SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  Proceeding west from the hills, they descended a switchback trail to the lower elevations of a wide sloping plain stretching all the way to the Tarnak River. Along with the Arghandab, it was one of the two main rivers flowing by Qandahar.

  The going wasn’t challenging, though there were a few small streams and many brooks to cross. Eventually, by early evening, they reached the Tarnak. In this area, about fifty kilometers to the northeast of Qandahar, the main Qandahar-Kabul Road ran parallel to it. The men decided to rest just to the east of the river at one of the small clusters of homes where friendly locals would take them in if need be. Everyone from these parts was from the huge Durrani Pashtun tribe. They were no friends of the communists.

  Early the next morning, under a blanket of darkness, the group moved on to cross the major road. Although in disrepair, it was still the only one available to enemy forces to move supplies and arms up and down the country. Every hour or so a convoy passed, so it was important to have an excellent view in both directions before attempting to pull a team of mules across undetected.

  Once the crossing was safely made, they continued on to the high ground northeast of Qandahar, and by daybreak were descending into the area north of Dahla Lake. Finally, they were on the west bank of the Arghandab.

  The air in the river valley south of the Dahla Dam had a new fragrance. “What is that?” asked Sikander.

  “Pomegranates,” replied Abdul Latif. “There are tens of thousands of pomegranate trees in this valley. Pity they’re not in season right now. It’s the flowers you’re smelling.”

  As they approached the pomegranate orchards and open fields, a small band of armed mujahideen approached, and quizzed them about who they were and whose militia they belonged to. Though passable, Abdul Latif’s explanations were not nearly as effective as the Stingers and Milans packed on their mules. The troop was allowed to continue into the valley.

  “There’ll be six more teams coming through, so be on the lookout for them.” Abdul Latif explained, before he and his companions marched on. Traveling as directed by the guards, it didn’t take long to arrive at Mullah Lala Malang’s headquarters in the leafy settlement of Sokhchala.

  Malang had risen to prominence following a skirmish with the Soviets at a place called Deh Khwaja, not far from where he was presently dug in. He had ambushed a Soviet column attempting to resupply their positions in Panjwayee from Qandahar’s air base. That was back in 1982, and his fearsome reputation for handling captured opponents made his name at once terrifying and reviled among Soviet and Afghan government forces. Despite showing little mercy to the enemy and none to traitors, to his mujahideen brethren he was welcoming and generous.

  Abdul Latif had never met him. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum!” he greeted Mullah Malang after being shown in to see him. “I’m Abdul Latif and I have almost forty mujahideen with me from Jalaluddin Haqqani’s force out of Nangarhar. We’re here to assist you.”

  “Wa ‘alaykum assalaam, Brother Abdul Latif,” Malang responded. “You know, we have another Abdul Latif here. He’s the commander of the NIFA forces. We should be sure to avoid confusion, don’t you think? Maybe we should call you by a different name?”

  Unsure of himself, Abdul Latif elected to be cautious. “Whatever you consider will be helpful in winning this war is acceptable to me,” he replied.

  “Hm. It’s not a pressing matter. We’ll get by with your real name,” the commander joked. “So, what have you brought with you?”

  “Thirty-three men will be coming in throughout the day with almost thirty mules, twenty-four Stingers with sixteen launchers, and sixty Milans with six launchers, along with our own light arms.”

  “Right. Then I suggest you go now and rest. We can go over plans tomorrow when all your men are here and properly rested.”

  “As you wish, Brother Malang. I—”

  “Abdul Latif, please… It’s Lala.”

  “As you wish, Lala. When should we meet tomorrow?”

  “At ten. Here.”

  Abdul Latif left Lala Malang’s headquarters feeling a little under-appreciated after his trek from the border. When he rejoined his boys outside, one of the mujahideen guards walked them over to a cluster of connected brick buildings that appeared to have been built for storing harvested pomegranates.

  “You’ll be staying here,” he explained and left them. With the mules unpacked, the men moved their weapons and materials into their assigned rooms.

  “Well?” Ejaz probed.

  “We’re supposed to bunk here and meet him in the morning. I’m tired, so that’s what I’m going to do. I suggest we all do the same.”

  Abdul Latif was irritated. Ejaz knew better than to press him to elaborate and everyone settled down to nap after the long trek.

  The group awoke after a few hours, well rested. Following a combined zuhr and asr prayer, Sikander and Ejaz decided to go for a stroll among the leafy orchards.

  “So, Sikander… My sister, eh?” Ejaz laughed. “You know, there was a time when all a man had to do was throw a cloth over the woman he wanted to marry, pay her father an agreed price, and she’d be his.”

  “I see. And if the father was no longer alive?”

  “Well, then it would be the oldest male relative.” Ejaz smirked, casting a sideways glance at Sikander.

  Sikander smiled. He would have to wait until Ejaz was in a more serious mood before pursuing the matter of Rabia with him. For now, it would be the air and the scenery and he’d leave it at that.

  They returned in time for the sunset and isha prayers. Overwhelmed by the scent of the place, which, as the night wore on, became even more pronounced, Sikander took a moment to close his eyes, shut out the war, and lose himself in the redolence. Without effort, his thoughts drifted to Rabia. He drifted to sleep.

  Morning came. Now that traveling was over, everyone took the usual suhur meal, made the niyyah for the day’s fasting, performed the dawn prayer, and napped for a short while, but by ten o’clock, they were at Lala Malang’s command post. Malang seemed in a more jovial mood and welcomed them, inviting Abdul Latif to examine the maps on his table.

  “The government has six thousand men located here, here, and here.” Malang gestured to different locations dotting the Qandahar area. “From what we can determine, against us we have units of the Fifteenth Division and the Seventh Tank Brigade near Zhare Dashteh. That’s about six kilometers to our north. They’re supported by the Fourteenth and Seventeenth Divisions and have militias from all over the place, including Kabul. It doesn’t look as if the Soviets are truly committed, but they do have Qandahar air base and units of the Seventieth Motorized Rifles. The DRA have APCs. Their men, huh! Mostly farm boys these days. Not well trained. I really feel for them.” Malang shook his head, sighing at their prospects.

  “The Soviets can’t have forgotten their embarrassment at Deh Khwaja,” remarked Abdul Latif. Malang perked up. He peered across the table at Abdul Latif, meeting his gaze squarely.

  “You’ve heard of that?” he asked grinning broadly.

  “Directly from Jalaluddin Haqqani,” responded Abdul Latif, returning the smile.

  Malang held a look of fond reminiscence. “Hm. In any case, I don’t think we’ll be so lucky as to have them totally out of the picture, but you could be right. They certainly don’t feel the same commitment to this fight that the DRA does. We gave the DRA a bloody nose at the beginning of this year and almost took Qandahar. Now they’re itching for their badal! Probably timing an offensive for victory by ‘Eid, a week from now.”

  “So, Lala, what’s your plan?” Abdul Latif probed.

  “Well, let me ask you what you would do. I’ve heard only good things about your tactics in Nangarhar.”

  Abdul Latif studied the map and thought for a moment before answering the unexpected question.

  “Brother Lala, I walked around the valley on the way in yesterday. The irrigation ditches are deep. To avoid falling into them, the heavy armor of the enemy will hav
e to follow specific pathways. Meanwhile, we can take deep cover in those same ditches. You also have well camouflaged bunkers where I can set up our Milan missile launch posts and arrange them to crossfire into any arm—”

  “Yes, yes, Abdul Latif, but how do you propose to handle a whole division of Soviet tanks? We could be looking at eighty or more. I know they won’t be able to come into the orchard area, and we’ve already been using the channeling tactics you mention, but they’ll try fighting from the edges of this green zone and landing their shells onto us.”

  “Well, if the orchards are impassable for the tanks, I imagine they’ll be using the tanks like ships against shore positions. They’ll want to soften up our forces as they move their APCs to get infantry in among us. We could stay in the bunkers while shelling persists and place just a small force of lookouts at strategic locations in case the tanks try to break through. It’ll force the Soviet tanks to keep a distance or go further down the valley to find their opening.”

  “All good points, brother. The Afghan army regulars have poor morale and if we can get a high kill rate and block their remaining vehicles, I think they’ll either pull back or surrender.”

  “Yes, I agree that’s likely, but as long as we treat their deserters well, they’ll desert in great numbers,” counseled Abdul Latif.

  “What about air defense?” Lala asked.

  “Well, they’ll no doubt try to pound us with helicopters or attack aircraft along with the tank shelling. In any case, the main point is that I’d expect them to send in their infantry after believing they’ve softened us up, however they choose to do that. But I think we can repel an air assault with our Stingers.”

  “How many Stingers did you say you’ve brought?”

  “We have twenty-four, which safely ought to handle at least a dozen aircraft. If the Soviets provide the air cover, either they’ll bring up reinforcements or they’ll see our success and want to keep their helicopters from harm. But if they come in large numbers, we won’t have an answer. Brother Lala, what about the other militias in the area? Aren’t we working with them?”

  “Mullah Naqib is dug in further down the valley on the west bank at Chaharqulba and NIFA’s Abdul Latif has his force to the north of Pir Paymal downriver from Naqib. They’ve got exceptionally good bunkers so I think they can hold up well enough. Naqib has a solid supply of RPGs and I think he’s just received Stingers. If tanks attack them, it’ll be the same story. The tanks will be vulnerable to channelizing. There just isn’t much open ground.”

  “Brother Lala, it’s in our interest to offer maximum protection to Naqib’s people. Air and land offensives will have to get past him to get to us. We can do the same for him with the tanks.”

  “Well, I’m with you on the air defenses but the threat from Zhare Dashteh is too great. We can’t spare your Milans for supporting Naqib’s needs.”

  Malang ordered the Milan units to be placed along the northwest edge of the green zone.

  “Place the Stinger gunners three-quarters of the way up the hills, about a kilometer southwest of here. From there they can cover all access pathways into the valley, particularly from Qandahar air base through the Baba-e-Wali gap. That should support Naqib’s people well enough.”

  The two of them agreed and parted. Lala Malang was pleased with the discussion. Both points of view had made for a better plan.

  Abdul Latif rejoined his men, letting them know the plan’s details.

  The next day, Sikander and Abdul Majeed were at the designated position up the hillside, doing Stinger missile drills. Sikander gave Abdul Majeed some tips on target acquisition as assistant gunner and how to stand in a way to avoid jet blasts and chemical discharges. On the valley floor, Ejaz worked with Abdul Latif down in the ditches at the northern edge of the green zone, training other mujahideen to work the Milan system.

  The Milan was a remarkably easy weapon to use. All that was necessary was to clip the nearly seven-kilogram missile to the launcher post and then aim at the target. However, it was not a fire-and-forget weapon, being wire-guided to a two-kilometer range. This required maintaining an aim on the target, as well as firing in open spaces where trees and brush wouldn’t interfere. Any APCs that did manage to get past this defense would be attacked by RPGs launched from the irrigation ditches.

  At about eleven in the morning, a loud boom rudely interrupted the Milan training. It had clearly originated from the green zone to the south.

  Up on the hillside, Sikander’s head spun. “What was tha—? Over there!” he shouted, answering his own question while pointing to a flight of eight Hind gunships on their way toward Chaharqulba. “Naqib’s position. They’re going after his bunker and ditches!”

  The helicopters were too far away to be attacked by Sikander’s Stingers, but he could see concentrated RPG fire pummeling them. Moments later, one of the choppers fell and exploded among the pomegranate trees. Sikander punched the air in satisfaction. He felt the urge to join the fray, but he had strict orders. They had been stationed on those slopes to provide air defense for Sokhchala and secondarily, to Chaharqulba, but under no circumstances were they to move. Abdul Majeed looked over his shoulder. Noting two other Stinger-equipped mujahideen climbing up the slopes to get closer to where he and Sikander were standing, he motioned for them to hold fast for a moment before waving them up toward him once he was sure that they weren’t under threat from any Hinds.

  Half an hour after the rocket and bomb attacks on Chaharqulba began, the tanks at Zhare Dashteh started rumbling southwest along the edge of the green zone toward a location from which they could pound Naqib’s forces. Abdul Latif had to act quickly. “We have to intercept these tanks!” he shouted to Ejaz and the other mujahideen. “Remember, when you aim the missile, keep the target in your sights until it’s hit, then run to the next spot. Don’t stay put or they’ll turn you into dust! Wait for my signal. We’ll launch a few together to confuse them. I want them to worry about how many firing locations we have.”

  “Let’s go, Uncle!” called Ejaz as he ran to take up his position. Abdul Latif followed suit, signaling for the already spread out gunners to increase their separation to between eighty and a hundred meters each.

  As the tanks moved closer, Abdul Latif gave the signal. Five missiles went rushing to their targets. The anti-RPG sandbags worn by the tanks were useless. The Soviet T-62 and T-55 armor was simply too thin to remain protected and four of the missiles made contact with their quarry. The tanks that were hit appeared to explode from within as they came to rest amid a cloud of billowing white smoke that quickly turned black. Abdul Latif motioned to his gunners to move about fifty meters to the southwest while remaining in the irrigation ditch. But as the tank columns gathered speed, it was hard for Abdul Latif and his people, despite their spread out positions, to remain fully engaged.

  From their vantage point on the western valley slopes, Abdul Majeed and Sikander were able to watch the unfolding scene in the valley to their left, where Abdul Latif and Ejaz had attacked the tanks, and to their right toward Chaharqulba, where a heavy firefight was underway. The DRA forces were advancing with APCs hoping they would find sufficiently softened up mujahideen. A hail of AK-47 fire and RPGs, making easy prey of the armored personnel carriers, met them instead.

  The mujahideen shot anyone emerging from the APCs that didn’t immediately gesture surrender. Having gained the upper hand, they even emerged from their bunkers to face the increasingly demoralized DRA soldiers.

  “Most of the enemy’s pulling back!” Abdul Majeed yelled, succumbing to a rare display of glee. In the distance he could also see several surrendering infantry, hands held high, approaching Naqib’s defending mujahideen.

  Meanwhile, despite moderate tank losses inflicted by Abdul Latif’s sustained Milan fire, Naqib’s positions were still taking a pounding from the advancing tank column, as well as from Nagahan much further to the southwest of Chaharqulba and well beyond reach of anything out of Sokhchala.

&
nbsp; Sikander was awed at what it took to stand and fight in the face of such an onslaught. That’s real courage, he mulled.

  Despite the earlier success against the APCs, the mujahideen in the valley at Chaharqulba were clearly unable to make the headway needed against the tanks. Although able to penetrate tough armor and devastate a tank, RPGs proved unable to get past simple sandbags, which interfered with their designed detonation system and on many occasions caused the RPG simply to bounce off a sandbag and fall away harmlessly. The tanks, however, could never get sufficiently close to destroy the stronghold. The pomegranate orchards presented too thick a barrier to penetrate.

  “They don’t seem to want to push it,” observed Sikander.

  “No. They’re being forced to move along the edge of the green zone and won’t come into the open where they’d—”

  A deafening roar came, initially from nowhere but then from just over their heads as a pair of Sukhoi Su-25s screamed past the two air defense gunners, descending into the valley to their northeast. They were flying at no more than thirty meters above the downward sloping valley wall but only a moment later leveled off as they readied for a bombing run.

  “It’s a ground attack on Sokhchala!” shouted Sikander. “They came from our side. We see their rear ends. We’re firing!” he continued, more annoyed than afraid. Sikander and Abdul Majeed indicated to their fellow Stinger crew to follow suit. Just as Sikander was returning his attention to the jets, he saw an approaching Stinger team about a hundred meters away, coming from the direction of Chaharqulba.