NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (28 page)

I was sitting in the office one fine summer day when Jimmy Joe walked in cursing. He began talking to Mick Rivas and Bill Temple. Bill Temple was a retired Army lieutenant colonel who was team lead of the Mobile Training Team (MTT), which taught advanced Army doctrine to the ANA Corps and was sometimes detailed out to instruct the ANP. Like me, the MTT traveled around the region.

Jimmy Joe started going at it. “Those fuckers keep cutting the fence and nabbing trainees.”

“How long has it been going on?” Mick asked.

“Since we got here and started training.”

Bill jumped in, “So, you put up a chain link fence to stop them and they cut the fence?”

“Yep. Two or three times a week, I have to repair the fence,” answered Jimmy Joe.

“Guys, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Dave, you don’t want to know. It’s fuckin’ disgusting,” Jimmy Joe replied.

“Okay, I don’t want to know but tell me anyway.”

Jimmy Joe cocked his head. “Mick, you tell him. I’m tired of talking about it.”

“Well, Dave, it’s like this. The ANA are a bunch of closet faggots.”

“What? I’m not surprised. Not after the shit I’ve seen and heard.”

Mick continued. “When the RBWT was first set up, we built them a separate barracks to bed, train, and feed the trainees. We pushed it as far back into Camp Zafar as we could to keep the trainees separate from the permanent party, because that’s how we do it in the U.S. Army. Trainees are separate from permanent party soldiers.

After the barracks were built and everything was set up, we thought everything was cool. No problems. But there were a lot of AWOLs. Guys sneaking off and running back home to mommy. So, we put up a real fence. We also asked the RBWT NCOs to talk to the trainees and find out why so many of them were going AWOL. Well, they did and they told us. And, it was gross. Apparently, the permanent party NCOs were breaking into the barracks at night, grabbing the youngest kids and taking them back to their barracks to gang rape them.”

“Dude, what the fuck? Did you do anything? Anyone go to jail? Anything at all?”

“Nope. No one will talk. The kids who were raped are scared for their lives. None of the NCOs on the Army side will talk about it. The officers say that it’s none of their business. We built a fence around the RBWT and put concertina wire around it. That didn’t stop it, though. The NCOs cut the wire and nabbed more kids and gang rape them. Then they threatened them. If they talked, the victims were told that they’d be killed and buried out in the mountains. So, no one talks and kids are getting raped regularly. We even put guards on them but it does no good.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s what we’re discussing. There really isn’t a whole hellava lot we can do about it. It’s cultural. The NCOs have been raping the younger soldiers since before the RBWT moved here. Now, instead of targeting their own soldiers or soldiers in other companies, they grab trainees,” Mick sighed.

The situation was never rectified to my knowledge. No matter how many times they fixed the fence, the senior Afghan NCOs would break in and nab a few trainees. It reminded me of the Catholic priests in America. Sexual repression is a hell of a thing. Afghans, being Muslim, are forbidden from pre-marital sex with females. However, the Qu’ran says nothing about butt sex with boys nor does it specifically prohibit sex with animals. We had that odd situation occur regularly as well. Afghans diddling with donkeys and sheep, goats, and even camels. Google “Afghan + animal sex” and you’ll come up with plenty of videos of Afghans molesting goats and donkeys.

Later, I spoke with Afghans about this strange idea that sex with boys is okay. “Dude, so you can’t have sex with women before marriage but you think that sexin’ up young boys is okay? What’s up with that?”

“David, the Qu’ran prohibits sex with unmarried women.”

“Yeah, but it also prohibits homosexual activity.”

“Ah, but we are not homosexual.”

I was told only the guy who is “receiving” is homosexual. It didn’t matter how I phrased the question, the Afghans always rationalized it away. “Dude, if you are fucking a guy in the ass, you are homosexual.” The Afghans would deny it. They stuck with the rationalization that only the guy receiving was the homosexual. The dude sticking the other dude in the ass was not violating Islam.

I never understood the rationalization and never will. I don’t have anything against homosexuality. I was just attempting to direct the Afghans’ attention to the inherent contradictions of their attitudes vis-à-vis homosexuality and premarital sex. In a land where homosexuals are persecuted and murdered in cold blood, there was a lot of homosexual boom boom going on in the background.

Chaghcharan

Late Summer 2009

In August, my phone rang. “Is this Dave Kaelin?” the voice asked.

“Yep, ya got me. How can I help you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Jones. I’m up in Chaghcharan and I’d like to get you guys up here to help us out with logistics.”

“Dude, when do you want me? I’ve been trying to get up there for an age.”

“As soon as you can do it. The sooner the better. We got real problems up here and I need someone to teach me the system so that I can mentor the ANA. If you can get up here and give a course and coach me in their processes, I’d appreciate it.”

“No prob. I’ll get on the first bird smokin’.”

Chaghcharan is the capital seat of Ghor Province. It is a small village nestled along the Hari Rud river in the high passes between the Safed Koh and Siah Koh mountain ranges. It’s remote and difficult to access. ISAF had a small base located a few miles to the east of the town proper called FOB Whiskey. The FOB held no more than two hundred inhabitants at any given time—a mix of Georgians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Swedes, and Americans.

Chaghcharan remains a frozen wasteland for much of the year. The snows start to fall in early September and usually do not melt until late May or early June. The weather is usually so bad that travel is impossible. Snow drifts in the mountainous region can be found twenty-feet deep. The surrounding region is a harsh, forbidding, and unforgiving landscape. Yet for all of that, it is beautiful to behold. The Hari Rud winds its way down and around granite peaks and lush river valleys. The province itself is named for the Ghorid Empire that once called the area home. The Minaret of Jam is the only marker of that empire. This sixty-five-meter tall structure, built in the early twelfth century, is a relatively new discovery that was lost to history for centuries. It is made entirely of elaborate brickwork and etched in relief with geometric patterns and floral designs, as well as verses from the Qu’ran, including the Sura of Maryam (mother of Jesus).

I was so excited about heading out to Chaghcharan that I tried to get Mirwais and myself manifested that night. We got on the list only to be bumped. Two days later, we were manifested again. This time, it was weather. Flight cancelled again. I kept trying. I manifested us once again. This time, we made it.

The next morning, we convoyed out to Camp Arena for our flight. The SECFOR guys transferred us to the flight line. An hour or so later, that big bad C130 was rolling down the strip, wheels up. I kept expecting the SOBs to cancel my flight. I figured something would get in the way. I was prepared to get a case of the ass and start cursing the Army.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, we landed at Chaghcharan Airfield. It was a dirt strip cleared of rubble and potholes with some gravel thrown down for good measure. We came in smoking and landed hard. The dust exploded as we touched down. There was no air traffic control tower. The only buildings on the airfield were a little ramshackle hut and an outhouse. As soon as the C130 stopped and lowered its ramp, Mirwais and I jumped off and started grabbing our gear. We traveled light—one box, two bags, and two backpacks.

As we grabbed our gear, I heard, “Dave! Dave!” I raised my hand. First Lieutenant Jones walked over to me. “Nice to finally meet you. We’re over here,” he pointed to a convoy of civilian and military trucks parked in front of a shack. “Throw your stuff in the back. We’re ready to roll.”

As Mirwais and I tossed in our gear, I asked, “How long will it take to get to Whiskey?”

“Oh, less than five minutes. It’s right there.” Jones pointed east behind the airstrip to a Hesco-lined compound barely a quarter mile away.

“Fuck, that’s close,” I said.

“Yeah, we head over as soon as we hear the bird coming in and we usually arrive before it stops its engines. You got everything?”

“Yeap, we didn’t bring much.”

“Let’s roll.”

True to his word, it took us about three minutes to get to camp. Mirwais and I were shown to our living quarters, which was an old Army tent that looked like it had been there for centuries and smelled the same. It was drafty and I don’t think it had been well-maintained. I woke up in the mornings freezing my ass off. I was in there with the Army interpreters and a couple of other camp guests. I grabbed the first bunk on the right when we walked in and set up my little space.

Chaghcharan was cold. I knew it would be cold, but holy mother of God was it cold. Each morning, I walked half way across camp to shower. I was tempted a few days to skip the shower. The cold air and the cold water woke me up. One morning, the showers had no electricity. No heat. No hot water. I was surprised that the water wasn’t frozen. My body shivered for a good two hours afterward.

After we dropped our bags at our tent, 1LT Jones gave us a quick tour of the camp. I was interested in finding the gym, as Mirwais had told me that he’d work out with me while we were in Chaghcharan. I was looking forward to torturing his ass for an hour every night. When we walked into the gym, I said, “Mirwais, you ready for the pain. I’m gonna put a hurtin’ on yer ass.” Mirwais gave me a pained look and walked back outside.

We made our way back to the office where the rest of the team was waiting to meet us. When I walked in, I spotted Brad. He and I had worked together down in Herat. He was former Navy and had been working as a sheriff out in Arizona before signing up for the Afghan police training mission. He moved up to Camp Whiskey a few months before when another guy resigned and went home. Brad was a welcome sight. It is always good to have someone on the ground with whom you’ve worked at other sites. He and I got along well on our last mission together. His word went a long way towards bolstering 1LT Jones’ confidence in me.

The other folks on Jones’ team were Army Sergeant First Class Smith and Air Force First Lieutenant Grant. Grant worked at NASA back in the States and was an MIT graduate. It was unfathomable that they’d send a guy smart enough to work at NASA to the ‘Stan to mentor police. Grant was always frustrated with the Afghans. “Dave, how can these guys be this dumb? It’s not possible. They’re playin’ us. These guys are criminals. They steal everything. We gave them a laptop for their command center. It disappeared two days later and no one knows where it went. My ass! They know. The commander took it home or they sold it downtown. They can’t get fuel from the generator to run the office because the log officer won’t give them any because he sells half of it. How can I mentor them if I can’t keep them from stealing their own equipment?”

“Grant, that’s the ‘Stan. These guys will steal their momma’s pacemaker if they can make a dollar. But, you can’t let them frustrate you. We’re here until we abandon the joint. While we’re here, try to leave your mark. If you can get to one guy, you’ve done a great service. It’s a ripple effect. You have to start small and hope to gather momentum.”

Honestly, these guys were screwed in their mission. The Army had set them up for failure. In order to make a dent, you had to be on the ground constantly. You had to build rapport. You had to drink gallons of chai. You had to learn to speak their language. It was all about building relationships. Those relationships were not built in a week or a month.

SFC Smith was a good old boy from the South. He just let it all roll off his shoulders and plugged away. He told me, “Dave, I don’t let this shit bother me. If the Afghans steal their laptop, I’ll tell them to break out pencil and paper. If they run out of fuel, open the windows and door to let the sunlight in. No wood for the stoves. Put on a jacket. It’s their country. I’m here to teach them operations. I don’t care what they do with their equipment. Sure, it chaps my ass that they’re wasting taxpayer dollars. I’ve seen plenty of waste in the U.S. Army as well. If they’ll listen, I’ll teach them a thing or two. If I can pass on a skill or a few lessons in organization or how to run an operations staff, I’ll be happy. I’ll do my time here and then I’m going home to retire.”

We chatted for a few hours discussing the plan for the next three weeks. The primary challenge was that the commander of FOB Whiskey had a five-vehicle convoy rule. We weren’t allowed to leave the base unless we had five vehicles, three of which needed to have crew-served weapons. U.S. Army rules prohibited Army personnel from traveling in anything lighter than an up-armored Hummer.

When we left camp, we had to piecemeal the convoy. The Lithuanians and Croatians went out with us for security. We crowded into a circle for the convoy brief. We were given the usual warnings to “maintain situational awareness.” “Be on the lookout for a white Toyota Corolla with the single, nervous passenger.” Even in Chaghcharan, we were looking for the white Toyota Corolla. That bastard got around.

After the brief, we loaded up and headed out. I was wearing my personal protective equipment and was feeling all HOOAH! The addition of my shaded safety glasses, combat gloves, body armor, and Kevlar helmet made me look like a combat soldier. The only thing missing was a weapon.

After driving past the airfield and down a dirt road, we forded the Hari Rud and drove into town. Downtown Chaghcharan was fifty or sixty mud brick buildings. A few of them were two stories. It reminded me of an old West town. I could almost hear the guy whistling in that Clint Eastwood spaghetti western
A Fistful of Dollars
. We drove past locals gathered about for their morning business. People stopped and stared. Children ran out waving frantically for candy or water. At the first right, we turned into the province headquarters.