I Am Soldier of Fortune

by Brown, Robert, Spencer, Vann

  Finally, we thought we could crash until morning.

  “ALLAH AKBARRR!” A loud chant woke us at two blasted thirty from an exhausted sleep. Now I am half deaf, but the singing and laughter of the Muslim guards roared in my ear. It was Ramadan, the Muslim holy month, when the Muslims fasted all day and stayed up eating and carousing most of the night.

  WHERE’S THE RUSSIAN FORT?

  We were woken up again at sun-up and choked down the sugar-thick tea, which would probably give us all diabetes by the time we got out of there, plus half-baked naan that was supposed to pass for bread and the usual small cakes and oranges. I picked up the naan, brushed away a few dozen flies and invited the rest of the gang to eat up, saying, “You know, people pay thousands of dollars for a chance to experience something like this.”

  Then, “What’s that smell?” I asked, looking around.

  Williams pointed to a sagging, dilapidated wooden shack covered with gunny-sacks just behind our breakfast feast. “The smell is coming from the latrine. That’s also where the squadron of flies is coming from that crawled in your mouth with that last bite of bread,” smart ass Williams said.

  Shortly afterward, a runner, panting as he ran up the hill called to us, “Commander say you come.”

  “What about our gear? Do we take it?” Hunter asked, pointing to his camera bag. The Mujahideen shrugged and shook his head.

  “Maybe we’re going in today,” Williams told me as I had just begun to enjoy a mouthful of Skoal to dull the thought of the dreadful dining room. I spit at three fat beetles busily attempting to roll a goat turd down the hill.

  “I don’t give a shit! I just want to shoot down a MiG with a Stinger,” I said, already wanting to get this endless adventure over with.

  Tahir was waiting outside the CP, standing near the Toyota. He nodded and said, “Good morning. We will look at Russian fort today. Soon we will attack it.” He pointed at a tall, skinny Mujahideen wearing a Fu Manchu mustache with a dull, dazed hashish look standing near the truck. “Your driver, Mahmoud.”

  “Salaam a Leikum,” the ever smooth-talking Williams said, shaking his hand.

  “Wah a Leikum al Salaam,” the driver answered and smirked, rolling bloodshot whites.

  Williams and I got in front while Fanshaw, Hunter and a gaggle of AK-bearing Mujahideen crawled into the back. Finally, off to the fort we went. Mahmoud fired up the Toyota and popped the clutch, and we shot toward the barrier in second gear.

  “ALLAH AKBARRR!” he roared as he shot off full blast onto the rocky road.

  “Thinks he’s Sterling Moss, doesn’t he?” I observed.

  Mahmoud had the transistor radio blasting some Middle Eastern chants. “AHHHH . . . ALLAHHH . . . AKBARRR. . . OHHH ALLLAH-HHHH,” Mahmoud roared along at the top of his voice. We barely missed the donkeys with the old men dragging behind along the winding road.

  Williams kept mumbling about some Arabic curses in a travel book he had read, “something to the effect that the supreme insult alluded to the fact that the cursee’s mother was the product of a sexual liaison between a donkey and a syphilitic camel,” a curse he figured the old man had placed on our chauffeur.

  Whether Mahmoud was one helluva driver or whether hashish enhanced his expertise we didn’t want to know. No doubt the latter, but by some miracle he kept us alive on the winding, cliff-hanging road.

  “We walk,” one of the Mujahideen in one of the vehicles in the convoy said as we approached a narrow trail that led toward a deep canyon filled with Mujahideen who were highly amused at our misery.

  A small mud hut and an ammunition dump with hundreds of 82mm mortar and 107mm rocket rounds were hidden in the canyon. The “command center” communicated with the help of several professionally placed antennae, allowing effective communication.

  We were invited in and served some more sickeningly sweet tea with the local Mullahs, who offered prayers for our safety. The big moment had finally come. After getting the introductions over with, we climbed back up the hill to take turns firing a Soviet 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun at a Russian fort near the village of Lara. The fort was garrisoned with approximately 200 Afghan troops and several Soviet advisers.

  Next morning, after the same old sickly tea, cakes and oranges, we rode off with Tahir to inspect the troops who were slated to attack the Russian fort. We passed bombed-out villages where huts showed the effects of Mi-24 Hind strafing and rocketing attacks against their defenseless inhabitants.

  “Keep a lookout for MiGs. This area is under air reconnaissance by the Russians,” Tahir said as we bounced along the exposed trail over a dried up creek bed.

  MUJAHIDEEN, ADVANCE PARTY FOR GENGHIS KAHN?

  After about four hours, we braked to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road were four of the meanest looking Mujahideen we had yet seen. Bearded, dirty, yet carrying spotless AKs, they spoke with Tahir and studied us, taking in our Afghan outfits and turbans. Hunter, whose previous three months with the Mujahideen in the mountains near Kabul gave him plenty of insight into the Afghan hierarchy said, “They’re local commanders in this area.”

  The system of district and regional commanders within the ranks of the Mujahideen made it lethal for Soviet troops to attempt infiltration of any Mujahideen area. From the intelligence networks that existed throughout Afghanistan, the Mujahideen knew in short order about any new stray dog in a village, let alone an attempted infiltration by a Russian Spetsnaz unit.

  Tahir shook hands with the Mujahideen, nodded goodbye, and we jolted along toward the assault force’s assembly area. After a while, the road deteriorated into a goat trail leading off into a canyon. Sentries stopped us before we’d gone 100 meters. Then, recognizing Tahir, they waved us on.

  Tahir pointed to a huge pile of 107mm rocket rounds lying on the trail, “We will fire 1,000 of those when we attack the fort tomorrow.” Stacked on a ledge above the rounds were 12 Soviet mines and a large number of 75mm recoilless rounds. Boxes of ammo for the AKs and RPD machine guns were stacked next to RPG-7 rounds covering a wide area along the roadside.

  “Come with me; you will see the commander and Mujahideen.” I fell in step with Tahir while Fanshaw, Hunter and Williams followed, taking pictures of the troop activities.

  We moved from a cave, deep in the side of the canyon wall where the command shack was located, to the top of a nearby ridge, where we checked out the Russian fort with our Steiner binoculars. It was stifling hot and dusty. No wonder they wore the white turbans and gowns. They kept their brains from frying, since even the turbans got blazing hot.

  The Mujahideen were loading stacks of ammo onto carts pulled by Massey-Ferguson tractors at the bottom of the hill. I asked Tahir what the plan was.

  “Two more days until we attack.” All the mines, 107mm rockets, 82mm mortar rounds and ammo for the AKs and RPDs had to be loaded back on the carts pulled by the tractors and transported to the attack assembly area. This was their idea of mechanized infantry.

  “Tomorrow we will look at a captured Russian fort!” Tahir announced as he cranked the Toyota’s engine. He waited while our team and half a dozen Mujahideen guards crowded into the cargo compartment.

  “STOP!” Williams yelled. Tahir hit the brakes.

  107mm rounds were lying a foot ahead of the tire, their noses aligned with the centerline of the Toyota’s wheel. To their left and two feet away were about 25 more, scattered in a close group. Tahir reversed the truck, managing to clear the rounds with Williams’ guidance.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, glancing at the pile of ammunition. “Hell, the fuses probably weren’t in.”

  “They are in,” Tahir said

  Williams asked Tahir, “Do you have accidents with the Mujahideen when they handle ammunition?” He shrugged, “Many.” I couldn’t afford to have one accident.

  The Mujahideen had fasted all day and were tired and thirsty, and so were we. The water we drank out of a small mountain stream was a life-saver. We crossed the shallow creek se
parating the camp from a Pakistani village at dusk. Tahir had the usual Mujahideen commanders waiting for him and they conducted the normal day’s briefing while we ate.

  The attack was scheduled within 48 hours, Inshallah. All ammunition would be stockpiled at a new reserve site, ready for use in a preparatory barrage against the Soviet fort.

  “My plan is to use 400 Mujahideen in the assault with 500 in reserve,” Tahir said. “That way we will hold down the casualties.”

  “The assault force will be split into two groups, one to encircle the fort from the east, the other from the west. I will leave a path open from the fort to the Afghans inside who want to surrender and join us.”

  “How are you going to establish contact with the Afghans and the Soviets in the fort?” I asked

  “ After the barrage, which will start at 0300 and last until 0600, I will send in one of my people to talk with the Russian commander.” Tahir stretched and yawned wearily. This made no sense to me but nothing about this whole thing made any sense. “Tomorrow we must leave early. I want to look at the captured fort.” He shook hands and wished us a good night’s sleep.

  After the same old breakfast of tea, cakes and oranges, we mounted up and set out for the captured fort. Tahir drove for four hours over the same dry creek bed as before, keeping a weather eye out for MiGs or Mi-24s. We finally arrived at a small village surrounded by mulberry trees.

  The terrain had flattened out from hills and canyons to a wide desert floor. A hot, gusty wind blew dust devils across the road and sand particles into our eyes. We pulled the loose ends of our turbans across our faces, to shield noses and lips from the sand blasts. My idea of wearing local garb was a stroke of genius, but about the only one.

  Tahir spoke with several armed Mujahideen at the village, then we continued on, driving toward the yellow-brown mud walls of a fort some two kilometers to the east. We stopped a few hundred meters before its entrance. Tahir leaned out of the Toyota and pointed to the side of the road. “Mines,” he warned.

  No lie, genius! On either side of the road, aligned in successive rows, were anti-personnel mines laid in an area approximately 20 meters wide, in front of a single strand of barbed wire. The Soviet POMZ-2 stake mines consisted of a wooden stake with a serrated iron body containing six rows of fragmentation segments with a TNT charge of 75 grams. Deployed around the POMZ-2s were plastic PMN antipersonnel mines buried beneath the surface. A rubber top and a metal band held the covers in place. The PMNs had a TNT charge of 240 grams and were pressure activated. They were lethal because they were undetectable by standard magnetic mine detectors.

  The fort, which covered some three-quarters of a square mile in total area, looked as if it had been transplanted from Beau Geste’s North Africa; all that was missing was the Tricolor flying from a flagstaff in the center of the parade ground. However, instead of legionnaires with kepis-blancs, there were only discarded pieces of communist Afghan uniforms—caps, jackets, socks—and assorted notebooks scattered throughout the grounds.

  At the extreme southeastern corner of the perimeter were the hulks of two Soviet T-62 MBTs, their turrets blown off and hulls scorched. Dug in near a trench-line was an MT-LB, a multi-purpose tracked vehicle the turret of which, with a 7.62mm PKT machine gun, had also been destroyed. Fifty meters farther along the trench line sat a BTR-152 VI Armored Personnel Carrier with its sides and front heavily pockmarked from Mu-jahideen AK rounds.

  Tahir, our team and several Mujahideen checked the vehicles out. Tahir warned, “Don’t walk too far from the center of the fort.” He pointed toward the edge of the perimeter. “There are many mines scattered . . . not marked.” Water, as always, had become a problem. The large mechanical pump that furnished well water for the garrison had been destroyed before the Soviets and their Afghan lackeys had abandoned the place.

  We all gathered at the Toyotas, shaking hands and preparing to leave. A number of the villagers had been designated as a guard force to occupy the fort temporarily, although the possibility of the Russians attempting to retake the position seemed remote, given the proposed withdrawal plan signed by the U.S.S.R. in Geneva, which was soon to go into effect.

  DEADLY POTION

  Williams bellyached loudly about dying of thirst and we all echoed him. “No problem,” Tahir replied. “Good water in village. We will stop there.”

  At the roadside, 100 meters from the village, was a large pond some 50 meters wide and 70 meters long. Its pale green waters were spotted with leaves and occasionally dotted by clusters of ripe berries that were swept by occasional gusts from a grove of tall mulberry trees on one side.

  We had run out of our supply of iodine tablets, but in spite of the appearance of the water, thirst drove us to recklessness. Desperation drove us. Fanshaw knelt by the pond’s edge and filled our canteens.

  On the return trip to the CP, Tahir stopped frequently at mountain-fed streams, and everyone drank their belly full. In one deep pool, the Mu-jahideen in the back of the truck engaged in a little Afghan fishing—bursts of AK fire caused spurts of water to geyser several feet in the air and hurl tiny fish along the rocks lining the shore.

  The fasting of Ramadan had left the Mujahideen and Tahir totally whipped. He complained of weakness as he pulled the Toyota to a stop in front of his hut. During tea after dusk, he mentioned that we had a choice during the coming attack on the Russian fort of either going with the assault group or remaining with the supporting weapons. We had the im-pression that he would be directing the attack from the support weapons’ position, high on the military crest of a mountain overlooking the objective. We soon found out otherwise.

  Before we had a chance to make a decision, he had started another round of talks with newly arrived commanders who would lead the Mujahideen during the attack, and we were left to ourselves. In our honor, Tahir had ordered a small feast. In addition to the usual sickening sweet tea, cakes and oranges, we got tomatoes, greens, bread and pieces of chicken, a real Afghan feast.

  “We must sleep. Tomorrow we will leave very early!” Tahir said, fighting to stay awake. We were barely able to muster up the energy to finish the meal and start back up the long trail to the hilltop and our bedrolls.

  At “rooster reveille” at daybreak, things were hopping in Tahir’s quarters. People were racing back and forth between the Toyotas and the CP buildings, and one of the Mujahideen ran up the hill in our direction. Fanshaw, the eternal organizer, started gathering up our gear. “We’d better get ready. It looks like we’re going to move out!” The runner stopped a few feet below us and motioned: “Come now . . . we go!”

  The road gradually shrank to a trail leading down an increasingly steep canyon. Rocks, shale, basketball-sized boulders and mud puddles from a small stream blocked the way. Ahead of us, a long column of armed Mujahideen walked on either side of the trail, AKs, RPGs, and RPDs slung. Several hundred meters ahead, three Mujahideen drivers were carefully easing Massey-Ferguson tractors, ammunition carts in tow, over the obstacles. Our Toyota stopped and Mohammed, a former Afghan Army colonel, tapped on the side of the door.

  “We walk now.”

  He led us up a billy goat trail winding toward a cave high on the rock face. Standing aside at the entrance, he waited until one by one we ducked under a low stone overhang and entered the dim cavern. Inside were several older Mujahideen sitting on blankets with their backs against the damp rock walls. The air was filled with a strong odor of hash and a fog of blue smoke.

  Mohammed stuck his head inside and spoke to one of the younger Mujahideen sitting near the entrance. “Chai,” he ordered. The boy went outside and returned with the usual tray, this time only with the syrupy sweet green tea. The boiled tea was providing most of our liquid intake since the Afghans had no purified water, but Hunter and I had been hit with Montezuma’s revenge and were wiped out. Nauseated, cursing this mad adventure, we grabbed our cameras and left the foul-smelling cave. Williams and Fanshaw soon followed behind. Columns of Mujahideen tractors pull
ing carts loaded with ammunition were passing below.

  “Let’s go,” Mohammed said. Our Toyota had disappeared, and in its place was one of the four-wheeled ammo carts hitched to a Massey-Ferguson. Instead of 107mm rocket rounds, the cart was crammed with Mujahideen who grinned and nodded as we climbed aboard. A 12-year-old boy who had hopped on offered to carry my AK. Mohammad put an instant stop to that, telling me to stay glued to my weapon. Musa warned us about some of the Mujahideen tagging along: “These are bad people. . . some bandits. Be careful.” As Williams said, “Some of the Muj looked like members of the Golden Horde who’d formed an advance party for Genghis Khan.”

  A very bumpy hour later, the cart jolted to a halt and we got out. We pulled out our cameras and started shooting photos of the attack force. Musa, who had a TV camera, began filming the operations, asking Hunter to give a running commentary on the march.

  The sun had set and we were soon stumbling through the darkness. We hopped into the tractors and other vehicles with the rest of the “attack force” and hit the flat road. Suddenly, honking horns, lots of yells of “Allah Akhbar” and the sound of sirens shattered the night air. The Afghan Army garrison troops must have been completely stoned on hash because the Mujahideen, with no concern for noise discipline, had alerted the commies in the fort that we were coming to destroy them. Musa’s warning may have panned out.

  “Do you believe this shit?” I roared, expecting an imminent attack on our battalion of idiots. But we hit the road again, passing by another village, where more Mujahideen joined our entourage.

  After another uneventful 15 or 20 minutes, we stopped in front of a clump of trees. The Mujahideen jumped out and formed into a group. I made sure my team was still together. Musa and Mohammed joined us, directing us to follow a column of Mujahideen moving out in the darkness. We stumbled over each other along the road as we followed our guides. Williams fell into a ditch and Musa helped him back up.