Crayons, smiles, and scowls
11th Nov
It was even colder last night, dropping down to -3.8 Celsius. It just isn’t possible to sleep soundly when you are that cold, and I tossed and turned all night. The soldiers have varying degrees of comfort, due mainly to theft. The theft, that is, of their equipment before they arrived in country. As part of their deployment preparations, Charlie Company sent 130 duffle bags of personal gear, including the modular sleep system that the Army issues to them, in a shipping container to Afghanistan, through Karachi port in Pakistan. When it arrived, there were 10 bags remaining. The rest had disappeared in transit. Of course the possibility of Army logistics replacing these necessary items is, in the soldier’s experience, pretty slim. An old Army motto, delivered in some war movie by Clint Eastwood, tells a soldier to “Improvise, adapt, and overcome” when faced with a problem. Well, these guys did. Some scrounged kit, some “liberated” stuff, and a lot of them just got online and purchased sleeping bags out of their own pocket. There will be no reimbursement from the Army, which some guys did complain about, but others said they were happy to buy their own because it is better than the Army’s anyway. 1SG had the ultimate bag, an Elite 5 by Snugpak. He never stopped telling us how hot it got in there, and how he was sweating during the night, etc. For those who really suffered, there was always the option of sleeping in the Humvee. This is something I have always rejected, as it is just too uncomfortable, but some of the younger guys manage it.
I ran the now familiar gauntlet of getting out of my sleeping bag and getting my trousers and boots on as quickly as possible. I know I am supposed to be ready to jump up at a moments notice if we are attacked, nut sleeping with boots on is just a step too far (excuse the pun) and I have so much mission essential equipment (read, junk) stuffed in my trousers pockets that it’s easier to take them off than empty the cavernous compartments. And anyway, I am wearing Merino wool thermals, so if I do have to get up fast, I will at least be decently covered, if looking a little ridiculous. Then, with a breakfast consisting of coffee and an MRE, I was ready to face the day. As I gulped down the hot coffee in an effort to get some heat into my system, I had noticed the Afghan kids making their way to the school-house, so as soon as I was finished I followed their lead. I found a “terp” near the school, and asked him to accompany me in to class. Technically the terps are not required to assist me, as they work for the Army, but these guys are all friendly and keen to help. I’m always hitting them up for quick Pashto lessons, so most of them know me. We walked in the front door of what I very loosely call a school. Bare concrete floors and walls gave the place a nuclear bunker type feel. Most of the windows were broken, or just empty frames, and there were doors on maybe half the classrooms. Chanting emanating from one room caught my attention, and I followed the rhythmic sound. With no door to knock on, I asked my “Tadjiman” (interpreter) to ask to teacher if I could photograph and film the class. He seemed mystified as to why I would want to, but he gave his agreement, in a gruff sort of way. Of course I was now the star attraction in the room, and so I ended up pretending to take pictures and film for ages before the teacher eventually got their attention back and I could actually get something usable. The class ranged in ages from around 8 to 15 or 16 years of age, with 3 or 4 boys sharing a single textbook (all boys of course, I didn’t see a woman the whole time I was in Chabaran town).
When class dismissed, the kids rushed out to the side of the building, where the ETTs and ANA were camped. Immediately they started demanding balls and Frisbees, and the ETTs happily complied. I moved amongst the kids, trying to capture the scene, but they were still fascinated with the “Akas” (photographer). Then I made the mistake of speaking a few words in Pashto. I was immediately surrounded by shouting kids, and however much I repeated my stock “I don’t understand” phrase, they just kept at me. Some of them had reasonable English, and we started an impromptu language class. They would point, or more accurately, pull at, an item of clothing or something I was carrying, like my cameras, and tell me its name in Pashto. In return I would name the item in English. This went on for a long time, from head to toe in fact, with great enthusiasm on their part, if a little less on mine. I wanted to write it all down, but the biggest mistake of all you can make around these kids is to produce a pen. It is what they always ask the soldiers for, and even driving through a village they will make the international hand gesture for writing in an attempt to gain one from the troops. So, I had to commit as much as possible to memory.
One of the ETTs then produced a couple of packets of crayons, and started to distribute them to the kids. He tossed me a packet, and I was immediately swarmed. These little kids, some only 5 or 6, were shouting “John, give me pen” and “One more, John” and the scene was pretty wild, but all good natured. Overlooking the scene was a group of older students, and the teachers. Or at least a group of men I took to be teachers. Suddenly one of the ETTs noticed that they were writing, and he called on one of the terps to find out what they were putting down on paper. And like that, the situation soured.
The ETT said he had noticed the kids calling out my name, and the men were writing at the same time. He felt it was possible that they were noting down information about the soldiers identities of camp that might be useful to the insurgents. Or listing the different types of guns on the vehicles. Or drawing their layout. Or any number of other possibilities. Typically, I had been completely unaware of this. Looking at it now, there were too many men, all of whom fell into what the military categorise as “fighting age,” to be the teachers. They said they were friends of the teachers, and had come up from the village to join them on their break. In the end, there were no names in the writings, but the mood was broken. The men were told to leave, and the teachers glowered as they called the children back to class. And so, whatever hearts and minds the beach-ball, Frisbees, and crayons had won, suspicion had lost again. And so it goes on, this war.
I spent the rest of the day doing interviews with my video camera. The ETTs all, eventually, agreed to speak on camera, and I got some great stories. Like the one about a kid that had been wounded twice in a month, gaining two Purple Hearts and a ticket home. The second time he was hurt, he was peppered with shrapnel, and already on the stretcher when a medic got to him. The medic started to cut of his trousers, and then said in a sorrowful voice, ”Oh Dude, they got your nuts.” Naturally, the kid cried out “Oh no man, not my nuts” at which point the medic grabbed the young mans privates and said “Oops, no, my mistake, there they are.” I reckon after that the kid could have handled anything. This story made me laugh, inappropriate as it was. It also reminded me of the dark, some would even think callous, humour that most medics embrace.
Later in the day I also interviewed 1SG.He had been really great so far, taking the time to explain to me on camera what was going on, even when he was obviously busy. However, I wanted to sit down with him and get some deeper insights into the man, and his experiences. This guy has been around, and it shows. I grabbed him as the sun was setting, and we sat on a stone wall, and he talked extremely frankly to the camera. Just before we started news had come in that one of the outlaying Combat Outposts (COPs) by their home, FOB Bermel, was being rocketed. There was a lot of frustration that Charlie Company was out here on this mission, while their colleagues were being hit back at “home.” 1SG talked about it, and it was strange, to be getting a report of a still ongoing fight.
It was all great stuff though, and I was just worried that the light would go before he finished. As he was ending, I heard a bang. So did 1SG, and he went to find out what it was. Then there were two more, and suddenly it was battle stations. Someone was shooting, and the question was whether it was at us. Mortars and rockets, known as indirect fire, can be launched from miles away, and so the distant bangs we were hearing could be the first indications of attack. If confirmation arrived, it could likely be in the form of violent explosions, flesh tearing metal, and burning shrapnel, all in out midst. Everyone tensed up, and there was a lot of fast radio calls in an attempt to ascertain what was happening. 1SG shouted orders while working the radio. “Everybody get their gear on, helmets and IBA (Individual Body Armour). Anyone who doesn’t need to be out, get in a vehicle, now!” This was to lessen our vulnerability to injury if blasts suddenly started ripping us up. Within maybe 10 minutes, it was all over. The shooting had been friendly. ANA troops were firing their big artillery pieces, and somehow the message hadn’t come down the line. As quickly as everyone went to full battle preparedness, they now slipped back into relaxation mode. And that is the tell right there. These guys have seen plenty of combat, and are not fazed by it. They have a self-assured confidence that only comes from experience, and lots of it. Before I came out a friend I have been embedded with before emailed me, and told me to judge carefully the merits and skill of the unit I was with this time. He said I should know their limitations, if any, as it could literally save my life. Well MSG B, I think I’m safe with March or Die.