Pink-belly, and a Christmas jumper.
12th Nov
Another cold night, down to -4.4 Celsius. This sucks. At least the ANA had their fire going. It’s amazing, because as soon as the sun comes up it is lovely. This time last year, I was snowed in up at Firebase Wilderness in the KG pass. Once the kettles were boiling I was back to Charlie Company though, for my morning coffee. Sitting there, enjoying the warmth of my drink I was a million miles away, when a massive disturbance broke out. I grabbed my cameras, not knowing what the hell was going on, and ran to the other side of the big recovery vehicle, where the shouting was coming from. Maybe a fight has broken out, or they caught someone trying to steal, or something like that, I thought.
The scene that I came upon was bizarre. It was one soldier’s birthday, and the others, maybe 20, were determined to give him a birthday “treat.” He had locked himself in, but someone had snuck up on the gunner’s turret, and once in a wrestling match ensued. All the intruder had to do was unlatch the lock, and then there were many more hands waiting to aid him. As I arrived the birthday boy was being lifted out of the cab of the vehicle, still kicking and struggling, but already he had lost. He was stretched out between the others, pulled taut by arms and legs, and then his shirt was pulled up to his chest. The gift was “Pink Belly,” achieved by delivering repeated slaps to the stomach, stinging slaps, with resounding sharp cracks. The poor guy kept struggling, but to no avail. It was over as quickly as it started, and everyone walked away laughing. The soldier turned to my video camera and said, “That’s what I get, the big two zero.” And that is what I have to remind myself sometimes. These guys are really just kids. It isn’t any surprise that these playground pranks should be so prevalent.
My coffee was now gone, and it looked like we would be sitting around on this hilltop for another day, so I headed over to the ETT camp again. As I walked by the school, I noticed a class being held, and looked in the empty window frame. The teacher motioned to me to come in, and as there was no window baring my way, I stepped into the room. The kids thought this was hilarious, and once again I was responsible for a break with the Curriculum. They settled down much faster than the ones the day before though, and I got quite a lot of photographs and video. Then another young man entered the room, conversed briefly with the teacher. The teacher then announce that class was dismissed. Not that I understood what he said, but some things are the same the world over, and the kids were running out of the classroom before the teacher was finished speaking, as sure as if a bell had rung.
I was confused, because it was only just after 8am, so they couldn’t be on a lunch break already. I followed them outside. There the ANA were herding the children and adolescents into two separate groups, and making them form a queue. One of the Jingle Trucks that had accompanied our convoy was parked up, and I realised that there was a Humanitarian Assistance (HA) drop planned. HA can take many different forms, sometimes being food, sometimes clothes, sometimes school supplies, etc. Today it was clothes. Big woolly jumpers to be precise. The sizes were all a bit off, and in some cases way off, but the theory is that if each kid gets at least something, then they can trade afterwards, or pass it along to a family member. The clothes are all second hand, from well meaning Americans by the loks of them. One pullover particularly caught my eye. It was bright red, with white snowflakes, reindeer, and Christmas Trees. I guess some Western child didn’t like Grandma’s gift. And now here it was, on a child in a land where it was extremely doubtful that anyone would understand the symbols adorning the wool sweater. And if they did it would mean nothing to them. The kid seemed pleased with it though.
Once everyone had clothes, then the hand-out moved on to school supplies. Pens, notebooks, satchels, chalk, everything you can think of. The orderly queues were starting to break down, but never fear, here comes the ANA to save the day. Swinging belts, rifles, and shouting and screaming in a particularly aggressive manner at the children, I wondered what the point of giving with one hand and then terrifying with the other was. The kids seemed a lot less perturbed than I was though, and so once again I had to remind myself that there is a different culture here, and I shouldn’t judge.
During all this, one of the ETTs had noticed something. He walked over to the teachers, and through a terp he asked who the men were. Some were teachers, and some were what seemed to translate as teachers assistants, or something like that. The soft-spoken Major from Alabama then thanked the men for having the courage to teach the children. He said he understood that the Taliban made terrible threats against the education system, and in fact have often carried out these threats, burning down schools and maiming or even killing teachers. The Major said that it was important that the children got an education, and he respected the men for teaching, and for doing so in spite of the risk. However, he went on to say, he had just seen one of the men surreptitiously take, steal in fact, a bag of school supplies given to him by a US soldier, and if he witnessed it again, regardless of the respect he had for the teachers, he would kick the guys ass. Now, to Western sensibilities this may seem inappropriate, excessive, and even downright rude. But I believe that this ETT has got to grips with the Afghan culture a lot better than most, and he said exactly what was needed to ensure that the kids got to keep their new found gifts. How’s that for cultural awareness?
With all the goods now distributed, it was time for some education. Each of the kids had been given a toothbrush and toothpaste, but it’s important to ensure that the locals know how to use items that they may not have encountered before. So, up stepped one of the terps, called “The Professor.” He proceeded to give a fun filled demonstration through Pastu and gestures, making all the kids laugh. He was a natural entertainer, and the children loved it, and so at least this interaction ended on a happy note.
Once all the kids were back in class I continued on to the ETT’s camp, my original destination. They had a fire going, and once again I spent several hours sitting around chatting. They have come to trust me now, I believe, and the conversations veered wildly from one subject to another, as it only can when you have hours to kill, and such a diverse group of people. I wandered off at one stage, to relieve myself behind a wall. Standing there, with my back to the nearby ridgeline, I suddenly got the fear. I was convinced that a sniper was looking down his scope, with me in his cross-hairs. It was extremely unnerving, and I started moving, still taking a piss, in the vain hope that it might make it harder to hit me. Now, some would say that this is a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that I should be seeing a shrink. I’m pretty sure it is just a figment of an over-active imagination. It was the same feeling that I used to get as a child, when I would be walking in the dark I would imagine that there was some terrible monster behind me, and before I knew it I would be running for my life, terrified. Stil, it gave me the creeps.
I left the ETTs before dark, around 4pm. As usual I wanted to get my bed made up while it was still light. I was in high spirits, despite my sniper-scare, when I returned to the March or Die patrol base. As I pulled my rucksack out of the boot (trunk, for my American readers) of the Humvee, I casually asked 1SG if we were still on track to do the planned mission tomorrow. I was keen to get off this hill and actually do something. In my high spirits, I had totally failed to pick up on the mood around the vehicles. 1SG told me that everything was now in flux, due to an unfolding incident just outside their home base of Bermel.
Bermel had been described to me many times over the previous days. It is a FOB, though they claim almost forgotten by the rest of the Army. It is a few miles from the Pakistan border, and has been rocketed, mortared, and even recently hit by a suicide bomber at the front gate, killing several ANA, and resulting in a Mexican standoff between the ANA, ANP, and US troops. The ANA believed that because the suicide bomber had passed through an Afghan National Police checkpoint that there must have been collusion, and so wanted to kill the ANP. The ANP refuted this, and wanted to kill those that wanted to kill them. The US soldiers that got between them to try and calm things down suddenly found themselves looking down some ANA barrels, such was the high emotion of the day. In the end, noby killed anybody, except of course the suicide bomber’s victims
The point is, FOB Bermel is a dangerous place. The FOB is shared by two different units, due to the large soldier requirements in the active Area of Operations (AO). Charlie Company, 1/503rd of course, and also Anvil Troop, 1 Squadron 91st Cavalry. And while Charlie Company were away, the work-load on the Cavalry guys increased. News had just come in that during a convoy a few hours earlier, one of the vehicles had been hit by a catastrophic IED. A catastrophic strike means that the vehicle is destroyed, and all the occupants are Wounded in Action (WIA) or Killed in Action (KIA). The initial report gave the vehicle call-sign, so everyone knew who was in the vehicle. Now they were waiting for word, WIA or KIA.
They waited all night, but despite the speculation, the news never came. A day that had started so light-hearted, with the birthday celebrations for a young soldier, had now turned very dark indeed, and like the others I went to bed early, anxious to escape into sleep.