NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (10 page)

A couple of days after Shaq arrived, we were sitting around drinking and talking college ball when Shaq asked me, “How’s Toby going to do this year with your Cats?”

I did a double take on him. “What? Who?” Did I hear that right? A brother just called Tubby Smith “Toby?” Shaq started laughing and said, “That idiot is ruining Kentucky. Pitino had them on top of the world. Toby can’t recruit. AT KENTUCKY? How the hell can a coach not recruit AT KENTUCKY?” I knew right then and there that Shaq and I were going to be great friends. I couldn’t stand Tubby.

Bombs, Bullets, Insurgents

Summer–Early Fall 2006

Camp Phoenix didn’t get hit often. J-bad Road was hit two or three times a month. Usually, it was the French getting hit. They departed Camp Warehouse everyday at 0900hrs to head out to Darulaman. The insurgents watched them for a couple of weeks, noted their pattern of behavior, and planted their IEDs. Every couple of weeks—BOOM!

ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! Everyone on Phoenix ran to the bunkers. An hour or so later, “ALL CLEAR” would come across the loud speaker, and we’d all go back to business as usual. Everyone on Phoenix ran to the bunker nearest to their location at the time of the attack unless they were in a building that was classified as a hardened structure, meaning that it could withstand a rocket or mortar.

Occasionally, there was a direct attack on Phoenix. It was nearly always a suicide bomber at the gate. On one such occasion, a Task Force first sergeant was inspecting his troops on the gate. The suicide bomber rammed the gate and flew off in pieces to meet his seventy-two virgins. The only casualty was the first sergeant. I remember that day not only because we lost a good man but because the bomb was so powerful that it blew out glass in some of the buildings and rocked the whole camp. I was visiting a friend in a two-storey building near the front of Phoenix. We were sitting there chatting when suddenly all of the air left the room. The building rocked. It felt like some giant child had picked the building up and threw it back to ground in some cosmic temper tantrum. That building was considered a hardened structure, so we stayed put. I learned later that day about the first sergeant. I’d spoken to him a few times around camp. He was a nice guy.

A couple of months later, I was sitting in my office going over some documents when suddenly a burst of noise starting ricocheting all around.

POP!

PING!

POP!

PING!

POP!

PING! PING! PING!

I stopped what I was doing and looked up. “Is that small arms fire?”

Shaq walked over to me, “I don’t know. Sounds like it, though.”

“Who the hell would be shooting into Phoenix? Who has the balls to sit and snipe at us? From where? There’s no place high enough to shoot at us over the walls.”

I walked outside. The base mayor, Lieutenant Colonel Mauer, was standing out there peering in the direction from which the firing was coming. I walked over to him and asked, “What the hell is going on? Is someone shooting at us?” I couldn’t believe it. Rockets, I could understand. Mortars, IEDs. Sure. You can pop and run. Some insurgent sitting on a building a few hundred feet outside of Phoenix firing small arms our way. It wasn’t plausible. It was coming from the west of us in the little village across the way. Phoenix had immediately sent a patrol out.

I stood out there with Lieutenant Colonel Mauer checking the situation. Oblivious to the danger. I just didn’t think about it. So far out was the thought of someone shooting at us in that manner that I didn’t think to grab my body armor or helmet. I looked at the lieutenant colonel in his full battle rattle. “Well, hell. I’d better get inside before I get shot.” He winked at me, “Dave, that might not be a bad idea.” I stood there for a second longer and another round ricocheted off a nearby building. “That’s my cue. I’ll be in the office, if ya need me.”

That was a weird day. Strange that someone would randomly fire small arms into the camp. It wasn’t steady fire and from the sound, it wasn’t a heavy caliber weapon. It was a POP then a PING as the bullet hit somewhere in Legoland. A few seconds later, POP then PING. It couldn’t have lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes. Sometimes I think I dreamt the whole episode. I never felt like I’d get hit. It was just curious to have someone shooting what was probably a .22 caliber weapon at us.

From what I heard, they never found the culprit. He melted into the scenery. The Phoenix patrol probably walked right by the dude after he abandoned his pea shooter.

* * *

At the end of the fiscal year 2006, our contract was re-bid. Mantech lost. Dimensions International won the contract. The whole Mantech team started preparing to leave Afghanistan or head to other contracts. I’d heard bad things about Dimensions. They were late paying their people. They didn’t pay as much. There was no benefits package. Dimensions had the property accountability contract in Iraq. Anytime I had to deal with them, there were problems. Documents took days to be processed or weren’t processed at all. There were rumors that they had been investigated for accountability losses. There was too much smoke for there to be no fire.

We had a month before contract ended. Everyone stayed until the end to collect those last few paychecks. The contract paid well. As a team chief, I was pulling in nearly 16,000 U.S. dollars per month.

At the end of the month, Shaq and I drove the SUV down to Bagram. Shaq headed for home. I had decided to take a job in Kuwait. I didn’t last a month before I got tired of it. I took a few months off and traveled Asia. I climbed the Great Wall, kayaked on the Mekong in Laos, and explored Angkor Wat in Cambodia. I was back home in Kentucky in time for Christmas. I wondered if I’d return.

Chai or Afghan Tea ~ Dealing with the Afghans involves thousands of cups of Chai. It takes about three weeks of chatting about the family and life and drinking cups of chai before one can get down to business with the Afghans. Building rapport is key to success in Afghanistan. Relationships are important. The guy who doesn’t take time to drink a bit of tea gets nothing done with the Afghans.

The winter of 2007 had record snowfall resulting in deaths by the hundreds in Herat Province. Afghans froze to death for want of a blanket or wood for a fire.

The old entrance to the Herat Province Police Headquarters. It was converted from an 18th Century Cavalry barracks.

Ohe of my first class graduation photos. We gave these photos to each member of the class. In many cases, these were the only photographs that they owned.

The ancient meets the modern. Many Afghans still use animal power to go about their daily lives. Horse, cow and mule power are ubiquitous in the Stan. The mules were brought to Afghanistan by the CIA during the Soviet-Afghan War of the 80s.

Detritus of War ~ Old Soviet War Machinery is spread throughout the Afghan countryside. The Chinese recently bought all of it for scrap metal. It will take years to consolidate all of this “junk.”

Horse riders in Kabul. These fellows swooped by me as I was touring Kabul in February of 2010.