Beyond Valor

by Lindsay McKenna

  “Two hundred,” Luke said, craning his neck to look at the men standing at the gate of the village. All were farmers. Some owned donkeys and others had primitive farm implements to plow the stubborn soil. The grain fields surrounded the village. He saw a few little boys and a few scruffy dogs playing nearby.

  “Do things look quiet?”

  “Yeah, from what I can see. The men and their sons are going out to tend the fields.”

  She saw them in baggy cotton pants, their long vests over long-sleeved shirts. Most wore turbans or caps, and they all had beards. It was a Muslim law that no man could be clean-shaven. This was an easy way to identify non-Muslim in this country, which was why the SEAL teams always wore beards. “They’re hard-looking,” she said. Their faces were darkened by continuous work under the sun, many lines and creases deeply etched into their leathery skin.

  “The stats say people in Afghanistan die in their early forties,” Luke said. “This land is a challenge, and only the hardy survive.”

  “It’s tough enough trying to survive in this environment,” Megan said, feeling for the people. “Add to that al-Qaeda threatening to kill them if they talk to us.”

  “Yeah.” Luke sighed. “It’s not a good situation. Timor Khan has a truce with the tribe on the other side of the mountain—for now. You can bet some of these men are al-Qaeda sympathizers. Some may be burying the IEDs in the road at night, hoping we’ll drive over one the next morning. There’s no way to tell who’s good or bad.”

  “I’m sure Khan knows who they are,” Megan said. The Humvee came to a halt and Hall climbed out.

  “He does.” Luke watched the captain go up and give the Muslim greeting to the elders standing at the entrance. “The captain knows just enough Pashto to get some rudimentary greetings out of the way.”

  Megan had a dark green cotton scarf stuffed in her pocket. She pulled it out and took off her helmet. Placing it across her head, she said, “We were taught to wear a scarf because it honors Muslim law.”

  “My advice is tie it around your neck and always wear your helmet when outdoors,” Luke said. “I don’t think Hall will let you traipse around the village with a scarf on your head. He’ll want you fully protected. Don’t forget, there could be al-Qaeda sympathizers among these people. We don’t know what they might do if they see you.” His voice turned soft. “Megan, you’re a target whether you want to be or not....”

  “Good advice.” Megan took off the scarf and instead allowed it to hang around her neck and shoulders.

  Megan saw the captain walk away from the elders. “Greetings are completed. I guess we go into the village now?”

  “Yep. The C.O. will drive to Khan’s home to talk with him. Protocols are very important to follow here.”

  “Do we get out at Khan’s home, then?”

  “I would think so. Hall will probably want to introduce you to the leader. Timor Khan will then decide whether or not to allow you to talk with his wife. Women never attend meetings of men. They’re not allowed.”

  “Do you know anything about Mina?” Excitement thrummed through Megan. At last, she could put a year’s worth of hard work into play.

  “No, all I ever see her in is a burka. I don’t even know what she looks like.” Luke grinned as Hall climbed into the Humvee and shut the door. “Maybe Mina will invite you in for tea. They don’t wear those burkas inside. You can tell me later today what she looks like.”

  Megan found the Muslim laws unwieldy and unfair to women, but she said nothing as the Humvee lurched through the opened gate and passed the men standing nearby. These young men in their twenties had a flat and expressionless look in their eyes. Who among them hated the Marines? Which were friendly? Swallowing hard, Megan tried to still her excitement. At least she hoped to help the women and children of this village. Women, their babies and young girls would no longer have to go without medical intervention. This was her silent promise to these villagers and to herself.

  Chapter 3

  Megan’s heart beat a little harder as the Humvee rolled slowly down the main dirt road. It was one thing to be shown slides and photos of the area and another to see it. Most of the homes were single-story and made from mud. Others were made of stone, or a combination of the two. Afghans used whatever raw materials were available.

  Children, barefoot and in ragged clothes, ran down the street. Their faces were filled with smiles, and they held their hands out toward the Humvee.

  “They’re asking for candy,” Luke told her.

  “My trainers told me to always carry a bag of candy in my pocket.” She patted her left thigh pocket.

  “Some kids, the older ones, can be a problem,” Luke warned. “The Pashtuns are a tribe and they live all along this border region between Afghanistan and Pakistan. The Taliban threatens them, and some of the villages work with them. Others do not. Most Afghans hate al-Qaeda rule, but they can’t snub them or they’ll come into a village and murder everyone. It’s sad.”

  “Maybe I can help turn this around if there are al-Qaeda sympathizers in this village,” Megan said. She memorized what the homes looked like. Older men stood near the street, staring at them. A few women in burkas, which covered them from head to toe, moved quickly, heads down.

  They passed a donkey cart with sticks and branches piled high. When she’d flown in earlier, she’d seen how denuded the landscape was for several miles around the village. Those in the business of collecting and selling firewood had to travel many miles farther to find fuel.

  “This is going to get interesting,” Luke said. “The kids have never seen a female soldier before. It’s going to fascinate them. Afghan women stay at home and cook, clean, weave and take care of their children. You’re going to be very popular.”

  Megan grimaced. “I don’t like being popular. You get less done that way.”

  “It comes with the territory,” Luke said. What he didn’t say was the teenage boys might do more than stare. Captain Hall hadn’t said anything yet, but Luke knew he was going to have to protect Megan the best he could. He worried someone in the village might try to kill her. She was like a lamb going to live in the lair of a wolf pack.

  “I love children,” Megan said. She glanced at Luke and saw worry in his eyes. Worry about her or the situation? Unsure, Megan inhaled deeply. Captain Hall had ordered Shorty to drive them to Khan’s three-story rock home. Holding Luke’s gaze, she asked, “Is Timor Khan anti-American?”

  “No,” Luke said with some hesitation. “He’s in a precarious position between al-Qaeda, the Taliban and the Marines. His duty is to keep his people safe. Outwardly, he pretends to help us. The departing company commander warned Captain Hall that Khan was a sly old fox and never to trust him.” Shrugging, Luke added, “I heard the past C.O. didn’t do any relationship-building with Khan. Now Hall is trying to change things around. The captain knows the only way to get support is to treat the people fairly and with respect. Because of the other C.O., Hall has to mend fences, bridges and get Khan to trust him.”

  “Sounds like a tough order,” Megan said, seeing Hall in a new and more positive light.

  “It is.” Luke looked out the windows. Children were racing alongside the Humvee, laughing and waving. He waved back. “There are so many rules and laws to the Pashtun tribe, too. Hall has to thread the needle on this, and so do we. We’re basically emissaries for America.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Megan said, “I have a real problem with how women are treated here.”

  “Yeah, the old ‘barefoot and pregnant’ idea is alive and well in Afghanistan.” Luke’s mouth curved with irony.

  “Maybe I can be a role model in more than one way.”

  “Just be careful,” he cautioned. “You need to be with a group of women at all times. Never walk down one of these streets alone. Always have a village woman as an escort.” />
  Frowning, Megan asked, “Why?”

  “It could be dangerous. There are al-Qaeda sympathizers here in this village. We don’t know who they are, and Khan isn’t telling us. These men will hate you. You’re a woman doing a man’s job in their eyes. And you’re not conducting yourself like a Muslim woman should. You’re flying in the face of their laws regarding women. Your ally will be Mina, the wife of Timor Khan, and she is queen of her village, so to speak. She’s thirty-five years old and they have two boys and two girls. Mina is Khan’s fourth wife.”

  Brows raising, Megan asked, “What happened to the other three?”

  “They all died in childbirth,” he said sadly. “It happens a lot out here, Megan. Right now in this village there are five women who are pregnant. I can’t examine them, much less see them to prescribe prenatal vitamins to them, because I’m a man. With you here, I’m hoping all five will deliver healthy babies.”

  “That’s so depressing,” Megan whispered.

  “Well, let’s get this meeting with Khan over with first. There’s an empty house next to Khan’s home. I’m hoping Mina will set it up as a medical clinic where you can work. The women and children could come there for treatment. I just hope Khan blesses the idea.”

  The Humvee pulled to a halt in front of the home. Megan climbed out when Hall ordered them to follow him. A two-foot rock wall surrounded the home. A dirt path was lined on either side with large gray and black rocks. As Megan followed the captain up the thick wooden stairs, children gathered at the bottom, outside the wall. The men’s faces were sharp and alert. This sent a frisson of danger through her.

  Mina Khan answered the door. She wore a long gray vest over her pale pink dress that fell to her slippered feet. She smiled and swung the door open.

  “Welcome, Captain Hall. My husband is expecting you. Please, come in.” She stepped aside.

  Megan and Luke followed Hall into the home. The wooden floors were swept clean of dust. A huge dark blue Persian rug filled the center of the room. Megan smelled bread baking. Taking off her helmet, she pulled the green scarf over her head. Mina wore a bright pink scarf, her blue eyes intelligent-looking and clear.

  Mina shut the door. “My husband is in the library, Captain Hall.” She pointed toward an entrance that led to another room.

  Hall nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He gave Luke a glance and they walked toward the library.

  Mina turned. “And you must be Megan Trayhern.”

  Megan gave the Muslim greeting in Pashto and touched her fingers to her heart as she spoke.

  Mina reached out to guide Megan toward a set of stairs. “You speak our language quite well. What a delight! Please, follow me. My two daughters will serve the men tea, and then they will serve us.”

  The scent of baking bread became stronger as they approached the wooden stairs.

  “Thank you,” Megan said.

  “The kitchen is always the warmest place in our house. We’ll have tea at the table and chat.”

  Megan liked the woman’s warm, sincere smile. Mina was tall, confident and pleasant. Tucking her helmet beneath her left arm, the rifle slung from her left shoulder, Megan thunked across the floor in her desert combat boots. She glanced around, thinking the house was tastefully furnished. Dark brown chairs and a sofa sat on beautiful Persian rugs. Gold curtains hung at each of the small windows. Mina walked like the queen she was.

  In the kitchen, two young women hurried around gathering up cups, a teapot and silver trays. They stopped and anchored for a moment, staring at Megan. Mina chided them and they quickly returned to their duties. In moments, they had left the kitchen for the library, where their father was holding audience with the Americans.

  “Alone at last,” Mina said with a smile. She gestured to a small wooden table at one end of the large kitchen. “Have a seat, Megan.”

  “Thank you,” Megan murmured. She pulled out the highly carved chair, her back to the stucco wall. After setting down her helmet and rifle, Megan returned her attention to Mina.

  “Do you like chai?” Mina asked, pouring two cups.

  “I do.”

  “Good.” Mina brought over the dark red ceramic cups and placed them on the table. She sat down opposite Megan. “Captain Hall promised an American woman doctor would come to help us. I can’t tell you how much I have counted the days.”

  Megan picked up the steaming cup of chai and cautiously sipped it. Sweet honey combined with hot milk and nutmeg. It was delicious. “I’m not a doctor, my lady. I’m a Navy field medic, but I’m also trained as a registered nurse. I was hoping to get your help and advice on how best to serve the women and children of your village.”

  “First, please call me Mina. And we’re delighted you’re here.”

  “Is your husband all right with me being here?”

  “Yes, of course. Like me, Timor knows that Luke cannot see, talk or examine a woman or little girl because of Muslim law. The last Navy medic assigned here was also a man.” She wrinkled her long, fine nose. “We lost three wonderful mothers in childbirth last year. We lost their babies, too.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “I have not stopped crying over those losses. Sometimes it is too much to bear.” Tears shone in Mina’s eyes. She had luxurious black hair beneath the cotton scarf.

  Without thinking, Megan reached across the table and touched her work-worn hand. “I’m so sorry to hear this. I’m going to do everything in my power to help the women and children, Mina. That’s why I’m here. You just tell me where I can set up my medical clinic, and I’ll get to work.”

  Mina wiped her eyes. “I was hoping you would have a great heart, and you do. I was born in Kabul, the daughter of very rich parents, and was sent to Europe to study. I received an economics degree from the Sorbonne in France. I was used to the refinement and luxuries of life until I met and fell in love with Timor. I know the people suffer greatly here compared to those who live in a city.” She raised her hand and pointed out the dust-covered window. “Out here, there is nothing but survival. My husband is a good man, but we have little means to bring in medical help.”

  Megan saw the frustration in her face. Her cultured voice was husky with tears. “I will help as best I can. So, you also speak French?” Clearly, Mina was not an ordinary Afghan woman out on this frontier.

  Smiling shyly, Mina said, “I speak fluent Pashto, French, English and Italian.”

  “That’s remarkable,” Megan said, admiration in her tone.

  “If you’d like, we can speak English. I have no one to practice my English with.”

  “Of course, that would be great,” Megan said. She sipped the delicious chai. “Do you have a plan for a clinic?”

  “Yes.” Mina pulled a paper from the pocket of her gown, opened it and flattened it across the table. “There is an empty home next to ours. I have had our four widows cleaning it up for your arrival. Their husbands have been killed and they have no support for themselves or their children. Our village is so poor even their relatives cannot take them into their homes to feed them. I have been trying to give the widows work and pay them with daily food. Right now the four of them are preparing your clinic. After chai, would you like to see your facility?”

  Megan nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Can you come daily?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll ask Captain Hall and let you know.”

  “Of course,” Mina said. “I like this captain. He’s far nicer than the other one who was here last year.”

  “I believe Captain Hall is trying to heal the damage done,” Megan said.

  “He is already succeeding,” Mina said with a slight smile. “My husband likes this young man very much. He is sincere, he listens a lot and asks questions. Those are signs of respect.”

  “Yes, they are,” Megan agreed.

  “And your
job is to be here to help our women and children for a year, I hope?”

  “Yes, it is. You are my priority.” She saw Mina’s eyes grow moist. There was hope burning in her large blue eyes. It made Megan happy that she would make a difference here.

  “Good, because you can come over here to our home and eat your meals and share a cup of chai with me.” Mina smiled fully. “I’m so glad you are here!” She reached out and gripped Megan’s hand for a moment.

  Megan gently squeezed Mina’s hand and released it. “Let’s go see my new clinic.”

  Rising, Mina nodded. “More than ready!”

  Megan picked up her weapon and helmet and followed the joyous Mina.

  The home next door was pockmarked with bullets and shrapnel on the outer walls. The windows were all broken. Some were patched with cardboard, while others had duct tape across the cracks. Megan noticed the cardboard had U.S. Marines written across them. The Afghan people wasted nothing and found uses for discarded American garbage.

  Stepping inside the door, Megan spotted four women in black robes and black scarves over their heads. All were busy scrubbing a white tile floor until it sparkled. Mina closed the door and called the women over to meet Megan. The widows, some young, some middle-aged, dropped what they were doing and rushed over to the wife of the village leader. Megan saw hope burning in the women’s faces.

  “Now,” Mina told her, “I want you to meet your helpers. I am employing them to help you, Megan, because it is a way to serve the village.” She switched to Pashto and introduced the four excited women.

  Megan performed the Muslim salutatory greeting with each of them. A look of surprise and then happiness filled their faces as they shyly returned the greeting. The eagerness in their eyes touched her deeply.

  Mina showed her the two examination rooms and several cabinets to hold medical supplies. Megan was pleased with the small kitchen. It had an iron stove with which to heat water, a large concrete sink and a large wooden table. There was no running water. It had to be transported from five miles away in huge clay jugs carried by donkeys. The nearest stream was snowmelt from the mountains above.