Purple Hearts & Wounded Spirits Page 7

  Soldiers, especially those who are trained for direct combat, realize the danger they place themselves in and are prepared to face it. There comes a point when self-protection can be dangerous to those it is designed to protect. However, both of these points were lost on those too far removed to grasp them. This was especially true in Afghanistan where most of our time was spent walking over extremely rough terrain at high elevations; adding an extra seventy pounds of excess weight would make us ineffective as war fighters and, even worse, an easier target. I learned many valuable lessons working with the Special Forces (SF). One was “don’t die angry,” meaning that if I wear all of this armor and I die anyway, I’ll die angry.

  One of the key phrases of the Infantry is “Shoot, Move, Communicate,” because these three things are essential for maximum impact against our enemy. Trying to shoot, move and communicate while carrying extra weight and sucking wind is difficult at best. This is another reason we wanted to work as far away from the “Flag Pole” as soon as possible. The ICTs would demand that we were in full uniform compliance regardless of the impact on us or the mission. Once again it was not about reality, only the paperwork. We left base in full battle array and dumped our armor as soon as we were on foot.

  Tajimen

  The most valuable assets we had during our time in Afghanistan were our interpreters, known as Tajimen (Talking men) by the ANA. Well beyond just translating information, a good interpreter could translate cultural meaning as well. We had two groups of interpreters: those who had left Afghanistan when they were young and had been educated in either America or the United Kingdom (UK), and those who had been raised only in Afghanistan. The first group learned English and their native language (Dari or Pashtu) immersed in western culture. They understood the slang and other cultural nuances of the English language, whereas the second group learned English in class from a teacher with very little cultural relevance. They could translate words but not their cultural meaning.

  It was imperative to know your interpreter and his background because it would determine how in-depth your discussion was in regards to translation. An interpreter with limited cultural background could completely misrepresent your point without meaning to, while a good interpreter could not only explain your point succinctly but could also explain the Afghan meaning to you as well. One “local” interpreter translated a question I had in regards to the number of vehicles in our convoy. He responded with an answer about the weather. That was innocent enough and easy to address. A bad example of this occurred between me and an interpreter I will name “Forked Tongue.” He became my new Interpreter when my previous had been scooped up by the SF—he was that good. While time passed I began to sense that my relationship with my Afghan counterpart CPT A-top had begun to suffer and I did not know why.

  I began to suspect my interpreter was not translating well and I asked another interpreter I trusted to listen in on our conversations. Sure enough Forked Tongue was indeed translating poorly, but what was worse, he was doing it purposely. He was playing me against A-top for his own benefit. When I could confirm this I confronted him with my suspicions and he was indignant that I would make such a claim. Understanding the culture, I did not make this claim in front of other Afghan men, otherwise he would be honor bound to kill me. Regardless of his denial, I was confident that he had lied to me and A-top and I dismissed him as my interpreter. Due to the nature of our relationship of trust with our interpreters, he was fired.

  A short time later I was informed that FT had placed a bounty on me and swore to kill me himself when I traveled outside of YD. When I spoke with A-top about this threat he was furious for two reasons: not only had FT disrespected him by lying, he also disrespected A-top by threatening me, as I was under A-top’s protection. I asked A-top how we should handle this, and he stated that we were honor bound to go find FT and kill him.

  By this time I was still conflicted in my spirit about killing, not that killing my enemies was wrong, but how I felt about it was eating at me. I had already shot and killed enemy soldiers in both Iraq and Afghanistan, but that was while they were shooting at me. Actually going to FT’s home with the intention of executing him for a threat was somewhere I had not gone before. Additionally, I would have to leave YD without permission, and if I was killed, captured or arrested I would be in serious trouble and would get little support from my own command.

  I discussed this with A-top and he understood that I was coming from an entirely different military culture and he stated that he would take care of it. I learned a few days later that A-top and his staff found FT and beat him in front of his family. FT broke and begged for his life; that act demonstrated that he was a coward which was a worse death in Afghanistan than actually dying. A-top left him alive, warned and shamed; I had nothing to fear from FT ever again.

  Bathroom Humor

  To say that there are cultural differences between Americans and those from the Middle East is an understatement. What I will share is not meant to demean any particular ethnic group or religion, but rather to find some humor in our differences in the hope that we can laugh at ourselves. During my first tour in Iraq there was an issue with Iraqi workers on our base using the Porta Johns (PJ). It is customary for Arabs to wipe themselves using only their hand. They also do not use American toilets. Rather they squat over a hole in the floor or outside on the ground.

  This came to a head (head is a military term for bathroom) when it was discovered that the Iraqis were using the PJs in conjunction with their cultural norms. They did not sit on the seat but rather they squatted over it leaving excrement everywhere. They also refused to use toilet paper, claiming it would violate their religious traditions to do so. Before long, most of the PJs were a mess. Therefore the base sanitation contractor segregated a few of them for Iraqi use only. Written in Arabic over the door was “Iraqi,” and inside these units the seat and toilet paper were removed and in its place were a bottle of water and an outline of feet drawn on either side of the hole. The solution worked like a charm.

  Afghans, like Iraqis, are Muslim, but that is where most of the similarities end. Afghans will use a smooth stone instead of their hand (or toilet paper); obviously paper is rare in countries with so few trees. Most Afghans that used the PJs seemed to have better aim then their Iraqi cousins but the trouble started when trucks came in to service the PJs. These trucks run a hose down into the tank that holds all of the waste and then, with a powerful pump, suck the waste up into a tank. It seems that the Afghans were using stones to clean themselves and then depositing them into the PJ tank. When the pump engaged it sucked all those stones up the hose and into the motor trashing it. It sounded like someone had dumped a load of rocks into a wood chipper.

  Being one of the ETTs it fell upon me to handle the situation, which I did as tactfully and quickly as possible. I held a class on how to use the PJ correctly to include sitting on the seat and using toilet paper in place of a stone. The Afghan soldiers were actually thrilled with the idea of not using stones anymore and using paper instead; it’s the little things that matter.

  Later in my Afghan tour while based at a remote site I built a PJ of my own designed on a scene I saw in the movie Platoon (Stone, 1986) where Charlie Sheen’s character had latrine duty. I built a wooden box that sat inside an old Soviet conex. Inside the box was a metal barrel cut in half that I could pull out periodically for cleaning, this is the part that the Afghans could not understand. After removing the barrel from the box I would pour some diesel fuel into it, stir it (hence the term Poop Soup) and light it. It burns rather well thus destroying the disease ridden pile. No matter how I tried to explain the benefits of this process, the Afghan soldiers could not get past the fact that I was burning good fuel. This was just another example of cultural barriers that were difficult to cross when that was even possible, and sometimes it gave us something to chuckle about.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My Dances with Wolves Tour: Fort Apache

 
UPON FINALLY ARRIVING AT OUR NEW BASE, it was obvious that this place was by definition a Forward Operating Base. There was nothing beyond this base other than a few Outposts strategically located on the top of the mountains surrounding this place. This base was no larger than YD with even fewer amenities, and it was located near a small town in a remote province near the Pak border. While I was coming to grips with the realization that this mission would be rather basic in its available comforts, I had no idea that our orders had already been amended.

  This frontier post, that I’ll call Ft. Apache, had no PX, cold showers on odd days and a chow hall that was a step up from eating MREs. By the time it had taken us to convoy here I was looking forward to being away from the flagpole. CPT Casey and I had developed a bond with each other and a great working relationship with our ANA. I could deal with the lack of comforts a larger base would provide if the rest of my tour was on these terms.

  The United States soldiers that we were there to help greeted us warmly. It seemed that the enemy had complete control between a major river and the border. It was all our guys could do to defend the post and work their side of the river; the enemy was exploiting the fact that there was only one bridge crossing that river for a hundred miles in either direction. Our forces could not deal with that threat without first crossing that bridge which could be seen for miles. No surprise meant that the enemy could either withdraw further up the mountains or have ample time to set up an ambush.

  I will not forget the look on their faces when I stated that we would do what we could, but I did not see how much help we would be in only two weeks. Their faces froze for second and asked me to repeat myself, after which they stated that their understanding was that we were there to stay long-term. CPT Casey responded with the next obvious question which was “Even if that is true, we will still have to cross that same bridge, so we’re no better off than you are.” It was at that time we received our amended orders and discovered that we were to cross that bridge and build a FOB from the ground up.

  “With what materials and equipment?” CPT Casey asked.

  “Our assets are five United States soldiers, one hundred and fifty ANA, and a dozen trucks.”

  We were advised that we would have the support we needed. There was heavy equipment at Apache that we could access and we were actually taking over an abandoned Taliban base, so how bad could it be?

  Further investigation revealed why our orders had been changed. Another active duty unit was originally assigned this border mission, but those in command of that unit decided that they did not want any part of it and were persuasive in having our orders amended. We were not pleased with the situation, yet I would come to realize that if God had not orchestrated this change Himself, He certainly put it to good use. I knew that He was with me no matter where I was in the world, and that He was always willing and able to repair my broken spirit.

  FOB Gilligan

  We notified our CoC back at YD about our “amended” orders before agreeing to the new mission. Our CoC advised us to make the best out of this new mission until they could investigate it further. We left Ft. Apache and convoyed toward FOB Gilligan, a name I gave it due to our ever-changing orders that seemed to keep us marooned in the frontier. When we approached the bridge I could see the issue immediately. Not only was it impossible to cross this bridge without being seen for miles around, but it was little more than a one lane bridge, a natural choke point. I mentioned my concern about being so openly vulnerable on the bridge to A-Top. He stated that the enemy would not attack us on the bridge for fear of destroying the only way across this river; they would wait until we are across.

  Once across, we had to dismount and walk the next five miles due to the poor condition of the road. A continuous series of potholes and ruts made it impossible to drive faster than walking. We stopped at a small village and asked the elders why the road was in such poor condition. They stated that it used to be better and that traffic used to pass through this village on the way to the Pakistan border, but the Taliban had ruined the road in order to slow the American and ANA soldiers, making them easier targets. We learned that just past our new FOB was a mountain pass that led into Pakistan, but because of the increased presence of the Taliban few people dared travel that route anymore. This decreased traffic was creating an economic hardship on the local Afghans. Improving the road and opening the pass would be one of the first projects we sought to undertake.

  Eventually it seemed that our rocky trek was over as we approached our new FOB. It was not a base but rather a compound that looked more like a medieval castle. My first thoughts were that we could make this work; at least we would have a defensible base to start with as we made necessary improvements. Yet when we approached the building we were met with a dozen armed Afghan policemen on top of the wall and the Chief of Police at the gate with his own escort. A-Top immediately approached the Chief and engaged him with the customary cultural greetings as the ANA began to fan out around the building. There was no love lost between the ANA and the police, because many believed that the Afghan police were corrupt and were not to be trusted. I thought this was going to end badly when our Terp explained that the Provincial Governor had given the police custody of this building and we were to occupy a different base. I liked this base. It was close to the river and was surrounded by several hundred yards of open land which we could use as a “killing field” (that cleared area around a base that is designed for killing enemy attackers).

  A-Top advised us that we needed to move on to the next location. The Provisional Governor was a known Taliban hack, but A-Top did not have the rank to go above him. In addition, trying to force the police out would most likely end in bloodshed. Having to submit to this level of corruption was difficult for my buddies and I, but we trusted A-Top’s advice and moved on. I believe corruption is the most common denominator between third-world countries, based on my time overseas. But that is another book for another day.

  Realizing that we weren’t in Kansas anymore, our convoy of the homeless pushed forward. We stopped momentarily a few miles further to once again converse with the village elder who shared the real story behind our “new, new” base. It seems that when the Taliban heard that we were moving into that area they moved the police into our original building and we were to occupy a group of run down huts currently being used as stables for livestock. The enemy fully expected us to leave that area and abandon the mission to occupy the east side of the river. The Taliban could not imagine that we would occupy such an indefensible base.

  Upon our arrival it was clear to all that we had been set up; this was not a base in anyone’s country. There were no walls or even a defensible perimeter to speak of. Less than a dozen run down mud huts were present. Half of the buildings had little or no roof. Forget occupying the “high ground,” these buildings were literally positioned at the base of the mountain range allowing the enemy to pummel us with rocket and gun fire from above. Without exaggerating, the enemy could throw rocks at us and do damage. Not to mention the basic amenities, no water, no electricity and of course no latrines.

  We surveyed the situation and discussed our options with A-Top, ultimately deciding to stay. We all realized that the Taliban expected us to leave, but it is always good to be unpredictable in warfare. That was one of the key factors to the Soviet’s defeat in Afghanistan in the 1980s. The Soviets would not change their SOPs and became amazingly predictable, and we would not follow their example. Another well taken point presented by A-Top was morale. We had traveled for days over mountains and through dangerous terrain with one thought in mind, find the enemy and kill him. To leave now would not only damage the morale of the ANA soldiers, but it would also lessen A-Top’s standing with his men. As the Commander/Warlord, that was not acceptable.

  The real work was just ahead of us, A-Top set up firing positions on the hill tops above us as well as along the base perimeter. I use the term perimeter loosely; there was no more than a line drawn around the bu
ildings we occupied. Beyond the edge of our FOB were beautiful fields of the most colorful flowers that I had ever seen. I asked my interpreter what type they were. “Poppies,” he replied, “for the Opium trade.” The next question that came up from one of my fellow soldiers was, “are we going to leave it alone or burn it?” We discussed this issue over chai with A-Top. His advice was simple and direct, “We are not here to burn flowers; we are here to kill Taliban.” A-Top proceeded to explain to us the reality of the Opium trade in Afghanistan. These larger fields are owned by warlords who would have us killed for destroying their investment. Additionally, these fields are worked on and maintained by the local farmers who have few opportunities to earn hard currency in the first place, and they would not dare to deny the warlord his invitation to work in his fields. We were in Afghanistan to kill the Taliban and win the hearts and minds of the local people. That would be difficult if we denied the villagers the only real source of income they had. I realize the terrible destruction that the opium/heroin trade has wreaked upon the world, yet that fight was not ours at this time.

  There was one small mud hut with an intact roof that we Americans decided to live in while the ANA occupied the few remaining huts and set up tents. We immediately realized that it was not wise to place all of us in one building because one enemy rocket or grenade could take out our entire team. We decided to take turns sleeping in our truck since there were no more suitable buildings left. I volunteered to sleep there every night rather than rotate soldiers; it just seemed to make more sense.

  CPT Fenton and SFC Moore at FOB Gilligan.

  Ft. Apache did manage to give us what few materials they could spare, like Constantina Wire (C-wire), sandbags and shovels. The wire was strung-out around key areas in order to deny the enemy easy access onto the base. Fighting positions (similar to the foxholes of earlier wars) were re-enforced with sandbags along with a working gate. This was also the beginning of really getting to understand the Afghan/Muslim culture.