The Taliban Don't Wave (18 page)

After our close call with the American chopper, the ANA, under Shafiq Ullah's leadership, decided to take another admin day. The Canadians took advantage of the opportunity to clean our weapons, change all of our batteries, and dry out our kit. There were a couple of washing machines on the base, something I'd never had before, so we'd combine our clothes, seriously overstuff the poor machines, and then hang our kit up to dry, but always with a guard posted nearby, lest our clothes magically grew legs and walked away. I'd been told that Afghanistan was a place of strange voodoo magic, so we took no chances.

That morning, I invited the ANA leadership over for
chai
, coffee, and fruit after lunch; we hadn't had them over yet, nor vice versa. Stephens said he had supper almost every night with his Afghans, so maybe I wasn't doing something right, 'cause so far, no invites.

I asked the cooks to put together a hospitality plate of cheese and fruit, and they didn't let me down. They provided a huge platter topped up with some great finger food, and not surprisingly, the Afghans were on time, for once. We offered them tea and pop and they were immediately smitten with the kiwi fruit, having never before seen any. We sat down on the comfy couch and all of the westerners remembered to only reach in and take food with their right hand. In Afghanistan, the left hand is considered unclean.

I asked them how they felt the patrols were going and they quickly responded, “Great, no problems.” I asked them if we could start training their troops in modern techniques and SOPs, after they had a chance to approve our training syllabus, of course. After Ali translated, they looked at me like I'd slapped their moms' faces, right in front of them!

“Captain Shafiq Ullah says that is kind of you to offer, but it will not be necessary. They already know everything,” Ali translated.

Longview began to violently choke on his drink. I couldn't help myself and blurted out, “They already know
everything
?” An awkward silence ensued.
Well then, I guess our job's done and we can go home!

After that, there wasn't a whole lot left to talk about. We discussed some minor things, and then thanked them for coming over. They thanked us for having them, we all shook hands, and they quietly left.

We waited until they were out of earshot before we snickered at their “expertise.”

“We can stand down, boys,” I said. “Our job's done! We've mentored them to a level where they know everything, and we can finally go home!” Fourneau got up from the table and went to the porta-potty, so I had a window to speak quickly to Hetsa and Longview about something that had been bothering me.

I put on my serious officer face and said, “Guys, from now on, please open your mail only in your bed space where no one can see you, okay?”

Hetsa looked indignant. “Why's that, sir?”

“Because, Hungo, the other day you got a three-by-three-foot box with enough kit—including a new Xbox, video games, and magazines—to open your own Mac's store in the village centre. The warrant's getting mail almost daily from his harem from all over the world, and I'm getting care packages from home too. But guess who
isn't
? When I collect the mail after the morning BUB, I can't help but notice the only mail Fourneau's getting is from the bank back home. He's getting bank slips for his mail. Can you possibly begin to imagine how much that would suck, if that was the only mail you were getting, in a place like this? So don't ask me
why
, okay? Just do it.”

They both nodded in agreement and I went back to my computer before Fourneau could walk in and interrupt our witch's coven. I felt really bad for the guy, he was having a rough go, and I wanted to help him out where I could.
But will it be enough?

Chapter 9

No matter what the ANA leadership said, somehow we doubted their claim to omniscience. We were proven right the next day when, as if on universal cue, the ANA promptly burned their kitchen to the ground.

After we'd taken another day off, again for admin issues, I was working on the computer when someone began beating down our front door. It didn't help that it was already literally swinging on its hinges. I guess the Afghan repairman hadn't been around since, well, since ever. I walked over to the door and opened it to find Ali and the ANA artillery commander, a guy Stephens had berated for wanting parachute flares from the OMLT a few weeks ago.

“Good morning, sir. Can we talk to you about something, for only a minute?” Ali asked, in his usual overly polite English. It didn't matter how many times I told him to stop calling me sir, he couldn't drop the habit.

“Of course, Ali, you can always talk to me. Would you like to come in?”

“No, sir. There is something happening and we need to tell you about it.”

“Okay, what's going on?” This should be good.

“Fair, sir,” was all he said, and then looked at me as though I would know what the hell he was talking about.

“Fair, Ali? I don't understand. What do you mean, fair?”

“You know, sir. Fair . . . fair!” He began to look nervous, fearing I wasn't getting his point.

“No Ali, I don't know.” I was becoming tired after the last couple of weeks, and my temper was beginning to fray a bit. “Fair? As in, ‘Fare thee well?' Is the Rankin Family here? Is there a fair in town? I don't know what you mean Ali, but I'm pretty sure you don't mean ‘fair.'” This wasn't like Ali. His English was usually very good and he didn't normally make mistakes like that. Unless it wasn't a mistake, and the Rankin Family really was at the base, about to perform. Usually you'd hear about those sorts of things, but not always.

Ali looked over his shoulder and started speaking in rapid-fire Dari to the artillery commander. After a heated exchange back and forth for a good minute, Ali tried again to get his point across.

“You know, sir. Fire.” Ali looked pleased with himself for finding the right word.

“Fire?” I shouted. “Something's on fire?”

“Yes, sir,” Ali proudly stated. “The ANA kitchen is on fire.”

“The ANA's kitchen is on fire?”

“Yes, that is right, sir. Their kitchen is on fire and soon the whole building will be on fire, and probably the other buildings too.” Ali looked over his shoulder to let the agitated commander know that the point had gotten through my thick skull and help would be on its way, hopefully sharpish if the look on his face was anything to go by.

“Okay, thanks Ali. I'll call the command post and ask them to send the fire brigade.”

“Very good, sir. Thank you. I am sorry, sir, that I did not say the word correctly.” Ali didn't seem overly bothered that their kitchen was on fire, but more troubled by his poor interpretation skills.

“Don't worry, Ali,” I said. “That was my fault. I'm very tired.” I shooed him out the door. “I'll get help, okay?” With their mission complete, the two of them calmly walked off.

I was a firm believer in the old army saying “trust, but verify,” and that was never more true than when you worked with the ANA. So I poked my head out the door and looked in the direction of the kitchen. Their storeroom was blocking my view, but I could easily make out a huge plume of grey-black smoke quickly rising into the air, where their kitchen should be. Holy crap! This was serious! The Afghans left live ammunition and grenades all over the place; we'd been trying to mentor them out of the habit, but weren't having much luck. Leaving grenades and RPG rockets right next to a large, open firepit in their kitchen wouldn't bother them in the least. Do we even have firefighters at Sperwhan Ghar?

I picked up the field phone that was connected to the command post. The CP was manned twenty-four/seven, maybe not necessarily by Mike Company's best and brightest, but the guy in charge at least was always switched-on. The phone was picked up and a corporal identified himself.

“Hi there,” I said, in my non-panicky voice. “This is Captain Semrau with the OMLT. I guess the Afghans' kitchen is on fire. Is there anyone on the base who acts as firefighters?” There was a long pause on the other end.

“Sir, I don't know if you're being serious or not,” the corporal quietly said.

“Hells yeah, I'm serious! I'm not joking around! Seriously, their kitchen building really is on fire. Can you guys muster some people to come and fight it?”

“Yes, sir, we've got people tasked for that. I'll mobilize them and get them there ASAP.”

I hung up and ran over to the kitchen. Smoke and flames were billowing out of it as the warrant and Ali were desperately trying to stop the ANA soldiers from running back into the burning building to save their kit. We found out afterwards that they would've been held fiscally responsible for any lost or damaged kit, fire notwithstanding, so they didn't want their children's children to have to join the army to pay off their debt. They were literally running back into a burning building, smoke was everywhere, and it looked like the fire was going to spread to the other buildings because they were only a few feet away.

Suddenly our army cooks (who apparently were also moonlighting as professional firefighters) arrived, dragging long fire hoses with them. When I told them about the possibility of rounds going off from the fire, they never wavered for a moment; instead they gave the signal to a guy back at the water bladders and began fighting the fire with everything they had. They were nothing short of heroic in their efforts, and after a good thirty minutes they had the fire in check. But unfortunately, all of them had suffered smoke inhalation. For their bravery and dedication to saving the buildings (and making sure we didn't get blown up when the Afghan explosives went off), I believed they all should have been “gonged” for gallantry, but I don't know if any of them were officially recognized.

Longview and I joked afterwards, saying “Canadian army cooks: not only do they make an amazing chicken curry, but they can fight fires, professionally!” They had what the old cowboys in western movies called “sand.” No doubt about it, and their bravery was unquestioned by the ANA and OMLT.

An hour later an American Humvee jeep, painted in many different shades of desert camouflage (as was the Afghan custom), pulled up and a very large, blustery Afghan general and his party of hangers-on disgorged themselves. The general had turned up to see the damage first-hand, and in all probability, demand an answer from Shafiq Ullah as to why he hadn't sacrificed every soldier he had to save the ANA's Vietnam-era radios and crockery.

Game face, Rob, game face!
It was go time. I quickly strode over, putting on my field cap. Even though people had laughed at me for carrying it around with me, I had known, in my heart of hearts, that someday the Afghans would undoubtedly set their own kitchen on fire and I'd have to personally intervene to try and save my fellow captain.

I wish I could say my motives stemmed from a sense of compassion, but I felt it was better to try and save the devil I knew in Shafiq Ullah. I'd hoped I could keep him around, instead of getting some complete wing nut as his replacement, who might get us all killed. Shafiq Ullah wasn't going to single-handedly defeat the Taliban, but he also wasn't going to light the fuse that blew up the world.

I grabbed Ali and confidently strode over to the general and jumped in front of him. He came to a stop so suddenly he almost plowed me over. I snapped out my sharpest salute and said, “Sir, my name is Captain Rob. I am the mentor for the Afghans here. I want to tell you, sir, that I was amazed by the personal bravery of every Afghan soldier here. They kept running back into the building, even though it was on fire. One soldier was even on fire. They wouldn't have stopped, sir, they would have died to save their equipment, but when the firefighters got here they ordered everyone to stop running inside so that they could put out the fire. I was very proud of them. You should be very proud of them, sir. I am honoured to fight alongside them! Thank you, sir.” And with that, I saluted sharply once more.

At the beginning of my spiel I could tell he wasn't impressed that I cut him off mid-stride, but as my words were being translated, a smile began to form around the corners of his mouth. Then he started beaming with pride. I think I pulled it off! He spoke to Ali in dignified tones and then saluted me back. He clapped me on the shoulder like a father, and went up to Captain Shafiq Ullah. Ali told me the general said, “Thank you for your kind words. I am glad they were brave.”

The two Afghans saluted each other, and then Shafiq Ullah called his men to attention. The general walked to the front of the men and started pacing back and forth. Ali began translating for me. The general was berating them for starting the fire, but then he said he was proud of their bravery. He explained that the Canadian mentor told him they were ordered to stop their kit retrieval, and therefore it wasn't their fault they had lost some of their equipment. The soldiers all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The general thanked them once again, Shafiq Ullah returned to the front officer position and saluted, and the general turned to leave. As he passed in front of me, I saluted, and he smartly returned the salute. Shafiq Ullah dismissed his men and rapidly walked over to me.

“I will never forget what you have done. Thank you, Captain Rob, for speaking to the general on our behalf.” He seemed genuinely moved. I guess it'd been a long time since someone had helped him instead of blading him.

“We share the same dangers,” I laughed, “whether it's on the battlefield, or when generals come to visit.” I smiled, hoping he'd get the joke.

“Yes, it is more dangerous for us when generals come to visit, is it not?”

We both laughed at that. I'd seen how our visiting Canadian generals could put some soldiers in a real panic, so I knew how he felt. Although I'd never actually set my own kitchen on fire . . . yet.

Shafiq Ullah continued, “I will have my sergeant major fill out the Mod 14 form and give it to you as soon as he is done.”

“Thank you. I will send mine up the chain of command the same time as you. I'm sure you will have the missing equipment you need by tomorrow.” The second I'd said that, I wished I hadn't. I immediately felt terrible, like I'd kicked the captain when he was down. It was widely acknowledged that their Mod 14 system of kit replacement was completely useless, but he didn't need me to rub it in.

I became serious again and said, “Hopefully when we send the forms up our respective chains of command, we'll find out where the order gets stuck and we can get it fixed.
Inshallah
.”

“
Inshallah
,” he repeated. “ And thank you once again.”

“Sabah al-khair,” I said, trying to pronounce “good morning” properly.

“Sabah al-khair.” He placed his hand over his heart and turned to leave.

Ali and I walked off toward my building. “Thanks for the good translating today, Ali. You did a very good job, as per.”

“Thank you, sir. I will see you tomorrow.”

“
Inshallah
.”

Ali laughed, “Of course, sir.
Inshallah
.”

About a week later, the ANA stood in a group, anxious to see the kit and crockery that the general was sending to them as replacements for the things they had lost in the Great Afghan Kitchen Fire of Oh-eight. They were shocked to find even older radios, which were completely dysfunctional, along with rusted ammunition, Chinese grenades with no fuses, and for the crème de la crème, several children's playtime tea sets, replete with miniature plates, knives, and forks. They were livid, as any man with an ounce of pride would've been. I didn't know what to say.

It was like a sick practical joke. The ANA told me that their logisticians had taken the money meant for cutlery and plates, pocketed it, and went out and bought kids' tea sets instead. I guess they thought the troops in the field wouldn't notice they'd pulled the ol' switcheroo on 'em!

I immediately radioed my chain of command to let them know what had just happened, but Captain Mike, our OMLT logistics officer, who would normally have tried to sort out the problem, was in the doghouse himself. He had spent the better part of the last three days trying to explain to the interpreter he had insulted, and the ANA, and his boss, Major Hobbles, that he was only joking when he said sangai (hello) to an interpreter in Pashto and then thoughtlessly added “motherfucker” in English.

Everyone from North America knew that Mike wasn't actually accusing the terp of having intimate, carnal knowledge of his own mother, but of course, the Afghans weren't from North America. An unholy brouhaha of shouting ensued, entirely one way, and death threats quickly followed. For the time being, Mike was persona non grata. So my Afghans, due to the ridiculous insensitivity and corruption of their own logistics system, would just have to play tea for the next few weeks, until we could go on an operation and confiscate some crockery from the Taliban. Which is, of course, exactly what we did.