Read Online Into the Fire: A Firsthand Account of the Most Extraordinary Battle in the Afghan War by Bing West, Dakota Meyer - Free Book Online
Authors: Bing West, Dakota Meyer
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riding shotgun on our daily patrols to hold “key leader engagements.” Lt. Rhula appeared to want to do the right things, and his first sergeant was tough and demanding. But they couldn’t impose their wills on the entire company. The Askars had a high sense of individual self-worth and tolerated each other like an unruly class of tough eighth-graders. When an Afghan soldier went home without permission—what I would call deserting the unit—the others weren’t upset. We were advising an army with no established standards of group behavior.
Sometimes we advisors felt more like parole officers. Some Askars tried, and others clung to old habits, like—what can we steal today? A standard scam was to siphon fuel from their own generator and their own trucks to sell in the local markets. So we parked the Afghan Humvees on the U.S. side of the motor pool and let their generators run out of fuel. After two days of no lights, no air conditioning, no hot water, and no rides to the market, they got the message and behaved themselves—for a while.
They grew hash wherever they could. When a stoned Askar stumbled or staggered on patrol, the others would smile tolerantly. “Hash cigarettes are like dushman RPGs,” Johnson warned. “If you’re high, you can’t shoot back and the RPGs will kill you.” When Lt. Johnson burned the plants growing on base, the Askars retaliated by making a hash run into the market and, stoned silly, crashed two Humvees on their way back.
What bugged me most was the negligent discharge of guns. They would play with their new guns at night until one went off. I’d hear the crack of it, then nervous laughter. I’d storm through the camp until I smelled the cordite hanging in the air. Then I’d grab the offender and bang on the door of Lt. Rhula’s hooch. He would take it from there.
In the hills along the Pakistani border, no Afghan, military or civilian, had much of anything. I think practically every American soldier or Marine tried to help in some way. We purchased candy and trinkets in the markets to give to the kids. I soon had two little buddies, boys about ten or eleven. They’d hang around the main gate, yelling “Meyeda! Meyeda!” (Meyer!) when they saw me. At first, I’d buy them Cokes, and then I started sharing my care packages from home—soap, candy, peanuts, gum. Maybe a decade from now, some kids would remember that some Americans were kind to them, even when their older brothers were shooting at them. Maybe not. You don’t help out because you expect something in return.
If people like you, generally you like them. I enjoyed hanging out with the Askars. They laughed a lot at little, and once you were firm about not being Santa Claus, most stopped asking you for stuff. I ate dinner every night with them—rice, cachaloo potatoes, and gravy. Of about a hundred Askars, I memorized the names of the twenty orso who tried the hardest. I was especially close with five who were as dedicated to their job as I was. We’d sit outside in the evenings with our food and, with Hafez’s help, talk for hours. They refused to believe that my dad worked three hundred acres in his spare time, after he got home from work. How many days a week, they asked, did I rent a tractor? They were convinced I was a millionaire when I told them we had two tractors.
They thought it was a great joke when I told them my government paid farmers not to raise tobacco. Making money by not working was beyond their comprehension. When we sketched out in the dirt the comparative size of our farms, they decided that, yes, I was the richest man they had ever met. They were absolutely dumbfounded why a man so wealthy would come to Afghanistan to fight bandits.
I asked if it was true that they shared their houses with their cows. Certainly not, they said; cows were kept in a separate section of the house, not in the living quarters.
Sex with women intrigued them. I won’t get into what they asked about, but
Sometimes we advisors felt more like parole officers. Some Askars tried, and others clung to old habits, like—what can we steal today? A standard scam was to siphon fuel from their own generator and their own trucks to sell in the local markets. So we parked the Afghan Humvees on the U.S. side of the motor pool and let their generators run out of fuel. After two days of no lights, no air conditioning, no hot water, and no rides to the market, they got the message and behaved themselves—for a while.
They grew hash wherever they could. When a stoned Askar stumbled or staggered on patrol, the others would smile tolerantly. “Hash cigarettes are like dushman RPGs,” Johnson warned. “If you’re high, you can’t shoot back and the RPGs will kill you.” When Lt. Johnson burned the plants growing on base, the Askars retaliated by making a hash run into the market and, stoned silly, crashed two Humvees on their way back.
What bugged me most was the negligent discharge of guns. They would play with their new guns at night until one went off. I’d hear the crack of it, then nervous laughter. I’d storm through the camp until I smelled the cordite hanging in the air. Then I’d grab the offender and bang on the door of Lt. Rhula’s hooch. He would take it from there.
In the hills along the Pakistani border, no Afghan, military or civilian, had much of anything. I think practically every American soldier or Marine tried to help in some way. We purchased candy and trinkets in the markets to give to the kids. I soon had two little buddies, boys about ten or eleven. They’d hang around the main gate, yelling “Meyeda! Meyeda!” (Meyer!) when they saw me. At first, I’d buy them Cokes, and then I started sharing my care packages from home—soap, candy, peanuts, gum. Maybe a decade from now, some kids would remember that some Americans were kind to them, even when their older brothers were shooting at them. Maybe not. You don’t help out because you expect something in return.
If people like you, generally you like them. I enjoyed hanging out with the Askars. They laughed a lot at little, and once you were firm about not being Santa Claus, most stopped asking you for stuff. I ate dinner every night with them—rice, cachaloo potatoes, and gravy. Of about a hundred Askars, I memorized the names of the twenty orso who tried the hardest. I was especially close with five who were as dedicated to their job as I was. We’d sit outside in the evenings with our food and, with Hafez’s help, talk for hours. They refused to believe that my dad worked three hundred acres in his spare time, after he got home from work. How many days a week, they asked, did I rent a tractor? They were convinced I was a millionaire when I told them we had two tractors.
They thought it was a great joke when I told them my government paid farmers not to raise tobacco. Making money by not working was beyond their comprehension. When we sketched out in the dirt the comparative size of our farms, they decided that, yes, I was the richest man they had ever met. They were absolutely dumbfounded why a man so wealthy would come to Afghanistan to fight bandits.
I asked if it was true that they shared their houses with their cows. Certainly not, they said; cows were kept in a separate section of the house, not in the living quarters.
Sex with women intrigued them. I won’t get into what they asked about, but
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