On The Afghan Front Line

The phone rang just past 1 am. My troops and I had settled down to watch another episode of The Sopranos. Tony Soprano would have to wait. One of our Afghan National Army checkpoints was receiving fire, and we were ordered to respond. Obscenities and groans greeted the news as soldiers pulled themselves off the couches and moved towards their rooms to pull on their uniforms and body armor.

I looked through the window of our compound, which overlooked the snow-covered city of Kabul, puzzling over the call. It was the middle of an especially tough Afghan winter, with temperatures below freezing and non-stop snow. Temperature tonight was 25 degrees below zero Fahrenheit with the wind-chill. I had yet to meet the insurgent who was willing to climb through 4 feet of snow in his traditional Afghan dress and running shoes to launch a coordinated attack on a checkpoint.

Still, an order was an order. The men went outside to brush the snow off the trucks and prepare for the convoy towards the checkpoint. It would be an hour trip through mountain passes and two towns that had a history of unfriendliness towards Americans and outright support for local insurgents.

Exiting our security gates, we snaked through the Afghan National Army brigade that camped with us. Supposedly it was our job to support them. Yet it was we who were driving out to the checkpoint. We had learned early that any help from our Afghan counter-parts would be near impossible to get approval for. If you request support from an Afghan Colonel, the request had better be accompanied by a gas coupon or new pair of winter boots. Otherwise, one could wait a very long time for movement.

Our drive towards the checkpoint was uneventful, but slow. We were in the middle of a snowstorm so there was no illumination from the moon, thereby making our night vision optics all but useless. We had to switch out the turret gunners every 15 minutes to prevent frostbite and keep an alert soldier in the hole…and although we rehearse doing this on the move, it is still a mini event with all the cold weather clothing and armor on.

As we neared the checkpoint we stopped at a small building used by engineering contractors for the Afghan Army. The building happened to be occupied by a Turkish contingent that rushed from the building in a confusing frenzy of broken English. They mimicked the sounds of gunfire and tracers: Despite my suspicions, it seemed that there had indeed been sporadic gunfire at the checkpoint over the last couple of hours.

The drive up to the checkpoint took us up another 500 feet of elevation on a mountain ridgeline. A mud and stone structure about the size of a shipping container with no windows greeted us. There were no Afghan soldiers outside, and it was evident that they had a fire lit inside in a vain attempt to stay warm. The lack of visible security and obvious nonchalance brought my suspicions right back.

With our own security in place, I entered the structure and was greeted by 8 Afghan soldiers and the Afghan sergeant in charge of the checkpoint. With the help of my translator (a former Mr. Afghanistan body builder…. but that is another story altogether) we were able to piece together their story. A few hours ago they had come under fire from an adjoining ridgeline. The sergeant and his men claimed that they had rushed outside, returned fire, and fought the enemy until they withdrew, returning to the checkpoint only after they had secured the area.

By this time, my eyes had become adjusted to the light and I had begun to look around the inside of the building as my Team Sergeant went outside to look over the ground. The image I saw contrasted very sharply with the story I had been told.

The Afghan soldiers around me were all attired in thin camouflage uniforms – very likely the same uniforms they had been issued at basic training. There wasn’t a winter coat among them. Their feet were all in either dilapidated leather boots or running shoes. I felt quite certain they together owned not even a single pair of clean socks. They had eaten their last meal that morning and were waiting for the replacement unit that was due to arrive with the morning. Our suspicions were confirmed. The story of the firefight had been an invention.

The Afghans had fired their own weapons over the Turkish engineers knowing full well a report would be made. They knew the Americans would arrive soon after. And they knew we would probably give them something.

Which we did. I was too cold to be mad. In fact, we pulled MREs (our food) out of our bags and handed them out to the hungry soldiers. They begged us for new coats, new boots, and socks to keep their feet warm but of course we had not arrived prepared to outfit an entire squad.

In a country where corruption is rampant through the Afghan Army, it was little surprise that these soldiers were not equipped and supplied, as they should have been. Possibly a senior officer had intercepted their food and equipment and sold it for his own profit. Or perhaps they sold their things themselves or had given them to a family member. I’d never know the truth.

We left the checkpoint tired, cold, and more than a little bitter. We had been in Afghanistan long enough to know the drill however…the following day I presented my Afghan National Army Brigade Commander with a new parka, complete with fur hood. We both knew that he had the supplies necessary to refit his men, yet for him they served more as leverage for a potential trade than the needed components to maintaining his men’s preparedness. Once he accepted the parka and we had shared a cup of tea, I described the state of his men I had found at the checkpoint. I knew by day’s end the squad at the checkpoint would get their refit.

In Afghanistan, the Warlord mentality has become pervasive, complete, and part of their culture. Take what I can, protect what I have, give nothing away…but do it over tea so everybody feels better about it.