I Am Soldier of Fortune

by Brown, Robert, Spencer, Vann

  Bodies piled into the mosque and by the time our heads hit the pillows, the snoring rumbled. Williams, by now in an advanced neurotic stage, squirmed around on the hard floor, trying not to strangle himself overnight with the neck straps on his chest webbing, and pulled the canvas rig over his head.

  “No, no,” Musa, on alert, told Williams. “Leave magazines on. Don’t let anyone have the Kalashnikov. Put the sling around the leg and not let anyone take Kalashnikov. Many bad people—Khomeini people—take guns from you,” warning about some in the group. Why the hell were we marching with some of the enemy? A better question was why were we involved in this insanity?

  Three of the Mujahideen slipped out of the mosque, toting their RPG launchers. Next morning we drank the sick chai and chomped on fly-infested bread with a group of Mujahideen inside the mosque while others were eating outside.

  NOBODY SAID ANYTHING ABOUT TANKS

  A rocket blast shocked us into tossing our tea and running out to see what was going on. Another blast exploded on the far side of the fort some two klicks to the southeast of our position, creating a large cloud of smoke. I reached for my Skoal. “What happened to the 1,000 107mm rounds that were supposed to hit the fort between 0300 and 0600?” I asked.

  “Inshallah,” answered Hunter, wiping sweat from his face. The sick sweet tea had made us even thirstier and there was no water to be found.

  “Where’s the water point?” Williams shouted at a Mujahideen trotting past us. He ignored us and headed toward several scrawny trees 100 meters behind the mosque, where other Mujahideen were squatting around what looked like an oasis in the desert.

  “That looks like a pond.” Hunter started walking toward the group, followed by Fanshaw carrying our canteen.

  We caught up with them and walked around a wall to find a good-sized sinkhole, better called a shit hole, covered with a greenish scum. Standing at the far edge were two sheep and a donkey, their feet soaking in the muddy mix. Near them were several sheep turds floating gently near the green scum.

  Fanshaw filled the canteen, shaking his head in disbelief, and we started back to the mosque. It was 1000 hours and the weather was scorching and stagnant. The flies had invaded the mosque and covered the food like a black vibrating blanket.

  Several Mujahideen were standing on the shoulders of others under four mulberry trees full of ripe fruit next to the mosque. They were beating the tree with sticks and the ground below was covered with the unappetizing red fruit. Along with the flies and the Mujahideen, who were used to their pathetically slow-moving pace of life, we watched our watches slowly tick until it was time to sleep again. No action, nothing.

  The next morning Williams, by now nearly hallucinating, ready to forget about the commies and just kill me, asked Musa when the attack was supposed to start. Further, where the hell were the 1,000 rounds of 107mm rockets that were supposed to have plastered the fort? Also, where were the 340 other members of the attack force? Not to mention the reserve of 500 other Mujahideen.

  “No problem,” came the answer. “The attack force waiting for word from fort.”

  “What word from the fort?”

  “A Mujahideen agent is inside the fort,” Musa smiled. “He is speaking with Russian commander. When the commander says hands up, we get four tanks.”

  Nobody had said anything about tanks.

  “They have four Russian T-62 tanks in the fort,” Musa wrinkled his brow. The T-62 tank has a U-5TS(2A20) 115mm smooth-bore gun with a bore evacuator. Maximum rate of fire is four rounds per minute, and it can fire HE-FRAG, (FS and OF-IS), HEAT-FS (BK-4 and BK-4M), and APFSDS (BM-6) ammo. A 7.62mm PKT machine gun is fired co-axially. Like other Soviet tanks, it can lay its own screen of white smoke by spraying diesel on hot exhaust manifolds; the smoke exits from exhaust ports on the left side. At 3,000 yards firing APFSDS rounds, first-hit probability is 100 percent.

  Musa shrugged.

  Williams perked up, hoping that the Soviet commander would indeed “hands up,” anticipating the effect of four 115 mm tank guns working over the Mujahideen attack formation as it crossed a line of departure in the open area around the fort.

  Williams asked Musa, “What tactics do you use when you attack the fort?”

  “No problem. First lie down on ground.” He demonstrated. “Then stand up.” He jumped to his feet with his AK at port arms and hesitated. “OK, then what?”

  “Then stand up straight.” He squared his shoulders, brought the AK to an assault position from the hip, and yell Allah Akhbar,’ then run forward.”

  It was no surprise that the Mujahideen’s infantry assault tactics were bizarre. “Musa, how close will you get to fort before you stand up and yell, Allah Akhbar’?” Williams asked. This insanity was about as whacky as Pickett’s charging up Cemetery Ridge at the battle of Gettysburg.

  “No problem. Maybe 1,000 meters. No problem,” Musa said. Insanity!

  Later that afternoon, three of us decided to eat our fly-infested bread and oranges in the shade of some trees rather than in the mosque. Before we’d finished our oranges, the rockets whizzed. We rushed off to find Hunter. Musa and two Mujahideen just outside the mosque entrance bantered in Pashto and burst into laughter.

  “What is the joke?” I asked.

  Apparently on our first night here, the Mujahideen with the RPGs had gone to the village and captured the deputy Russian commander and two Afghan soldiers, all drunk and asleep from hashish.

  The flies were so thick inside our new mosque hotel by now that we decided to camp outside. Musa nixed that idea, pointing to a group of Mu-jahideen standing around a 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun.

  “Those are bad. Better you stay inside.”

  Again that night, we faced the usual Mujahideen feast of sick sweet chai, bread, oranges and flies. By now, Montezuma’s revenge had struck everyone. We were dehydrated and becoming delusional.

  The number of Mujahideen was thinning down. The number of rocket rounds fired at the fort increased, but nowhere close to the point where it could be called a barrage. Mortar rounds came from the fort once in a while but nothing of importance.

  A FOX HOLE

  On the morning of the third day, Williams and Fanshaw scooped out a hole in the event the fort batteries decided to give the mosque and the surrounding huts a pasting from mortars, artillery or, worst scenario, the T-62 MBTs. On the way back, Fanshaw turned and walked toward the 14.5 and a truck that was partially hidden by an adobe wall. While he was look-ing at the vehicle, a young Mujahideen, maybe in his early 20s, dressed in clean cammies, stopped Williams and in perfect English asked, “Are you a Muslim?”

  “No.”

  “Are you an American?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Williams ignored him and found us checking out the fort through Steiner binoculars, watching the exchange of fire between the Soviets and the Mujahideen 107mm rocket batteries emplaced some 100 meters to the southeast of the mosque compound. Musa ran up from the rear of the adjoining buildings and called to us, “You come now.”

  “Come where?” Williams asked.

  “You no come? Why you are doing this to me?” The more agitated he got, the worse his English became.

  “Bullshit. We want to know where the hell you are going and how far it is before we’re leaving here.” Fanshaw shook his finger at Musa, who turned to me for guidance.

  “OK, we go,” I decided. Hunter and I dragged behind Musa

  “They’re gonna get their ass blown away going with that idiot,” Williams remarked as he just watched us walk off.

  BOOMMM! Twenty-two hundred yards, Williams estimated the range from the rocket batteries to the point of impact. CRUMMP, CRUMMP. Fanshaw started running toward the truck, unslinging his AK. All the Mujahideen around the 14.5 began running away from the gun to look at an open field some 800 meters away. By now Williams and Fanshaw had spotted through their binoculars several Mujahideen advancing across the field from our left
to the right.

  CRUMMP A 120mm mortar round from the fort landed behind one of the running Mujahideen, temporarily masking him with grey smoke. As the smoke cleared, there was no sign of the Afghan; then within seconds he was up and trotting again. To his left were two other Mujahideen, advancing across the thick grass. CRUMMP. Another round hit to their front, throwing chunks of earth, stones and grass stalks high in the air, covering them with smoke and cordite fumes.

  “Paul, if those Afghans in the fort traverse those tubes to the left, we’re going to be in a world of hurt. That truck behind the wall is sitting over a grease pit that’s deep enough for us both. The wall might go, but the truck will cover us except for a direct hit. Then we’re screwed anyway,” Williams warned.

  The two started toward the truck when Mohammed, standing near the 14.5, waved at them to follow him immediately.

  “Hell, no!” Fanshaw shook his head at Mohammed. “If he’s going to go back to the mosque, we’ll get our ass blown off if they start hitting the buildings.”

  “No, no. Please come with me. I must speak with you. There is much danger for you here.” Mohammed started toward the mosque.

  “Come on, let’s give him a few minutes. We can come back here.” Williams fell in behind the old man, Fanshaw following.

  There were no Mujahideen to be seen in the mosque.

  “Alright, what’s the problem?” Fanshaw asked.

  “You must leave quickly. There is a vehicle at the back of the building.” The Afghan’s face was drawn and his eyes bloodshot. Fanshaw was staring at Mohammed as if the old man was off his rocker.

  “You know Mujahideen who ask you if you are Muslims?”

  “Yeah, what about ‘em?”

  “They are Khomeini people from village.” He paused and wiped his nose with the back of one gnarled hand. “Many times they meet and take money from KGB in fort. They say when we attack, they will shoot Americans.”

  “I think it’s time we got the hell out of here,” Fanshaw said. “I believe the old man.”

  Mohammad told the two to stay in the mosque until he found a vehicle.

  “We’ve got to tell Brown and Hunter,” Fanshaw said as he picked up his AK and followed the Afghan out of the mosque and into the courtyard. Musa, Hunter and I were rounding the comer, with Fanshaw and Williams heading toward us. Several Mujahideen were watching the 122mm mortar rounds from the fort explode in the distance.

  Williams was spouting out some gibberish in Spanish about whether we should tell Musa about what Mohammed had said. Musa, insulted, stomped off after Mohammed. Fanshaw and Williams told me what old Mohammed had said.

  “I don’t believe any of this bullshit,” Hunter snorted and wiped his face with the sleeve of his Afghan blouse. “The old man is crazy. There aren’t any Khomeini people here, and even if there were there’s no way the Muj are going to let them hurt us. That would be the worst possible thing they could allow.”

  As I reflected on the crazy story Fanshaw asked me, “Where’d Musa take you guys?”

  “We walked about a hundred meters over to the 107s. I got a chance to fire a couple of rockets at the fort. Musa took some pictures,” I said.

  “To hell with the pictures. What are your feelings about leaving?” Williams put pressure on.

  “I think we should get the hell out of here,” I said. “We haven’t got communication with a swinging dick here who’s got any authority. We’re all sick from drinking pond scum shitwater. There hasn’t been shit in the way of an attack on the fort, and sooner or later the Russians in that sonofabitch are going to call Kabul and all shit’s going to hit the fan.” We went looking for Mohammed.

  “I’ll go find him.” Fanshaw headed for the area behind the building where Mohammed was last seen. We were getting our gear together when Musa ran in.

  “There is no danger. No Khomeini men. Tahir come. Russians go hands up maybe.” He was as wound up as before. “Screw it, Musa, we go,” I said.

  Hunter made a face and looked at Musa. “Musa, they think some people in the village will try and kill us during attack.”

  “No, not possible. Mujahideen won’t let it happen.”

  Mohammed suddenly walked in, looked around at the group and sat down near Musa, who said some harsh Pashto words to the old man and stormed out. Mohammed smiled and shook his head. “Musa is boy,” he said. “He not understand.”

  “Is all our gear ready?” I asked Fanshaw. “We’re set to get out of here?”

  “I will go now to the vehicle. You wait at the wall outside.” Mohammed shook hands with us and scurried out the door. We gathered outside at the adobe wall that faced the Russian fort. It shielded us from any of the Russian Afghan garrison that might be scoping the mosque and the surrounding buildings. Williams was focusing his binoculars on the fort, watching for Mujahideen 107mm hits, when we heard a sudden CRACK.

  “What the hell’s that?” I looked around with nerves dancing from the heat, the cuisine, the chants and lunacy.

  ORANGE FLAMES FLARED

  An orange-red flame flared from the direction of the highest point on the 1,500-meter ridgeline, followed by another CRACK.

  “Holy shit!” Fanshaw yelled.

  The flame came from a 115 mm gun attached to the turret of a T-62, which was sitting in full view atop the ridgeline and firing at the Mujahideen rocket batteries in the valley. Apparently the commander, who did not bother to go into hull defilade position, which would afford some protection against the 107s, was not worried about the Mujahideen rockets. Suddenly, a ball of fire throwing orange showers of flame erupted near the T-62. One of the Mujahideen rounds had landed short but on line with the Soviet tank. It was only a matter of time before the gunner decided to traverse the turret in our direction.

  BLAM. A second orange fireball hit dead center against the T-62’s hull, enveloping the tank in flames that kept burning long after impact, sending a column of greasy, black smoke high in the air, obscuring any view of the turret and hatch.

  I muttered, “There’s Mohammed. Maybe he’s got our vehicle squared away.” The old man was trotting toward us, casting glances toward the burning tank.

  “The vehicle will be ready soon. We will go back into the mosque to wait.”

  “Horseshit. Another ‘no problem’ scenario. Let’s find out what the hell’s going on.” Fanshaw turned and stuck his face close to Mohammed’s. “Where’s the vehicle?”

  “The vehicle is back there. Behind the building.”

  “Paul, take a recce and see what’s going on with our ride,” I said. The ex-legionnaire left at a run, long legs moving like pistons, Mohammed walking swiftly behind him. “Bob, the Toyota’s there, but it’s locked and there’s no driver anywhere around. What do you want to do?” Fanshaw came back panting.

  “Let’s go.” I headed for the vehicle, ordering the rest to follow, with the old man Mohammed bringing up the rear. When we reached the Toyota, Williams crawled up into the cargo compartment and squatted down with his back toward the wall of a darkened building only a few feet away. Fanshaw took up a position between the truck and the building, giving him a field of fire covering both flanks. Hunter and I stood at the rear of the vehicle, waiting for Mohammed to close up. Musa and several Mujahideen walked quickly around the side of the building and headed for the truck.

  There was a series of dull click-clacks as rounds were chambered. Williams and I locked and loaded, my fire selector was set to AUTO.

  Musa and the Mujahideen, hearing us chamber rounds in our AKs, skidded to a halt. He raised both hands chest high, turned palms outward and protested, “Bob, Mike . . . no shoot Mujahideen.” I pointed my AK at Musa’s chest. “I no shoot if Mujahideen no shoot.” Musa walked away from me and toward Williams.

  “Mike, Mujahideen no shoot you.” Williams moved his fire selector from SINGLE to AUTO and pointed the AK at Musa’s middle. “Musa, we go. Now!”

  For the next two hours, the Mujahideen ran back and forth between us and the mos
que. The driver wasn’t available, then they couldn’t find the commander. Musa and the Mullah, yelling something about Allah, assured us that we were safe.

  Finally, Farouk, the assault party’s commander, showed up and the three started shouting at each other. Some Mujahideen appeared with a radio that they set up several feet away from the truck. Farouk knelt down near it and started to transmit. After at least 15 minutes of communication in Pashto, Musa ran over and told me, “Bob, commander say we go now.”

  Suddenly a driver appeared, and we climbed in the Toyota, followed by some other armed Mujahideen. Farouk ordered Mohammed and Musa into the second Toyota, then joined us in the front passenger seat.

  LOST

  It was pitch black, but the drivers had no problem following the snaking, rocky road. We were all prepared for a Russian ambush. We approached the village where our Khomeini-supporting assassins were holed up. The villagers had shot a series of flares in some sort of fireworks display and they arched into the black sky.

  We drove on for four hours uphill on a sandy road. We arrived at no-man’s-land nestled away in a canyon. The Mujahideen jumped out and started climbing in single file. We had no choice but to follow.

  The Mujahideen were pressing their luck, laughing as we chugged up the rocky path and across a muddy patch where a mountain stream flowed. We said nothing, numbly putting one foot after the other. Our boots were full of mud, inside and out. Williams threw himself down by the stream. scooping up water in his cupped hands.

  The tall Mujahideen grabbed him. “Op ney! Lop ney. No water. No rest.” We were in danger from the Russians, and the Mujahideen were in danger from the near delusional, fatigued and murderous armed gringos.

  Williams, over the edge, blurted out of the blue “BAHH BAHH!” Our guards, highly amused, started babbling even louder. I suggested that the Mujahideen carry Williams’ webbing and ammo.

  “Fuck you,” he said. Then when he spotted another stream of water, he threw his gear at the Mujahideen.