by Ron Lealos
A ruthless enemy. The list of their atrocities included a new twist—torture of infants. Beating them with the butts of AKs, then stomping them to death with sandaled feet in front of their parents. During the Taliban’s fourteen-month occupation of Taloqan, a former Allied headquarters, those thought to have conspired with the enemy were treated to the brutal murder of their children. In Kunduz, eight teenage boys who were silly enough to chuckle in the presence of a group of Taliban were shot dead for daring to laugh. Outside a Kabul refugee camp, an entire family was burned alive in their tent after a nearby American bombing. With nowhere else to wreak revenge, the Taliban randomly chose the family to vent their anger. Mass executions of civilians and aid workers were commonplace, approaching the level of Bosnia. The list of killings and mutilations, including castration, grew daily. And this was on their own countrymen.
Captured soldiers were treated differently. Outside Bagram Airbase, the bodies of military personnel were found in burlap bags. They had been skinned alive from the waist up. The skin and head had been knotted into the burlap and the soldiers left to die. Often, captives had their arms and legs amputated. Still screaming, the limbless torsos were placed near an Allied position to tempt their comrades into an ambush. A favored Taliban method was beheading. The heads were left for viewing, either in trees or on poles. Or videotaped for wider distribution. No captured soldier was ever returned alive.
Mind fuck.
The litany of slaughter continued.
And I was getting numb.
That was as scary as kraits. No matter if I thought I might be playing on the good team, the feeling grew that I was enlisted in this insanity with no escape. Or that something I couldn’t get my head around was going on behind my back. Finnen just laughed when I brought up my fears. “You weren’t drafted, lad,” he’d say. “Did you think you’d be goin’ to Sunday mass?” Of course, any doubts raging in Finnen’s head were silenced by beer and limericks. At least now, some of my turmoil could be directed at finding out if I was truly on the virtuous side, not focused on suspects. There was no R & R for my conscience. I would have to work through it alone while I was still waiting to fire the next bullet in the land of a million donkeys. Washington was the life line.
One of my bush boots was untied. I bent to tighten the knot.
“Has Washington got any new emails?” I asked.
Stringing together sentences was foreign to Dunne. The speech about Thorsten and his cronies was the longest I’d ever heard him talk. Now, he was resting and regrouping from the effort. After nearly a minute, he said, “I was about to get to that. The answer is yes.”
Finnen was more impatient. After another minute, he wiped foam from his mouth and said, “Don’t be a tease, Dunne. You’re worse than my beautiful cousin Mary, who likes to push her firm, young tits into my arm, knowin’ it’s taboo. Is Washington makin’ another run soon?”
With a world of information at his fingertips to explore, Dunne was in no hurry. He tapped away.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, not looking up. “I’ve got Morgan assigned as his escort.”
“What about me?” Finnen asked.
“Well, you could go back to your mud hootch in the city. I need the quiet anyway. And I’m runnin’ short on Bud.”
“Not that cave. Gotta’ drink it cold. Too many blackouts. Can’t you get both of us onboard? I think Washington and I share a common heritage.”
“What might that be?”
“Well, as you know, the filthy, motherless English bastards used to bring the good citizens of Ireland across the channel and force us to clean up their shite. Slaves, we were. Just like Washington and his ancestors.”
“That’s stretching it a bit.”
“Also, I can dance. Just put on a little Irish jig, and watch my feet fly. You’d think I was Michael Flatley himself.”
“Flatley was born on the south side of Chicago,” I said.
“Now,” Finnen said, “don’t you be holdin’ that against him. His mum was from County Sligo.”
“Even with these intimate connections,” Dunne said, “I think we’ll stick to a two-man op. Morgan and Washington. You can stay on base and practice your step dancing. Somewhere far away from me.” Dunne stared at Finnen and nodded his head.
No rebuttal. Finnen tossed another empty toward the eternally overflowing wastebasket. He sighed and slowly shook his head like a disappointed drill sergeant watching the new recruits fuck up his perception of manhood.
For some reason, I craved a cigarette, but there wasn’t a single one in sight. Besides, I’d quit after the first one made me puke. And Dunne would grease me if I dared light up. He was a militant anti-smoker. Unconsciously, I patted my fatigue pockets.
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“I’ve got a few details to finalize,” Dunne said. “Why don’t you and Finnen shag your asses into town. You won’t find any pubs open, but it’ll get you out of my life for a while. Report back here by 1730. There’s a jeep waiting in the motor pool.”
He held up a small envelope like the ones jewelers use to return repaired watches and rings. “All the same, since you’ll be in that fine metropolis of Jalalabad, wasting away another spectacular Afghan day, deliver this to a man named Daoud in the market. Normal precautions. He’s in the third butcher shop from the right. You’ll know him by his smile. All steel teeth, and he has only one hand.”
All this was said and done with Dunne’s face staring at the computer screen. I wasn’t surprised about the chore. No one worked a forty-hour week in Afghanistan, and afternoons off to stroll through the city were rare. And dangerous. We didn’t bother with a “fare thee well.”
Jalalabad. Unlike most of Afghanistan, the palm-treed city was dressed in green, broken by the favored pastel walls and storefronts. Everywhere, the squiggly lines of Pashto writing advertised car parts, bulk foods, electronics, and cafés. Not quite as many cars as in Millard, but certainly more camels, bicycles, rickshaws, and mopeds. Curly-haired boys raced through the din, acting like there wasn’t a war at their front door. The women were covered head to toe, the dye of their burqas blending with the pinks, light blues, and greens of the shops. Turbaned and skull-capped men, some carrying Kalashnikovs, wore rumpled sport coats or vests. All had beards. Gardens seemed to be around every corner, and there were more smiles here than anywhere else I’d seen in-country.
Not many cars or pickups about, Finnen took his time finding the right spot after a few drive-bys.
“Did this one have your name on it?” I asked. “You’ve been acting like the lot was full.”
“Just bein’ careful, mate,” Finnen said. “An ounce of plannin’ is better than a pound of C-4 under the bonnet.”
After parking the jeep by a bicycle shop, Finnen and I headed for the market across the crowded street, our H & Ks at our sides. American GIs weren’t uncommon here, but a group of young boys still danced around us, begging for karez. Candy. When the kids tired of asking, they shouted “ghwal ookh-raa, Amerikaner” and ran away, laughing. Eat shit, Americans.
A man, balancing a pile of firewood that was mostly branches, wobbled past on an old Schwinn. A donkey brayed from somewhere behind us, and the air was filled with the smell of spices and rotting meat. On what passed for a sidewalk, a man had set up one of those ring-toss games common at county fairs. If your ring stayed on the peg, the prize was a pack of matches or a roll of toilet paper. Finnen gave the man a couple Afghanis for a throw. He lost.
This bazaar, unlike the ones dedicated to consumer products, was about food. Outside the warren of tent covers that drooped from crooked poles, farmers displayed produce out of piles of fresh melons, potatoes, radishes, garlic, tomatoes, green onions, and carrots. Huge piles of carrots. If Afghans ate that many carrots, they’d piss orange and wouldn’t need glasses. One vendor ran a press powered by a bicycle wheel and pedals. He sold the squeezed-out carrot juice in plastic bags and gave us a toothless smile. Most of the produce was f
rom short-term crops. Afghans didn’t have the confidence to count on long-term harvests like fruit. Too many rockets, and the Taliban might call apples an abomination at any moment.
Everywhere, people squatting. They didn’t stand around with their hands in their jeans, grab-assing. Most of the conversation seemed to take place at knee level, with a lot of hand gestures and shrieks. Especially the women, who looked as if each transaction would be their last. Serious business. Money was exchanged for food that went into colorful woven bags. No paper.
Finnen stopped in front of a crate of potatoes. He picked one up and inspected it, looking at all sides. “Alu,” said a man dressed like all the others but with one eye oozing milky pus. I knew he said “potato” in Pashto, but Finnen didn’t have a clue. He was familiar only with Pashto swear words and insults. Finnen just nodded his head and said, “Not like a good Irish spud. Too yellow. I like ’em whiter.”
This was not a secure place. I never took my eye off the jeep for more than a second or two. We were probably surrounded by walls that hid car-bomb factories. We couldn’t stay long. Word had surely gotten out that infidels were around, and the jeep would be an easy target. I nudged Finnen’s side.
“I’m going to find Daoud,” I said. “I think he’s right over there.” I pointed toward an area just past the vegetable displays where chicken, pig, and goat carcasses hung from wires strung between poles. “You stay here and watch the jeep. And my back. I’ll get this over quick. Then we can have a taste of the lamb curry they’re famous for at Sahar’s café on the edge of town.”
Finnen seemed more concerned with some black pits on the potatoes than me or the jeep.
“Looks like some kinda blight,” he said. “Maybe a cousin of the one that caused so many of my distant relatives to starve.” He picked up another one. “Right-o, mate. I’ll be watchin’.” He didn’t look up.
As I walked past a few stalls selling dried spices both in bulk, bags, and old jars, the rotten meat smell grew stronger. I was just a few steps away from the first butcher shop, and already it was getting hard to breathe without gagging. The flies here weren’t the little ones back at the base or in the mountains. They were big enough that I could hear their buzz over the chatter of the market. No attempt was made to brush them away. One particularly bloody piece of indistinguishable meat was veiled in black and about to become airborne. I moved slowly, already attracting enough attention.
On my left, two men began to argue. One was Daoud. He was easy to spot. As he screamed at the other man, he raised his arms threateningly. One arm was missing a hand. Spit flew out his mouth, and slivers of light reflected off his metal teeth. Daoud kept calling the man a “kharbachiya.” Donkey. The man replied with “da dammay zo,” son of a whore. Arguments like this in Afghanistan weren’t known to end without someone dying. Or becoming crippled.
I stepped forward and said, “Excuse me—do you have any fresh prime rib today?”
They ignored me.
The plan had been to fake that I had tripped, falling down, and slipping the envelope under the sawdust on the ground at Daoud’s feet. There was no way I could speak to the asset or pay him any particular attention. His cover would be burnt. Daoud and his rival must have spotted me and were making it easier with their drama. Accomplices. At least I hoped so.
Daoud stepped out from behind the counter. Pushing his bearded face into the other man’s, he shouted, “Ustaa moor kay mandam.” I’m going to fuck your mother. The man grabbed Daoud’s vest and they began to wrestle. The envelope was folded in my left fist, H & K in my right hand. As I grasped Daoud to separate the two men, I slipped the envelope into Daoud’s pocket. The tussle broke up immediately, mainly because the barrel of my rifle was pointed at both of them.
People were watching. Much of the market noise had ceased. I separated the two men with the tip of the H & K. I gently pushed the accomplice away and motioned Daoud to go back behind the counter of aging meat. He did, with a final “khooti me ra wa sata.” Lick my balls. After the disagreement was over, I turned away from Daoud and walked back toward Finnen, stopping only once to sample a piece of goat shish kabob grilling on charcoal. It cost me ten Afghanis.
Standing so he could see both me and the jeep with just a slight twist of his head, Finnen chewed on a carrot.
“Smooth, mate,” he said. “By the way, I did see you slide that envelope into Daoud’s pocket. I knew what to look for. They call that move a pass, you know. Expert in tradecraft am I, Morgan. I did enjoy the little theatre thrown in. Those blokes were good.”
“Anyone approach the jeep?”
“Just the usual tourist types and car bombers.”
“Carrot tasty?”
“Better than from Aunt Kathleen’s garden. She has a black thumb though, not green.”
“Then you might not be hungry for a feast at Sahar’s. You can watch me eat.”
“Wrongo, laddy. I’m always hungry. I just wish they had some ice-cold brew. I’ll survive ’til we get back to Dunne’s. I’m sure he’ll have the fridge refreshed.”
“Let’s di di.”
Finnen waved goodbye to the carrot vendor, and we walked back to the jeep. Before we could mount up, a beat-up white truck entered the street behind us. Turbaned men sat on the bed rails, AKs pointed to the sky. A loudspeaker was on the top of the cab, blaring out Pashto. From what I could understand, it was a lot of references to Allah, Mohammed, and American infidels mixed with directives. The truck had decals on the side claiming it was an official government-of-Afghanistan vehicle. But these weren’t civil-service employees. They were dressed like Taliban, and this was no place to be in an American military uniform.
The driver spotted us, and the truck stopped. The men jumped down. They didn’t come closer—just stared in our direction. Finnen and I took up positions behind the jeep, H & Ks on full auto. Sound continued to blast from the speakers. The messages must have been taped because I couldn’t see anyone talking from inside the truck. People began to slip away. Within seconds, the street was empty.
“Shoulda taken a squad with us like I told you, Morgan,” Finnen said. “Ah, ’tis a fine day to meet the Almighty, though.” He didn’t seem jumpy—only resigned to the fate.
“They won’t do anything but bluster,” I said. “There’s too many of us in the neighborhood.”
“You’re sure about that? They don’t look like they’re thinkin’ about invitin’ us in for a hit off their hookahs.”
“It’s the old Mexican stand-off. We gotta make sure we’re not the first to blink.”
“I’m not worried about blinkin’. I’m more concerned about pissin’ myself.” Not true. Finnen could be confronted with much worse odds than this and still have the same smile that now curled his Irish lips. And he hated to waste piss when it still contained so much alcohol.
One of the men turned his head toward the wall next to the pickup. Surprisingly, he was wearing a floppy green Afghan military cap rather than a dirty turban. He stepped quickly over to a door and used the butt of his AK and his foot to smash through. The others didn’t pay him any attention, their total focus on us. Seconds later, we heard a female scream, and the man came out pulling a young woman by the hair. Her face was uncovered, and she wore a long, light-blue dress that went from her shoulders to her bare feet. The man was shouting in her ear. He pushed the girl toward the front of the truck and knocked her to the ground with his rifle. From what I could hear, she had been peeking out a window. Now, it seemed she was going to be tortured before our eyes.
No hesitation. As the man lifted his weapon to hit the sprawled girl, I raised mine and shot a burst from the H & K into the air, bringing the barrel back down and aiming it at the man. No one moved.
“Fuckin’ jaysus, Morgan,” Finnen said. “That was dumb.”
He moved from behind the jeep and slowly walked toward the Taliban.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he said. “Follow me, Morgan.”
I did.
The man reached for the girl again. She was sobbing, not facing the men, her nose close to the road. This time it was Finnen who reacted. He was careful to fire straight up like I had. Any hint we were about to unload at the Taliban would have meant we’d soon be bleeding alongside the girl.
The man stood again, and the girl took advantage of the diversion. She stood quickly and ran toward us, falling once but scrambling to her feet. I could see the terror in her eyes.
She surprised me. Instead of disappearing into the market, she ran behind my legs and pushed close to my back. Finnen and I were spread a few yards apart, giving the Taliban two targets rather than one, where a bullet could more easily hit either of us. I could feel her sobs.
In a moment of adrenalin clarity, it made some kind of sense. She was condemned. No place to hide in Afghanistan for a girl on the run. If she fled into the market, she would be an untouchable. Taliban spies would narc her out in minutes. She would be dead by sunrise, having caused the Taliban deep disgrace.
A silly thought. Irrelevant to this drama. But it bore into my mind like a drill. I wondered what the Koran said about where this girl’s soul would go if she was filled with bullets alongside two infidels. Her death wouldn’t be considered martyrdom for Mohammed.
At least the men were hardened enough to keep their AKs pointed to the bright blue sky. Neither of us wanted the situation to escalate. In another time and place, outside a city crawling with American military and Afghan police patrols, we’d already be dead. A firefight here would most likely conclude with Finnen and me leaking blood on the road. A few of the brothers would also die. Those still standing would have to run. Fast. The girl wasn’t worth it.
