by Leslie Gould
“It’s not doing so well.” He grinned. He’d shaved it in some weird symbol of solidarity with the Amish men he knew. The truth was, way back in Europe the Amish men didn’t grow mustaches because soldiers did. It was his small gesture, as a soldier, of honoring those who believed in peace and who had given up their homeland centuries ago to find it. He knew the symbol was also ironic, considering he was a soldier. But the small secret act of solidarity made him smile—on the inside, at least.
After they finished eating, he walked Casey back to her barracks in the rain and then pulled out his phone and looked at the photo of Lila again. He hadn’t brought a laptop or iPad. He didn’t want to pack one around. He had his cell and he’d buy a card for it, but only the calling would work—not the Internet or texting. He’d have to rely on the base computers to send an e-mail home—but at least he still had his photos.
He jogged to the service center and entered as a soldier stepped away from one of the desktops. Zane quickly sat down, pulled up his account, and drafted an e-mail to his parents, saying he’d arrived and everything was going well. He said it was cold, wet, and muddy, and that they’d go into the field in a few days. He hit Send, leaned back in the chair, and then decided he’d send an e-mail to Simon too. He pretty much said the same thing, but asked Simon to let him know when basic was done and how it went.
Again he considered sending Lila an e-mail. He clicked on a new message and typed in her address. Then he stared at the blank e-mail. What did he want to tell her? That he missed her? That he thought about her all the time? That he’d been crazy to join the Army but he felt good about the work ahead of him? That he wondered how long it would be until she and Reuben married?
It was time to put his wounded pride behind him. Perhaps they could be just friends.
He typed:
Dear Lila,
It is cold and muddy here. Lots of rain. We can see the snow on the mountains from where we are. We will soon be going into alpine valleys past those mountains to start our work.
I think about your family and wonder how your grandmother is doing. How it will be for all of you when Simon leaves. I remember all of our afternoons playing down at our fort as the happiest in my life.
He stopped. He hadn’t written anything about her at all. Not even a birthday greeting. He pressed his hand against his thigh. And he wouldn’t. She’d be more apt to reply if he kept things general.
Please e-mail me back when you can.
Zane
He clicked Send, logged off his account, and pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping through his photos to the ones of Lila once again.
The civil affairs team flew over the mountains during the night to avoid detection, landing at their forward-operating base camp just before dawn. The place was much smaller than Bagram, with a single airstrip, a handful of concrete buildings, tents, a mess hall, a clinic, and a small commissary. There was also a market where Afghans sold colorful scarves, linens, skullcaps, and baskets.
By the time they smelled bacon cooking in the mess hall, the sun was rising. Zane stopped at the entrance and turned east, toward Pakistan. He shielded his eyes. They had been warned they could expect rocket attacks—and firefights—but hopefully only around the fenced perimeter. He was definitely in a war zone.
After breakfast, two MRAPs—Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicles—arrived for their trip to a village up in the mountains. When their Afghan guide appeared, Zane greeted him in Pashto, but the man didn’t respond in the extended Afghani greeting Zane had been taught to expect. Instead he responded in English with a gruff “Good morning.” He didn’t seem to have an accent, and he’d obviously spent a lot of time around Americans.
Grant elbowed Zane and laughed. The guide rode up front with the driver, and the rest of them, including the other three women from Casey’s female engagement team, strapped into their seats. Sarge sat next to Zane and leaned his head toward him. “We should meet the Afghan translator by this afternoon. He’s a respected elder in the area. We’ll give you some time to get acquainted and figure out how much you can understand. As we work I need you to listen in on his conversation with other leaders and see if you think they’re trustworthy.”
Zane nodded.
The sergeant turned his head, but then added, “I’ve worked out furloughs. You’re going home the middle of May.”
Zane had hoped to go home much later than that. He didn’t mean to grimace, but he must have.
“I know,” Sarge said. “We’d all rather go home during the last half of the deployment, but Grant needs to go in July because of the baby, and I promised my wife I’d be home by the middle of August, when school starts for our kids.”
Zane glanced at Casey.
“She’s going home the end of May. You could see if she’ll trade with you.”
Zane shook his head. “It’s fine.”
Sarge nodded. “Thanks.”
All the windows in the MRAP were tinted green and bulletproof. Through the years the Army had progressively added more armor to the Humvees, and those improvements more effectively protected soldiers from being injured or killed, but the MRAPs did an even better job. The side windows were narrow and high, and Zane was lucky enough to have one next to him. He was tall enough to see out of it onto the hills, which were brown and dry—more like Texas than Lancaster County. Dust billowed up and into the adjacent fields and some seeped into the vehicle, drying his throat.
The villages they passed were small, with walls made from mud and stone around them. The homes were made from mud too. As they gained altitude, juniper and yew trees appeared. He knew in the spring, from his studies, that honeysuckle, currants, and rhododendron would bloom. The landscape grew greener and more rugged as the vehicle continued to climb.
Zane thought back to the tough job Sarge had of scheduling everyone’s furloughs. It wasn’t that he wanted his leave to be during the second half of his deployment to make the deployment go faster. He just didn’t want to go home so soon. He didn’t want to have to avoid Lila again. He didn’t want to worry about Simon and wonder how Adam was really doing and see the worry in his parents’ faces. If he’d left his truck in Texas, he could go there instead, but that would hurt his family. He could go see his grandfather in Seattle, but that would offend his parents too.
He’d met a soldier in Bagram who’d gone to Australia for his furlough. He said the last thing he wanted to do was go home to the U.S. during his leave—it would only make him more homesick. Zane wished he would have thought of that, but again, it would hurt his parents. The guy he’d talked with was in his midthirties and single. His parents probably weren’t as engaged in his life as Zane’s tried to be in his. He sighed and leaned back against the seat, shifting his thoughts to the translator he’d soon be meeting.
He hoped his Pashto was good enough to understand him in the field as he spoke with other Afghans. His thoughts drifted to what he’d learned about Afghanistan during their preparation. It wasn’t the uncivilized place some people thought. It had a rich history, shaped by trade routes and the Silk Road. Advanced civilizations had been established very early in the country and then decimated again and again by invaders. Through the centuries elders had to decide whom they would form alliances with, and their decisions were usually based on which side would most likely protect their families.
A couple of hours into the trip, the driver of the second vehicle, the one with the commander’s team in it, radioed that the women in the other FET group needed to stop.
Grant rolled his eyes. “I knew this would happen. Traveling with women is as bad as traveling with kids.”
“Keep it up, Turner, and you’ll be hitchhiking back to base,” Sarge said.
The women in Casey’s FET group rolled their eyes, but Casey didn’t respond, and neither did Zane. All four women pulled their scarves over their heads, though, clearly ready to get out. A few minutes later the driver pulled over next to a group of conifer trees. The women darted b
ehind them first, and then most of the men took a turn. The guide stood beside the vehicle and smoked a cigarette. Zane thought about his dad when he returned from Iraq and how he’d smoked for a while. War had all sorts of consequences. He couldn’t help but wonder how it would affect him.
“When is that mustache going to grow in?” Grant teased Zane.
“What do you mean?” Wade asked. “I saw him shave it the other day.”
“You’re kidding.” Grant shook his head. “You get weirder every day.”
Zane smiled and walked back to the MRAP. After they crawled back in, most everyone dozed until the MRAP came to an abrupt stop at a village. Sarge got out with the guide. Zane craned his neck to see out the window. A man wearing a turban and perahan tunban, the traditional men’s tunic and loose pants, came to the gate in the wall. The scrubby trees along the wall dipped in the wind. The ground wasn’t covered with snow, but piles of it were pushed along the stones. Sarge zipped his coat and pulled the collar up to his ears.
Zane dug his stocking cap and gloves from his bag. They were on an alpine plateau, and it was clearly going to be cold.
A few minutes later the sergeant returned. “We’ll all stay in this village tonight. In the morning the other team will go on to the next village.”
Zane’s team disembarked, except the driver, who drove the MRAP around to the back of the village, outside the wall.
Sarge pointed to an empty house made of mud bricks and directed the team to get settled, but then he motioned for Zane to follow him and the guide. Zane heaved his pack onto his back and quickened his step. If he’d been sane—instead of blinded by both love and rejection—almost three years ago when Lila told him to go away, the farther the better, he never would have found himself in Afghanistan. But he was glad he had. It was unlike any culture he’d ever seen or even imagined back then, and he never would have studied Pashto otherwise.
A barefoot boy darted out in front of them. A goat, tied to a post, bleated loudly. Ahead a woman stood in the doorway, holding her scarf in front of her face.
A sense of purpose welled up in Zane. He was connected to these people. They were created in God’s image. It was a village of families, not unlike the Amish—except these people’s lives were constantly threatened, while the Amish lived in peace. He said a silent prayer, asking God to bless their mission.
The village consisted of about fifteen homes. Zane knew the families were all related in some way, connected by blood and culture and religion. Not unlike the Amish. Except, again, for the violence around them. And, of course, the difference in religion. The woman he saw tending to two children wore a hijab, a veil, and not the enveloping burqa. He’d been told their dress would probably vary from village to village.
The guide pushed open a door to a house and entered. Sarge followed, and then Zane. Two men sat on mats on the floor, around a teapot, and they held cups in their hands. The guide motioned for Sarge and Zane to join them. “As-salaamu’ alaykum,” the older man said, as the guide sat down.
“Wradz mo pa kheyr,” Zane answered.
“What did you say?” Sarge asked.
“It’s an afternoon greeting.”
The older man smiled. He wore a skullcap and the traditional clothes.
“Zama num Zane Beck de,” Zane said.
“Your name?” Sarge asked.
Zane nodded.
“I am Jaalal,” the old man said with a bit of an accent. “And we can speak in English. I studied it as a young person and have been using it regularly for . . . the last eleven years.” Obviously other Americans had been working in the area before them.
“Jaalal is a respected elder here,” the guide explained.
“Peace to you,” the old man said, bowing a little to Sarge and then to Zane. “How are you? Are your souls healthy? Are you well? Are your families well? Long life to you!”
“Thank you,” Zane answered, remembering his training. “We are fine and our families are well.” Though he wasn’t certain about the health of all their souls. He found the long greeting charming. He’d been taught that the Afghans were polite and respectful. It seemed to be true.
The older man poured tea into little cups and added sugar and powdered milk. He passed cups to Sarge, then Zane, and then the guide.
Zane sipped his tea, knowing serving it was as ancient a tradition as the greeting and served as an excuse to stop, visit, and enjoy the moment. The tea was sweet and good. As he put the cup down, the curtain in the doorway rustled, but Zane couldn’t see who was behind it.
The guide explained that Sarge’s group would be doing community building—focusing on safety issues, hygiene, and education but also assessing the infrastructure of local roads and services. He didn’t add that one of the goals was to win support away from the Taliban or that they hoped to gain intelligence to help stabilize the country. The guide spoke about the women in the group and that they wanted to get to know the women in the village. The older man nodded.
“They also want to take back space from the enemy,” the guide said, “to make sure this area is stable before the Americans leave.”
The older man nodded again.
Zane marveled at the word choices—space and stable in particular. It sounded as if the guide had been reading Army manuals. They hoped the villagers would trust the Americans instead of the warlords. But that trust had to be won—it couldn’t just be expected.
The group discussed strategies, compensation, and a game plan. They would start by visiting the eight villages in the area. The visits would take a couple of weeks at least. They’d use this first village as home base.
“Could one of the women in our group meet with your wife?” Sarge asked Jaalal.
“In the morning. She will have time then,” he answered. Then glancing at Zane, he said, “I will help the young man translate.”
Zane said, “Manana.”
“You are welcome,” Jaalal responded, a twinkle in his eyes.
Zane looked forward to working with him.
Sarge appointed Casey as the spokesperson for the FET, and the next morning Zane sat with her and the guide back in Jaalal’s house. This time his wife sat beside him. She was thin and weathered and hunched over a little as she held her purple scarf tight against her chin, but she had a sparkle in her eyes too.
After the customary greeting from Jaalal, Zane introduced himself and then Casey. The woman nodded. Zane was so relieved she understood him that he hardly noticed when she said, in English, “My name is Aliah.” She smiled, and Zane began to laugh.
Her husband explained that she’d picked up some English, but not a lot, through the years. Aliah motioned to the plate of fried bread sprinkled with sugar. Zane took one and bit into it. He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and then smiled. It was delicious.
“It’s called gosh-e fil,” Aliah said.
“Manana,” Zane replied.
Aliah motioned to Casey, and she took one too. When Zane finished his, Aliah insisted he take another.
A few minutes later, as they began discussing what Casey and her team had planned, the curtain over the doorway moved, just as it had the evening before.
Jaalal said something so quickly in Pashto that Zane couldn’t understand him. A young man pulled the curtain to the side and stepped through. He was small and appeared to be a young man, but his face had a weathered appearance, one of time spent in the outdoors and maybe of suffering great tragedy too.
“This is our grandson Benham,” Jaalal said. “He lives with us.”
Zane stood and shook the man’s hand, greeting him in Pashto. Benham appeared shy and didn’t respond. Zane introduced Casey, but Benham simply nodded and didn’t look her way. Zane was pretty sure the young man hadn’t spent time with Americans the way his grandparents had. He slipped back through the curtain.
In a soft voice Jaalal said, “Our son and his wife, Benham’s parents, were both killed at the beginning of the war when he was six.”
“Taliban?” Zane asked.
Jaalal shook his head and without another word on the topic directed the conversation back to Casey’s plan. Zane did the math. Despite his weathered appearance, Benham looked to be about seventeen. If the Taliban didn’t kill his parents, then most likely the Americans or perhaps the Afghan army killed them, perhaps accidentally. Either way, it would have been a tragedy.
Two hours later, full of tea and sweet pastries, Casey and Zane left Jaalal and Aliah’s home. Zane was pleased with the progress they’d made, and by the look on Casey’s face, she was too.
“It’s about time,” Grant called out to them. “We’re running late because of the two of you.” Wade stood beside him, his arms crossed.
“Give me just a minute,” Casey said.
Zane didn’t respond but followed her toward the house where they were billeted. As he turned toward the door, he saw Benham standing at the far end of the compound, smoking a cigarette. Zane waved, but the young man turned his head away, toward a woman sweeping an earthen stoop. She wore the more traditional burqa, but by the way she carried herself Zane guessed she was older. Benham gazed past her, beyond the wall and toward the mountainside.
Excitement, apprehension, and confusion rushed through Zane as he entered the house. He liked Jaalal and Aliah. If he could help Casey and her team make life better for the women and children in the villages, that would be a worthy task. If he could make a difference in the lives of Jaalal and his village, including Benham, Zane would count it a privilege. His heart swelled with gratitude. God really did have a plan for him.
12
Lila talked with her supervisor and made arrangements to take a month off work. “Call me in a few weeks,” the woman said, “and let me know how things are going.”
Mammi wouldn’t have started chemo by then, but she should be nearly recovered from her surgery.
On Wednesday morning Reuben came over to do the milking, and Lila worked alongside him, showing him what to do. He slowly picked up on the tasks involved. He definitely was more gifted in working with wood than animals. Simon came out late, which annoyed Dat, but he didn’t say anything. Lila was sure Dat would enjoy working with Reuben more than with anyone else.
