As an NCO in the American Army I immediately went to work filling sandbags on my own in order to build a re-enforced position for the American team. My interpreter came to me and asked me to stop working.
“You are causing us shame SSG Moore. You are an important guest so you cannot labor; it is not right.”
He explained that in their culture important people never did manual labor, and by my actions I demonstrated that either I am not important or that my host is not looking after me. I responded with the fact that it needed to get done and that I did not see the ANA soldiers doing any labor to improve our defenses. He further explained that is because they are warriors and it is beneath them to do such work. Afghan men who engage in manual labor are lower on their caste system so the ANA refused to basic labor.
My frustration level was climbing for obvious reasons. Improving our defenses was not an option, so if the Taliban was going to hit us it would be at this time. It would take some effort on my part to get past the assumption that they were just rationalizing their laziness and begin to understand that we did come from different military cultures. It was imperative that we find a way around this impasse in such a way that everyone saved face and the job got done.
We met with the village elders and explained that we needed to hire some of the men for paid labor at our camp. They agreed to send a dozen men each morning, individually chosen by the elders, and paid by them after we paid the elders for providing the labor. Day after day they came to fill sandbags, string c-wire and improve buildings. By employing the locals we won their trust, infused their local economy with hard currency and our working relationship flourished.
Realizing that Afghanistan was littered with unexploded ordinance (bombs of different types), we advised the locals to bring what they found to us for disposal. This served several purposes. Every bomb we destroyed was one less used against us, and it possibly saved the life of another Afghan who may stumble onto it. The locals also became our eyes and ears in that area. They provided us with information about the enemy’s movements, ambush plans, IED placements and other useful intelligence. While we were there we brought heavy equipment in to improve the roads, provided school supplies and dug wells for clean water. Granted, all of these improvements were paid for with American tax dollars, but these were permanent landmarks that these locals would see day after day with the knowledge that the American soldiers were here and the locals are better off for it. I cannot emphasize this last point enough. The fact that Afghans thought every United States soldier was a Christian meant that I never missed an opportunity to leave a positive lasting impression, not only for the glory of God, but to counter any negative experiences they may have had.
Another instance of cultural conflict arose at chow time. The United States military is designed in such a way that runs counter to most other countries, especially in regards to their military. Those of higher rank are treated best and take position over those beneath them in status. This was demonstrated at mealtime when the lowest private eats first because those with rank are responsible for their welfare, resulting in those with higher rank eating last. When the ANA had established a make-shift kitchen and announced that chow was ready, CPT Casey and I went to the back of the line. Declining to eat first created a commotion. Our interpreter explained again that it was unacceptable for us to not only eat last, but that we should not be getting our own food; others would bring our food to us. That was a difficult concept to accept for Casey and me. It was counter to everything we had been trained to do. A-Top then invited us to eat with him in his tent and ordered his men to serve us. This was the beginning of what I like to call my “Dances with Wolves” tour. Due to living off base and with the ANA, immersed in their culture, I began to relate to that movie even more as time passed.
A rugged and beautiful country!
Home Improvement
Now that we had a consistent supply of labor and the immediate concern of base security was settled, I began to consider long-term plans for our team. Since our arrival at FOB Gilligan, most of our team had been living in a very small mud hut and I had been sleeping in a Ford Ranger. I discovered a larger building with a solid roof and asked why no one was living there. The Afghans stated that it had been used as a stable and was full of cow manure, which they could not touch as part of their religion.
CPT Casey had gone on a resupply mission, so I enlisted the help of another member of our team, SGT Red. Together he and I began the filthy work of shoveling that building out. Since the ANA wanted nothing to do with that building, working on it ourselves did not offend them. In fact, they thought we were “dewana,” or crazy, for doing it at all. Two days of shoveling manure (and stacking sandbags to reinforce the walls) and the main room was empty. Before we could move in there were still other improvements to be done. The floor and walls were hardened mud, and we would have choked on the dust if we did not find coverings.
I convinced A-Top to go shopping with us at the local bazaar to buy furniture and other necessities, to which he readily agreed, knowing that I would also buy his favorite, lamb kabobs.
When Casey returned we had furnished the room with floor mats, wall hangings (to keep the dust from the mud walls to a minimum), and a few tables and lawn chairs. This building also had a covered porch that we equipped with a table and chairs for our meetings and morning coffee. Since we had doubled the width of the walls, we built a firing position for our 240 Bravo machine gun so our room could be used as a fighting position as well.
This work definitely made our time there more tolerable, but the cultural ramifications were interesting. One of the obvious needs we had was a latrine, and for the first two weeks the Americans were making do with the “Hadji Squat” (this term became synonymous with the way many in that part of the world squat rather than sit on the ground) over a hole in the ground. While at the bazaar I purchased an extra plastic chair, cut the center out and we now had a toilet seat of sorts. It’s the little things that you notice when you do not have them.
A tense moment did arise when the ANA doctor saw what we had done to improve our living quarters. He liked what he saw and asked me who would live there (he spoke English). I explained that I would. He replied with “You SGT, I live here now,” implying that his rank as an ANA officer trumped mine. After all the work that had gone into fixing up our new home I was not about to surrender it to anyone. More importantly, the fact that this particular Afghan was a worthless political appointment who received his medical degree from what I assume was the “Kabul school of medicine and VCR repair,” I stood up to face him and replied.
“SGT Moore dig shit; SGT Moore live here!”
He stepped forward and began to raise his hand to strike me, which would have been the appropriate response in his culture for someone he saw as being from a lower class speaking in such a defiant manner. It was then that he noticed I had already drawn my knife and he froze. Staring straight into his eyes I told him that if he did not leave I would cut off his right hand and if he ever tried to hit me I would kill him. He was stunned and at a loss for what to do. No one had ever spoken to him in such a manner before. In conjunction with the fact that I already knew him to be a coward, he backed up and out of my room.
I related this to CPT Casey and the others; we decided to share it with A-Top who had no use for this doctor either but was stuck with him temporarily. This doctor was very typical of a country with a corrupt political system. He was appointed to this rank and position purely based on who his family was and not on any earned merit. He was a lowlife who took the free, basic medical supplies provided to him by the United States Army and either sold them to a drugstore in Kabul, or would require soldiers to pay him for treatment.
One day, while walking to another base, we were attacked in the middle of the village (an event I will elaborate on later). When it was over we discovered that this same doctor had been shot in the arm while running away from the fight; it was not fatal, but was enough to have him
sent back to Kabul. Not a bad day after all.
The Good Sergeant
I wanted to maintain a balance between doing my duty (regardless of where it led) and not losing myself in the violence. I am reminded of a scene from Saving Private Ryan (Spielberg, 1998) when Tom Hank’s character stated that whenever he killed an enemy soldier a part of him died, and he was afraid that when he got home there would not be enough of him left for his wife to recognize. I could not have stated it better myself. That was a legitimate fear of mine, what I would look like spiritually and emotionally when I got home if I did not get a handle on my hatred for our enemy.
Throughout my tour in Afghanistan, I made every effort to spend time in prayer and devotions, I did not like where I had gone spiritually with my thoughts toward Muslims. While living with the ANA at FOB Gilligan I took more notice of their prayer time, hard to miss considering they stopped everything five times per day to pray (or nap, depending on how serious they were about their faith). I like to begin and end my days with prayer so I decided to do so outside under the covered porch we had built.
One morning, while drinking coffee made from re-used coffee grounds and cocoa, I noticed an ANA soldier staring at me. We exchanged greetings and he asked me what I was reading. I responded, “Holy Book,” to which he replied with a smile, “Good SGT!” His response gave me pause; I wondered what he actually thought about my Christian faith and my “Holy Book.” I asked our interpreter what their thoughts were on my faith.
Their consensus was that most Afghans were nominal Muslims, meaning that they were following Islam because it is the religion of their fathers; it is intertwined with their cultural and national identity. Yet they also realize that they were given no choice in the matter, and probably found themselves just going through the motions. It is what’s expected of them. This claim can also be made of many American Christians as well, however I do not know of one that threatens to kill you for deciding to leave the faith when you are an adult. This religion by threat of force can hardly endear someone to a relationship with a loving God; then again, Muslims do not believe that they can have a relationship with Allah the same way that Christians do with our Savior. Before leaving Afghanistan I would meet ANA soldiers who would tell me in confidence that they “wanted to go to America because there were no Muslims there!” Through further discussion, their meaning was clear. They wanted out of Islam and its forced adherence.
Back to the original question I asked of my interpreters. They believe that many of the Afghan soldiers saw my expression of faith as an indication that I was a righteous man. Being a man of faith carried much more weight with these soldiers than I was originally aware of, and it caused me to ponder, pray and read scripture all the more. I was then moved by the Spirit to look beyond myself and to realize that God had brought me out here in the Afghan wilderness to be a light for these Muslim soldiers, and that otherwise they would never be able to see.
It was always this way between God and me. Whenever I was self-absorbed with my own situation He would drop someone into my lap that obviously needed His love and I was the only vessel to carry it to them at that time. It reminds me that God knows my nature so much better than I do. He knows that when push comes to shove, I will always do whatever is necessary for whomever He places in my path. This process always leads me to a better place spiritually as well. I find it impossible to share what He has done for me without seeking His face once more.
From that moment forward I sought to live purposefully, as a Christian who wants to glorify God in such a way that even these Muslim soldiers and villagers would have to see it. I needed to balance my role as a soldier and as a Christian. Not that the two are mutually exclusive, but in their culture men are warriors or they are nothing. I sought to become the warrior they would follow and the man of faith they would respect. They would not respect my faith if they did not first respect me as a man. One thing I had always done but decided to make =more obvious was to pray just prior to going outside the wire on a dangerous mission.
Sure enough, some of the ANA saw what I was doing and asked the interpreter to inquire. I explained that I was praying that God would protect us during this mission and that when we found the enemy He would make us brave, fast and accurate. The ANA like this prayer because it reinforced their cultural perception as holy warriors and the reality, as one stated to me, “If we kill enough Taliban they will leave our country, then we can go home.” From that point forward some of the soldiers would ask me to pray for them before we left for the mission. They wanted the Terp to tell them what I was “saying” so I decided to begin each prayer with one of my favorite verses, “Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle” (Psalm 144:1, NASB). I knew that they understood “the Lord” to mean Allah, but I thought it was a foundation from which to build on.
Making friends with a remote mountain tribe.
Chapter Sixteen
The Border War
THE REMAINING MONTHS THAT WE SPENT at FOB Gilligan were filled with a regular routine of nighttime patrols, setting up ambushes, repairing the road, digging wells and dispensing school supplies. That seemed to sum up most of my entire tour, taking the fight to the enemy while trying to improve the life of the Afghan people, winning hearts and minds as they say.
Shortly after we established a presence at FOB Gilligan we were joined by a team of SF soldiers on horseback, not something you see every day. The Afghan terrain, being as rough as it is, forced the soldiers to make use of local Nuristan ponies (Nuristan is a province in north central Afghanistan known for its hardy mountain ponies). These ponies were necessary for moving equipment and men across the mountainous terrain. Working with the SF brought our fight to a whole new level; adaptability and force of action were the foundation of all our missions forward. Along with horses, they also brought assets that I would not have had available otherwise, such as satellite imagery, dedicated air support, upgraded weapons and (my favorite) ice cream. It may not sound like a big deal at home, but after a few months of eating goat and drinking old coffee, ice cream sandwiches are the bomb!
Our missions became more intense, more involved and far more dangerous, and I was all for it. The more we went out with the SF and began to engage the enemy at a whole new level the more I yearned for an opportunity to kill them. I could not forget the words of the ANA soldier who wanted to kill the enemy so he could finally go home and live with his family in peace, and I felt driven to make that happen. The more time I spent with the ANA the closer we became as friends and brothers in arms. The more tolerance I had for Muslims, the more I hated and wanted to kill the people who had perverted their religion for their own political gain.
I have to admit that if I was meant to be engaged in multiple direct combat actions I could not have planned it better. Here I was, just a National Guard NCO, working with Afghan Mujahedeen fighters and our own SF. I was living large. The biggest irritation I had with my first and last tours was the sense that we constantly hid from the enemy or ran away from them. I acknowledge the missions were different, yet being with these two groups together was more than I could have hoped for. It is not that I thirst for violence and death, but my attitude had always been that of an infantry soldier; my mission is to kill the enemy, not run and hide. I could not understand and didn’t have much patience for those military personnel who came to a war zone acting as nothing more than a tourist collecting hazardous duty pay while having their picture taken on camels they will never actually ride. The focus of these groups was to go out to “pick a fight” to paraphrase William Wallace’s character in Brave Heart (Gibson, 1995). The sole purpose of every mission was to find and kill the enemy regardless of where that took us or what hardships we may endure.
There were certain complications involved since our three groups had three different CoCs and therefore different parameters of what we could and could not do. One such example was the directives we were under in regards to the Pakistan bor
der. The SF could go anywhere they needed to—even cross it, the ANA could not cross the border and my small group was not allowed within five kilometers (K) of the border. The restriction alone on my group should tell you everything you need to know about our CoC.
During one such mission I was with a team of SF and a platoon of ANA. Our mission was to follow a trail up the mountain range near the Pakistan border in search of a point where the Taliban would cross with weapons and explosives. After an entire day of climbing over a mountain range I double checked my GPS with my map, believing we had indeed crossed over the Pakistan border. I quietly approached the SF leader with my revelation that I thought we were “off the map.” He asked, “Who can really say for certain where the border is?” Before I could respond, he stated that the mission dictated that we cross over. The enemy counts on us to not cross the border so they store their weapons over the other side prior to an attack. If we do not go and get them they will attack us with impunity much the way the Viet Cong used the Ho Chi Minh trail during the Viet Nam war. He assured me that I would not get into trouble with our CoC, if questioned my response was simply an honest one, I cannot say for a fact that I was ever inside of Pakistan. A few months later I was called to report to two officers that I did not know and when that one question was asked I replied honestly, “I cannot say for a fact that we were ever in Pakistan.” Adding innocently, “I’m National Guard, what do I know!” This may not seem like a big deal to some, but it speaks volumes about those who were concerned with paperwork and regulations and the war fighters I was with who were concerned about winning the war by killing the enemy.
Purple Hearts & Wounded Spirits Page 8