It’s Jack’s birthday today. My baby’s going to be three. I stand on watch on the Hescos and imagine holding him in my arms, pointing out the featureless field and the mountains. Those mountains—every day they cast their long shadows early over our faces: by four we’re trapped in their darkness. Every day, they delay the sunrise so that we have to rise in the shadow of the unnaturally extended night. Our guns and grenades seem laughable against their immensity. It makes me wonder if this was what the Achaeans felt gazing from their beachholds at Troy’s impregnable fortress, their faith in their gods their only protection. But then again, these mountains are probably older than either Troy or Mycenae.
And what about my protection? Maybe I’ll settle for my child.
In my mind, I hold you up in my arms, little Jack. I hold you high up in the air like a candle to give myself the courage to go on. You are my shining light in this dark land.
DAY.
We’re visited this afternoon by the chief of police of the district. It’s his first visit to the base, as well as to the district itself, as he himself admits. Appointed more than a year ago, he continues to live in Kabul, this alleged hero of the war of resistance against the Soviets. We pay the government that pays him to pretend to carry out his salaried obligations. This iconic sonofabitch has mastered the secret of how the game is played. Before he leaves, he asks Connolly to sign a stamped piece of paper attesting to his visit, which he terms an inspection. Connolly points to the dirt road leading into the mountains and tells him he’ll sign the paper when police outposts have been set up all along the trail. Connolly’s dusty serenity catches our guest by surprise. He says the area falls within our sphere of responsibility. I feel proud of the way Connolly handles the situation.
Thirty years ago, he points out, there used to be police outposts in the mountains.
The police chief smiles uncomfortably and says: They now exist only in the realm of memories.
Connolly smiles as well and says: As does your stamped document. Then he adds: The rules have changed since I took over, Humbaba. It’s pay to play.
Humbaba? But my name is Sher Ali … it means “tiger.”
Connolly says: You can call me Clark Kent—and this is Fortress America. Okay?
He walks the chief to his Toyota and tells him not to come back until he’s got a plan to police the mountains.
NIGHT.
Apparently the Pashtun ruler Abdur Rahman Khan coined the term Yaghestan—Land of the Rebellious—to describe his country. No Pashtun likes to be ruled by another, he said, not even by another tribe or sub-tribe. I thought of the Soviets who’d originally set up this base more than twenty years ago and then left in haste when the mountain tribes united and swept down in a concerted attack. There’s still some Russian graffiti on the dried-earth walls next to the mess tent. For instance, one wall carries a scrawl that reads: “Gorkii Park.” One of the ANA translated it for me. Some wag—probably someone from our platoon—has scribbled next to it in English: “Linkin’ Park.”
Another wall records the distance from the base to “Moskva: 5197 km.” I make a mental note to find out the distance to Washington, D.C.
NIGHT.
I read a passage tonight that helped me understand the locals. It was from The Germania, by Tacitus:
“When not engaged in warfare they spend a certain amount of time in hunting, but much more in idleness, thinking of nothing else but sleeping and eating. For the boldest and most warlike men have no regular employment, the care of house, home, and fields being left to the women, old men, and weaklings of the family. In thus dawdling away their time they show a strange inconsistency—at one and the same time loving indolence and hating peace.”
I showed Connolly the passage, and he sent it to Colonel Lautenschlager at Battalion, who got a kick out of it.
Connolly’s trying hard to make up for his meltdown the other night.
I understand, but I can’t deny that there’ve been times when I’ve wanted to tell him to take his know-it-all attitude and shove it. Nothing personal.
All the same, I can’t resist asking him about the strategy that saw us moved out in haste from our previous position in Khost province and reinstalled here in Kandahar in an area far from established lines of support. His jaw sets in a familiar obstinate expression, and he insists, rather mulishly, that the generals know what they are doing.
In response, I cite a passage I’d read in Herodotus the other day, where, writing in the fifth century BCE, he relates how the Egyptian priests were able to recite the names of the three hundred and thirty kings who’d reigned since the founding of their society, before going on to add that none of them had any significant achievements to their name.
I was reminded of our high command when I read that passage, I tell Connolly. Once again, with set jaw, he repeats his mantra about the generals knowing best. I give up and leave him to his own devices.
Evan Connolly is the perfect midlevel officer, cramped but shipshape—of limited imagination and initiative—whose strategic thinking goes no further than the Hescos that surround “his” base. His kind carry out their orders blindly, climb the chain of command steadily, and end up perpetuating the mistakes of the generals they replace. Because of them, the rest of us are condemned to be saddled with all of the servitude and none of the grandeur that accompanies the discipline of military service. And these are the men who command us against the Pashtuns, men born to the gun and the sword, Dear Lord.
DAY.
I had a vision of Dad’s hand closing over mine while cleaning my M-4 this afternoon. I was wiping the chamber with a cotton swab when I felt the pressure of his hand. It felt exactly as if he left it there for a moment—while I went very still. I saw the familiar wedding band on his ring finger, the old burn mark on his wrist, the prominent veins on the back of his hand. A rush of warmth flooded through me, and I was a child in his arms again. The sun lighting up the oil-slicked steel was no longer the sun of Kandahar but of the Vermont countryside. I heard blackbirds singing, an old backhoe going off somewhere in the distance, Eve running around in the yard. Pastel New England colors; subtle New England scents. When I went back to cleaning the magazine springs, what was before my eyes was not the dust and grit coating the M-4, but the mud and dust of an American summer. It went deep, this feeling. Dad and I cleaned that rifle together, working hand over hand.
NIGHT.
A scattering of tall poles stuck into dark ground that turns out, on closer observation, to be water. A sheet of still water with indefinite boundaries, lit up only by a diffused spotlight that forms a backlit circle in place of the sky. It’s neither night nor day, so I can’t make out the time. An indistinct shape drifts between the poles, but its form is so hazy that it might be a boat or something else altogether. Three or four crows perch on top of the poles, but they are motionless. I wait for something to happen, and sure enough, a dark head rises out of the water. Soon the figure is wading at chest height, and I guess, with a degree of certainty that I cannot explain, that it’s Emily. She bends over and fishes an object out of the water. I know it’s Jack, but the strangest thing is the way she holds him, by an ankle, with the rest of him dragging underwater. I’m about to call out when she yanks him up and I see—distinctly—a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. There’s no blood, but I can see right through the hole to the other side. I attempt to reach them, but something holds me back and I wake up shouting.
I blame the dream on mefloquine. I’d like to stop taking it—and to hell with the ever-present threat of malaria. So I stay up the rest of the night listening to the whine of the mosquitoes, unable to go back to sleep.
DAY.
We got news today of a drone attack a couple of days ago on a group of insurgents who’d crossed over the border. That same night, a joint operation by Special Forces and Afghan auxiliaries wiped out a Taliban stronghold due south of us. Connolly passed on the good news to the company, and the men cheered. Neither engagement wa
s directly related to us, but we count every blow against the enemy as payback for Hendricks and Castro.
Later, Connolly caught Pfc. Gaines walking around in a flat wool pakol cap he’d taken from one of the casualties on the mission into the mountains and told him to take it off. When I asked him about it later on, he said: Unlike the colonial Brits, we’re not going native. Not while I’m in command.
DAY.
I paid a surprise visit today to the ANA huts on the other side of the motor pool. For once, I decided not to pull them up for infractions. As if in gratitude, one of them gave me a stem of black cumin, with the grains perched at the tips of the sharp, delicate ends. He told me with a smile that if I kept it under my pillow it would perfume my dreams.
Another man asked to recite a poem in my honor. When I agreed, he told me, wistfully, that it was melon season in Kunduz, where he was from, and the poem was dedicated to the sublime taste of the fruit. He said that the Mughal emperor Babur pined for these same melons and once swore that he was willing to renounce his throne and the entirety of his wealth in exchange for a single fragrant melon from Kunduz. But then he started giggling uncontrollably while trying to read the poem to me, and I realized that he was high on hash. I asked him what he did for a living before the war, and he replied that he’d worked in a brick kiln since the age of seven. It seems he was sold by his parents to the owner of the kiln, who was also the ra’is of their village, to pay off an old debt, but I couldn’t tell if that was the truth or the hash talking. If the former, then I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was conceived by his parents for the express purpose of settling the debt. Once again, that would be entirely within the realm of plausibility, given what I’ve learned about the country and its people.
EVENING.
The first time I saw Tarsândan, I thought I’d arrived at the far ends of the earth. It reminded me of Death Valley, only worse. Now I don’t even notice the desolation anymore. Sometimes I’m even moved by the subtlety of the desert palette, or the brilliance of the desert sunrises and sunsets. Tonight, for instance, the Milky Way resembles a glittering freeway across the sky. Doc tells me the locals believe that the Milky Way is the path traced by Buraq, the Prophet’s horse, on his way to the heavens. I look up—just as our ANA Uzbeks begin their evening prayers—and see how that could work. The Uzbeks hold up their palms before their faces and chant “Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim”—“in the Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Compassionate.” It used to annoy me at first, but I’ve since learned to appreciate the rhythm their prayers give to the day. Their kneeling silhouettes flicker against the starry sky.
Some distance from them, in the open area next to the motor pool, I set up to do my evening Tai Chi exercises. To my left, Pfc. Serrano’s listening to his MP3 player and waving his arms around like he’s at Burning Man. Whalen’s in his hooch playing blues guitar. The air smells sweet, and it is damp from the mist. A shooting star arcs across the sky with a brilliance that takes my breath away. I surprise myself with my own sense of contentment. It just goes to show: there’s beauty even in the bleakest backwater.
NIGHT.
It’s a beautiful morning. The temperature’s in the upper sixties, the sun’s dipping in and out of cottony clouds, the sky’s an iridescent blue. I’m marrying Emily on the grounds of Mills Mansion, its bright green swathe of lawn sweeping down to the Hudson. She hesitates before slipping the ring on my finger, and I try to contain my impatience, aware that the boys are waiting for me to get it over with and join them. As the minister pronounces her blessings, I look up at the clouds and close my eyes. Then I say a hurried good-bye and shoulder my pack and rifle. I run between the serried ranks of guests down to the river, where my platoon’s arrayed in formation. I turn to wave good-bye and stop short when I see the shadows stretching across the sun-drenched lawn. Emily’s wedding gown has turned to black. I want to call out to her, but the words don’t come. She gazes at me with an ineffable sadness.
I wake up with my own face streaked with tears. Why is it so difficult to say good-bye?
I’ll never stop believing, Em. What’s happened will never change the way I feel.
And the words that wouldn’t come … I remember them now. They are, quite simply:
My love.
DAY.
One hundred and twenty degrees. The earth bleached to a dry, bone-white crust. No breeze, but dust and grit everywhere. We walk around caked in dust, sinking knee-deep into dust, coughing dust. The slightest movement sends up dust clouds that hang suspended in the air like plumes. We appear and disappear as in a magic trick, swallowed by the dust and then regurgitated as dust-coated creatures. I wear wraparound goggles and swathe my head in my black-and-white checkered scarf; Doc’s clad from head to toe in what appears to be a portable tent; Sergeant Tanner’s gotten hold of a motorcycle helmet with a visor, and surgical gloves; Whalen’s whiter than the rest of us, despite being shrouded in a poncho. For the first time since our arrival here, I can’t even see the mountains. The day passes in a white haze of hot sun and burning dust. It’s supposed to get even worse the next couple of days. I can’t imagine how that could be possible.
NIGHT.
It’s still warm, even at night, but the wind’s picked up. It’s blowing from the southeast, directly out of the parched southern plains. Everything is suddenly filled with this wind and the dust and sand it brings with it. The dust makes it difficult to breathe, and everyone’s retching up lungfuls of the stuff. The sand crackles underfoot, and when I lie down on my cot I can feel it trickling down my back. I try reading, but my book sheds sand: the words seem to slide off the page. I give up and watch the roof of the hut leaking dust instead. The wind buffets the door; there’s sand seeping in through cracks in the floor. It’s difficult to keep anything else in mind.
When I step outside, all I can see are vast brown clouds sweeping through the darkness. It’s as if the wind has finally uprooted something that had never stirred before but has now taken over everything, erasing the familiar world, replacing thoughts from our minds and words from our mouths—and all we can do is watch its assault, bewildered.
DAY.
The entire base has come to a standstill. The dust storm rages on, and it’s reduced visibility to nil.
There’s dust inside my hut, on my desk, on my bunk—I can’t move without raising a cloud of dust. I’m wearing a face mask, but I have to keep taking it off because it’s asphyxiating.
I’m dreading the prospect of going another night without sleep.
We’re all so tired, we might as well be dead.
CAPTAIN
FUCK this.
I mean, fuck this shit!
I’m furious, and I see absolutely no point in beating around the bush.
I summon Whalen to my office and tell him that I’ve found out about our men feeding the LN outside the wire and that it simply isn’t acceptable. Not by a long shot.
You want to tell me what the fuck’s going on, First Sarn’t? Since when have the men had so much freedom of movement outside the perimeter? What’s the fucking terp doing running around like the fucking Energizer Bunny? Who gave him permission to talk to the girl? What’s happened to our friggin’ security SOP, for Chrissake?
He takes a while to reply, and when he does, his tone is somber.
I suppose you could say that I’ve been unlike my usual self from the moment I discovered she had no legs, Sir. When I was walking up to her—with the possibility of a bomb at the other end—all I could think of was me, myself, and I. But when she took off her burqa, it stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t want to go on with the search, but I did, of course, and I tried to be considerate, but it shook me up. What can I say, Sir? I wasn’t expecting to find her with stumps instead of legs. There are things in war that can get to a man. This was one of them.
Jesus. I never thought I’d hear this shit from you. Are you telling me you’re using this crap as the reason to compromise the security of the entire fucking base?
Jesus Christ, I could have you fired for circumventing me, Marcus!
You left the decision to me, Sir, and I did what I thought best.
Dammit, you know better than anyone else that I don’t even have enough troops to carry out half the missions they expect me to, and you just fucking sit there and tell me how your heart’s bleeding for some broad without legs, and that that’s good enough reason to do away with the most basic security procedures! I mean, why not dismantle the Hescos and take down the wires while you’re at it? Put up a fucking sign, First Sergeant, that says: Shooting Gallery, Taliban Welcome Here!
He looks at me with a strained expression, but remains silent.
With an effort, I control myself, and, in a more formal voice, I say: I’m not heartless, First Sarn’t, and the extent of her injuries took me aback as well. But it still doesn’t excuse what happened. Once outside the wire, the men are at grave risk from shooters in the mountains. It’s way outta line.
Where they went is well outside the range of the enemy’s snipers, Sir.
Stop throwing technicalities at me, First Sarn’t. They could have an entire fucking arsenal of heavy artillery out there, and we wouldn’t be any wiser.
He regards me with a distant, intense gaze.
With all due respect, Sir, the girl’s been out there in that beat-up cart for one and a half days. She’s been sitting all hunched up through blazing sun and frigid night while we’re all hunkered down in our B-huts and tents. It doesn’t feel right.
Bullshit, I say succinctly. What’s the matter with you? Are you asking to be shipped out to the Peace Corps or some fucking daycare center? I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Have you gone off the fucking reservation? The next thing you’ll be telling me, you’ve changed the fucking rules of engagement and we’re sending her flowers.
The Watch Page 23