Love In The House Of War

by Scott A Meehan

  “Can you bomb it?”

  “Sure, but I need to get closer for better accuracy.”

  “This is as close as we get, Captain.” Mohaqeq did not want to take any unnecessary risks with the Americans because if something happened, he figured that the Americans would withdraw their support. “Can you call in the strikes from here?”

  “Well, let's see.”

  Captain Steve Carter wiped his hands through his thinning brown hair and then aimed his global positioning system (GPS) at the distant bunker and took a reading. Plotting the position on a map, he got on the satellite phone and relayed the coordinates to a B-52 flying in a holding position high in the sky.

  Thirty seconds later, a one thousand-pound joint direct attack munition (JDAM) hit the ground and exploded. Mohaqeq's men cheered and high-fived each other, but Carter felt a bit embarrassed because the bomb exploded about a mile away from its target.

  Determined to impress his host, he called in new sets of coordinates. Although the second and third bombs continued to get closer to the target, the fourth and fifth bombs landed two miles away, prompting Carter to radio the pilots to end the strike.

  “I apologize, General. I need to get—”

  “Nonsense. That is an awesome display of firepower by the Americans. Now the Taliban will know that we mean business.”

  Mohaqeq turned to face his men with a toothless grin. After lifting his automatic rifle in the air with a double pump, the men let out a loud cheer. They celebrated with delight by the display.

  Carter was aware his mission had strategic implications. Driven toward a successful mission, he believed his team was in front of the world's stage with all eyes watching the forces of freedom perform on a scale of grandeur. To fail in his mission would be unacceptable.

  Another element of mission success in his mind was how he and his team could win the hearts of the people by avoiding unnecessary conflict and casualties with the locals. It will be up to him and his team to provide drinking water, electricity, and medical care to the locals, and a full immersion with local customs in order to establish their trust and succeed with his task.

  General Mohaqeq wanted to capture Mazar-e-Sharif, strategically located in the Darya Suf Valley and less than forty miles south of the border with Uzbekistan. Whoever possessed Mazar-e-Sharif controlled the gateway to the capital city of Kabul, which was 180 miles to the south.

  “My men have proven themselves worthy, Captain. We lack the technology you bring us. Together, we can defeat the enemy.”

  * * *

  After the bombing display, Mohaqeq got confident enough to prepare an attack on the fortified village of Bishqab. Moving to a new position behind a rock on the ridgeline, Carter held his 30-mm Steiner lightweight and waterproof binoculars to his eyes, viewing a cluster of empty mud houses on top of a hill across the valley.

  On another hill, he could identify a collection of brown pickups, several T-54/55 tanks, a number of BMPs—armored personnel carriers armed with cannons and machine guns—and several ZSU-23 antiaircraft artillery.

  Mohaqeq and his estimated three thousand infantry and cavalry troops would attack a mile over an open plain cut by ridges, some reaching one hundred feet high and spaced about six hundred feet apart. They would lose momentum crossing these ridges and exposing themselves to fire when they reached the top each time.

  Carter completed his plotting and then went back to his men. Sharing his thoughts with Mohaqeq about the risks involved brought belligerent amusement and a wave of the hand.

  “That's nothing, Captain. We are not afraid to die and we are wasting time just thinking. My men are ready now!”

  He turned to face his men and raised his weapon high in the air again, and they responded with a raucous cheer.

  Carter looked over at Chief Hall who gave him a shoulder shrug. “Your call, Captain. I think.”

  Carter picked up the phone and called in air strikes. As the bombs fell, Mohaqeq waited for what he thought was the right time and then shouted into his radio, “CHARGE!”

  Like an old western movie, Mohaqeq and his men took off on their horses and raced toward the Taliban positions. The remaining Taliban who somehow survived the air strikes used their heavy weapons on the charging horses. Men and horses collapsed to the ground, dead or screaming in pain from their wounds. However, that did not stop Mohaqeq's fighters.

  When the surviving horsemen reached the second ridge, they halted, jumped off their horses, and laid down cover fire for the second wave of cavalry that reached the Taliban trenches. This caused any remaining enemy fighters to jump out of their trenches and flee.

  Carter called for Ron Hawkins, who crawled up to his position. “Yes, sir?”

  “Hawk, see what you can do to help the wounded.”

  “On my way.”

  Carter grabbed his shoulder causing him to hesitate and look at the Captain. “Sir?”

  “Be careful Hawk. We'll cover you. No unnecessary risks. We need you!”

  “Roger sir.”

  5

  Monday, October 22, 2001

  Just like the previous day, a new attack resulted the same—precision air strikes, Mohaqeq's horse cavalry charge, and the few Taliban who survived, fleeing the battle. Coordinated air strikes between the Special Forces team and the Air Force B-52's dropping JDAMs were proving to be very effective against the Taliban hiding in the mountains.

  Carter, who had been up since their in-country arrival, felt exhausted by the time he returned from the battle. He and his men needed sleep so they took up positions in a safe house at the edge of town, away from the center square.

  Dropping his rucksack on the dust-layered floor, he sat down. Next, he proceeded to wipe off his laptop to establish a connection. Noting a communication message from Colonel John Bowman, the forty-nine-year-old Fifth Special Forces Group commander, he opened the message.

  Ron sat down nearby and watched his commander. “What the? …” Carter began with irritation in his voice.

  “What's up, sir?”

  “Ah, the colonel. He wants a situation report and is wondering why we're not making any progress.”

  The stocky six-foot one colonel was making key decisions from the K2 air base in Uzbekistan. Besides Carter's team, he also tracked five others throughout the country, acting as the intermediary between the teams on the ground and the communication channels back to the United States with General Summers.

  Carter typed his response and with a detailed explanation. In the message, he included information about Mohaqeq and his men, all of whom had fought admirably. He added that the Afghan people were overjoyed to see the Americans and that the Taliban were on the run.

  Once Carter completed his message, he went back to lean against his rucksack next to Ron Hawkins. “Ever seen mountains this tall before, Hawk?”

  “No sir, not like back at home.”

  “Before we arrived, the bombs from our B-52s and B2s hit nothing but sand.”

  Ron chuckled. “I'm not surprised, sir. What do you think of our allies?”

  Carter had observed that they were a coarse-looking group of men, some who were barefoot while others wore sandals, dress shoes, or tennis shoes. “Despite their appearance, they fought well.”

  Tuesday, October 23, 2001

  Carter's team got some much-needed rest while team members switched off guard duty through the night. The next morning, at the men gathered around the makeshift wooden table in the middle of the dank room consisting of mud walls. The wooden table legs, uneven, rocked back and forth until Staff Sergeant Rich Bradley stooped to place some flat pieces of cardboard beneath one of the shorter stumps.

  “All right, listen up. The enemy forces have moved north to join their ranks at Mazar-e-Sharif,” while moving the point of a long stick across the map. “Some have taken to the mountains south of us to hide in caves. We do not know if they intend to continue fighting us or if they scattered to assimilate back into society. We will continue to support
General Mohaqeq and his forces by moving north toward Mazar-e-Sharif, along the Darya River. Mazar will be our primary objective.”

  Talbot moved next to his captain and pointed to a location on the map. “Now, some of us will maneuver to higher ground in this area to obtain a good line of sight,” he added while moving his finger. “We'll need to gain these positions here and here,” he continued with his finger pounding the area for emphasis.

  “That's some steep area Top,” Sergeant Huber quipped.

  The First Sergeant looked up at him and grinned, “Yep, possible by foot…and mule.”

  The men consisted of twelve personnel, each with a set of special skills.

  “You guys get some rest. You are going to need it. We move north tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh dark thirty Top?” Sergeant Phillips asked.

  “Of course. Is there any other time?”

  “Top, can I see you for a minute?” Carter asked Talbot after the brief.

  Talbot went outside with Captain Carter. “I need Hawk and Short to go into Dehi and take some medical supplies to a Dr. Rajiv. He is Mohaqeq's brother-in-law and is setting up a small clinic to help with Mohaqeq's casualties. They can stay as long as needed to help if they can.”

  “Roger that, sir. I assume they'll join us before we move out in the morning?”

  “That's the plan…but brief them just in case we get separated.”

  “Hawk. Chris. I need you,” Master Sergeant Talbot hollered.

  “What's up, Top?” Chris asked.

  “I have a special mission for you two. I need you to go into Dehi and locate a clinic set up by Mohaqeq's brother, Dr. Rajiv. He should be expecting you.”

  “Any idea what it looks like?” Hawk asked.

  “Not really, but they should be looking for two American soldiers according to Mohaqeq.”

  “They?”

  “Could be anyone as you know but I suspect whoever 'they” are, have something to do with medical.”

  “Or, it could be a trap and 'they' could be the Taliban.” Chris added.

  First Sergeant Talbot grinned. “Well, in any case, you'll know what to do. You guys can practice your medical, language, and diplomacy skills. Who knows, maybe you'll win some hearts and minds of the people.”

  “Good to go, Top!” Hawk said. “When do we leave?”

  Talbot looked at his watch. “You're not there yet?”

  Ron grabbed his rucksack leaning against the mud wall and rearranged some meals ready to eat, beef jerky, trail mix, and a bottle of purification tablets. He added a few gifts to his cargo pockets and the cash issued to him for emergencies. Ron stuffed the cash into his medical kit bag. Next, he placed several M4 magazines into his ammo pouch attached to his web belt. Ron put on his black fleece jacket and strapped his CamelBak water pack to his back, and moved out of the dwelling.

  Chris sat on a drooping brown horse when Ron came out. “What took you so long? You think this is a campout or something?”

  “Ya never know.” Hawk replied

  Hawk walked up to his pale horse, patted him on the forehead and said, “You be good now, okay?” as he held his hand out with some grounded oats he had stashed. Once mounted, the two set out like cowboys in an old western movie headed into town at sunset.

  6

  “Like 'Gunsmoke,” Ron said.

  “So, which one of those guys we just passed back there was Festus?”

  Ron thought a moment. “Anyone of them, I guess.”

  “Let's stop here first and check out what's inside.”

  The soldiers dismounted in front of an old western-looking outpost, and hitched their horses to the wooden post. “I always wanted to do that, just like on TV!” Hawk said.

  Looking around, Chris replied, “Why don't you wait here and watch our gear and then we'll switch.”

  “Good idea.”

  Ron waited outside with the horses and took in the war-weary buildings surrounding him. Inside, Chris discovered some useful materials and decided to scrounge for local clothing, blankets, cooking utensils, knives, lanterns, among other innumerable things that their twelve-man Special Forces team could use for their extended stay. Popping his head out the door, Chris said, “Hey Hawk, I'll be a few minutes. There is some good stuff in here. Watch your six.”

  “Roger.”

  Ron observed a donkey hauling loads of handmade bricks, a couple of men struggling on their wobbling bikes, and a smattering of women scurrying along in their blue burkhas, avoiding any undue attention.

  Ron decided to fish into his shirt pocket and pull out his personal army-issued Gideon New Testament Bible. He glanced at a passage of scripture and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  Looking around the area again, he spotted three girls wearing powdered blue Burkas emerge from the side of a small mud and brick building fifty yards away.

  Their faces hid beneath the fabric lining of their veils, but he could tell they were watching him.

  To his astonishment, one of the three called to him in English. “Hey, American soldier. Could you come please?”

  Alarmed, Ron looked up and saw the tallest girl waving her hand for him to approach. That sure is risky around here, he thought. He beamed and shook his head from side to side.

  “Yes, please. It is okay. You are seeking the clinic?” The voice called out again.

  That comment got his attention. He looked up again, amazed at the girl's command of the English language. How could an Afghan girl out here in the middle of nowhere speak English so well? He wondered.

  Although warned about mingling with the women in public, Ron took walked towards the, hoping they could tell him where the clinic was located.

  As he approached, two of the girls moved back into the clinic, leaving the one who spoke English standing alone. Stopping in front of her about ten feet away, he thought about the words he would use to initiate the conversation. Then he greeted her in Farsi.

  She responded in Farsi and Ron continued. “You know about the clinic?”

  “Yes, it is here.” She said pointing behind her. “I work there—as a nurse.”

  Ron looked at the decrepit brownish building and then back at the girl he just met. “You speak English very well. I'm impressed. Where did you learn it?”

  Sarah answered in English. “I speak four languages—Farsi, Pashto, English, and Russian.”

  Ron responded in English. “Wow! You know Russian too? Are you from here?”

  The conversation now switched to English. No. I traveled here with my father, Dr. Rajiv. I am from Golbahar, a town east of here. Did you bring the spare medical supplies he requested?”

  “Uh…yes—yes, in fact, we did, and we are here to help you!” his voice rising with a tinge of excitement.

  “This is wonderful! Please, get your things and come inside. We will be very happy for you to help us because there is much to do. We are always in such need of supplies.”

  “Okay. I'll return in a moment.”

  “Thank you so much. Please hurry!”

  Just then, a local man dressed in a white cotton-fabric headdress emerged from the bazaar. He wore a collarless, lightweight cotton, loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt that hung down over his wide trousers gathered on a drawstring. A fine embroidered design covered portions of his shirt on the front.

  Two to three others joined him, wearing similar clothing. Ron sensed a little trouble as the girl scampered into the clinic, disappearing from sight.

  Ron watched her disappear into the building before walking away. The squeaking of the door caught his attention as she remerged.

  “My name is Sarah. Please come back with supplies as soon as you can.”

  “I Promise to be back!”

  The dusty gray metal door shut with force as Ron stood motionless. Then he realized that Chris stood in front of the bazaar watching him. Intrigued by his brief conversation with Sarah, Ron wondered how this Afghan girl could speak English so well and hold herself with such poise.
r />   “What's going on, man? Who were you talking to?” Chris inquired.

  “You wouldn't believe it if I told you,” Ron answered. “I found the clinic.”

  “Good, let's go.”

  “We can't at the moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look at these guys around us.”

  “So? They're curious.”

  “No, a couple of them saw me talking to the nurse and if we go there now, we may put them in danger.”

  Chris thought a moment. “Tell you what, go ahead and get to the clinic. I'll hang out here for a while and keep an eye on them.”

  “All right but you better lock and load. I wouldn't stay out here too long though.”

  “I'll wait until you get inside. The doctor is expecting you. I'll keep an eye on the horses for now.”

  Ron grabbed his supplies, walked to the end of the dirt road and knocked on the metal gray door. A girl wearing a blue burkha let him in.

  “Over here!” the tall girl motioned. “Thank you for coming. I could use your help with this one.” She pointed to one of Mohaqeq's men who had been shot in the abdomen.

  “I was told that a doctor would be here to greet us,” Ron said.

  “Yes, but he is out for the moment. He had to meet with my uncle, Abdul Mohaqeq. He is bringing his fighters to your team in Cobaki.”

  Ron jumped right into the tumult. Unloading his supplies, he responded, “Let's go.”

  Sarah watched with excitement, eyes widening with the opening of the surgical kits. The rest of the clinical staff watched as well, careful to avoid any conversation.

  Ron wondered about Sarah's boldness. “Aren't you afraid of talking to me?”

  “Should I be?” Sarah asked with amusement. “My father is Dr. Rajiv. He is the one who requested your assistance. He trusts you Americans.”

  “And you?”

  “Yes, of course, I trust you. I called you, didn't I?”

  “In the army, I am known as Sergeant Hawkins. My first name is Ron, and a few people have given me the nickname 'Hawk.' I'll let you choose the one you like.”

  Sarah smirked. “Hawk? Isn't that a bird?”