

When I was in Herat, I didn’t jump outside of my lane too often; that is I minded my own business. I stayed on my mission and let everyone else do their jobs. I didn’t want anyone stirring my soup, so I didn’t go stirrin’ up anyone else’s soup. That made me oblivious to many of the stranger occurrences on Camp Zafar. I’d learn about weird incidents weeks or months after they had occurred.

Such was the case with the RBWT security fence. Regional Battle Warrior Training was the official name for the ANA basic combat training. In the infinite wisdom of the chiefs down in Kabul, the ANA basic training had been split up and sent out to the ANA Corps bases. Camp Zafar’s RBWT had gotten off the ground sometime in 2008. I wasn’t paying attention because it didn’t affect me. I was strictly ANP. The ANA was someone else’s problem. RBWT was someone else’s headache as well.

That someone was Jimmy Joe. He was a retired Army major from West Virginia. Hence that name. I think he had a cousin named Bobby Joe and was cousins with the Hatfields or McCoys. Jimmy Joe was the RBWT mentor. He’d had a hell of a time setting up the training compound. The ANA Corps didn’t have operational control of the RBWT and, therefore, did everything in its power to see that it failed. The ANA Corps commander was rumored to have stolen the first convoy of mattresses that had been sent up for the RBWT soldiers to sleep on. He was always attempting to divert their weaponry to the Corps instead of to the RBWT for training. That combative attitude of non-cooperation between the RBWT and the ANA Corps command filtered down to the troops.