of a target pop up, Chris’s laser would be on it and it would be down. Afterwards the sergeant-major, who was acting as safety staff, said “Corporal Nead, excellent job like always.” He then looked at me and said condescendingly, “Flavelle, stick to the radios.” It was advice I tried to take as often as possible. Six months later, as we walked out into Panjway, I took my every cue from Chris. More than anyone, he was the person I tried to emulate.
We turn off the main road, which is covered in gravel, and onto a hard-packed mud road leading west. We are getting farther and farther away from safety with each step. We enter the first village that we have to pass through; it has four different names depending on who you ask. This was a problem that we encountered in almost every village we entered; this part of Panjway is like an endless village, and locals identify with different geographical landmarks depending on where they live. So two locals living at opposite ends of the “block” might associate with a different tribe or mosque and call their village a different name. Although they all reside in the same group of buildings, no one seems to be able to agree on a name. The village is a conglomeration of mud huts and sea containers; it is entirely unremarkable.
The first time I passed through it, there had been a bustling market selling rotten bananas, random car parts, and cigarettes for two bucks a carton, and that was the white-guy price (Pine Lights, made in Afghanistan; you get what you pay for). It was a Friday, the Muslim holy day, and the mosques had unleashed a torrent ofpeople. I was surprised at how friendly and welcoming the villagers were. The kids crowded around, and the men seemed intensely interested in asking questions. Our terp (interpreter) was soon overrun with requests to engage in conversation, and one little boy even felt my rifle and looked through the sight. It was a very positive experience.
Two months later, in a village about four kilometres away, a child who was about 12 was used as a suicide bomber against our company. The man who remotely detonated the suicide vest exploited the fact that we didn’t, at that time, search children. Looking back on the amorphous mass of people that had crowded around us that day gives me shivers. We were in far more danger than I understood at the time.
The interesting thing about Afghanistan is that the Taliban follow a fairly strict fighting schedule. During the harvest (when we arrived in February), they were content to watch us and smoke the newly harvested hash. By the time I got back from leave, the game had changed. I miss those simpler times when I felt I could trust Afghans. We have an expression that is supposed to govern our interactions with the locals: “Be polite, be courteous, be prepared to kill everyone that you see.” When I arrived I thought this expression callous; old men detonating 12-year-old boys from across a field have a way of changing your perspective.
We are walking through a ghost town. There is no curfew in effect, but the average Afghan has come to realize that it’s safer to stay behind closed doors at night. We hear the nocturnal activities of villagers, lighting fires and talking in hushed tones. The streets are deserted. We follow a wadi through the village. Wadis are irrigation ditches, and they vary greatly in width and depth; they are ubiquitous throughout the “green belt” of Panjway, siphoning water awayfrom the Arghandab River. We stop, and I notice Chris covering a door to a compound. It is a large, metal, two-sided door, and he stands to the side, facing it with his weapon pointed toward the ground. He is ready to aim and fire at any threat that might come through the door. We walk a few more metres and stop again. Now I’m standing right beside the door and I realize that it is my responsibility to cover it. I stand at the edge of the door, and turn my body toward it, planting both feet firmly
We turn off the main road, which is covered in gravel, and onto a hard-packed mud road leading west. We are getting farther and farther away from safety with each step. We enter the first village that we have to pass through; it has four different names depending on who you ask. This was a problem that we encountered in almost every village we entered; this part of Panjway is like an endless village, and locals identify with different geographical landmarks depending on where they live. So two locals living at opposite ends of the “block” might associate with a different tribe or mosque and call their village a different name. Although they all reside in the same group of buildings, no one seems to be able to agree on a name. The village is a conglomeration of mud huts and sea containers; it is entirely unremarkable.
The first time I passed through it, there had been a bustling market selling rotten bananas, random car parts, and cigarettes for two bucks a carton, and that was the white-guy price (Pine Lights, made in Afghanistan; you get what you pay for). It was a Friday, the Muslim holy day, and the mosques had unleashed a torrent ofpeople. I was surprised at how friendly and welcoming the villagers were. The kids crowded around, and the men seemed intensely interested in asking questions. Our terp (interpreter) was soon overrun with requests to engage in conversation, and one little boy even felt my rifle and looked through the sight. It was a very positive experience.
Two months later, in a village about four kilometres away, a child who was about 12 was used as a suicide bomber against our company. The man who remotely detonated the suicide vest exploited the fact that we didn’t, at that time, search children. Looking back on the amorphous mass of people that had crowded around us that day gives me shivers. We were in far more danger than I understood at the time.
The interesting thing about Afghanistan is that the Taliban follow a fairly strict fighting schedule. During the harvest (when we arrived in February), they were content to watch us and smoke the newly harvested hash. By the time I got back from leave, the game had changed. I miss those simpler times when I felt I could trust Afghans. We have an expression that is supposed to govern our interactions with the locals: “Be polite, be courteous, be prepared to kill everyone that you see.” When I arrived I thought this expression callous; old men detonating 12-year-old boys from across a field have a way of changing your perspective.
We are walking through a ghost town. There is no curfew in effect, but the average Afghan has come to realize that it’s safer to stay behind closed doors at night. We hear the nocturnal activities of villagers, lighting fires and talking in hushed tones. The streets are deserted. We follow a wadi through the village. Wadis are irrigation ditches, and they vary greatly in width and depth; they are ubiquitous throughout the “green belt” of Panjway, siphoning water awayfrom the Arghandab River. We stop, and I notice Chris covering a door to a compound. It is a large, metal, two-sided door, and he stands to the side, facing it with his weapon pointed toward the ground. He is ready to aim and fire at any threat that might come through the door. We walk a few more metres and stop again. Now I’m standing right beside the door and I realize that it is my responsibility to cover it. I stand at the edge of the door, and turn my body toward it, planting both feet firmly
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