“Your Afghan soldiers’ barracks is on fire.”
I
had just sat down with my breakfast in our small dining area at
Firebase Cobra in northern Uruzgan province, as the captain of the ODA
team from 3rd Special Forces Group casually walked up to me. I stopped
mid-chew, my fork hanging in the air, partway between my mouth and my
plate. Admittedly, it took me a moment to process what he has just said,
especially given the relaxed nature of his demeanor and the comical
look on his face.
“What?” I asked him.
“Of course it is,” I thought. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He stood there, clearly still amused, and probably enjoying the hell out of the moment.
“Roger,
Sir. Thanks!” I jumped up, dumped my nearly full plate of breakfast
into the trash on the way out the door, and ran across the staging area
for our side of the firebase, through the large metal gate that
separated our side of the base from the Afghan side. As I made it to the
gate and rounded the corner, I saw the smoke. Sure enough, just like
the captain had said, the small barracks, made of cinderblock and
plywood, belonging to the Afghan National Army (ANA) was, actually, on
freaking fire. Up to that moment, I half expected that he was just
messing with me.
Throwing Rocks at a Fire, Will Not Help Extinguish It
Right
after I saw the smoke and flames starting to billow out of the
barracks, I saw three of my ANA men standing outside the entrance of
their barracks. They were picking up rocks from the ground and throwing
them into the barracks’ doorway in an attempt to put out the fire.
I
promise I am not making this up. Not only was I surprised to learn that
their barracks was on fire, but I was probably more surprised to see
them throwing rocks to extinguish it.
As
I got up to the doorway and told them to stop, I went partway inside
the door to make sure the other soldiers were being evacuated. I could
only see a few of them standing outside, so I knew that many more must
still have been in there. I was also trying to get a quick look as to
how bad the fire was.
As I peeked inside, I could see that the
blankets on the floor and the walls were on fire. The plywood walls were
also beginning to catch.
Just then, most of the ANA soldiers
started running through the hall past the fire, and out the door.
Fortunately, a couple of them had more presence of mind than their
genius rock-throwing buddies and helped the rest of them get out. A
couple of minor burns were the only injuries.
It turns out, they
were having their morning tea and one of the Afghans kicked over the
open flame propane burner that was being used to boil the water. It
quickly ignited the blankets on the floor. Rather than simply and easily
picking up the burner by the tank, and start smothering the flames with
their other blankets or the water, they just left it there on the
floor, burning and igniting more blankets. Their great idea was to run
out and start throwing rocks. Not pick up the burner, nor try to put the
fire out, nor tell their buddies, nor ask for help. Nada. Rocks.
Only in Afghanistan.
Read Next: 'Murphy's Law': Friendly fire isn't
Blankets and Dry Plywood Burn Very Quickly in the Desert
By
that point, the fire had been burning for a few minutes. A couple of
the more squared away Afghan soldiers realized they had all run out
without their belongings and equipment. I was able to see that the fire
was spreading quickly, and since it had started in the room right by the
front door, there would be no safe way in or out. Just as they tried to
run inside and retrieve their equipment and belongings I stepped in.
“Leave it. We will replace them,” I said through my interpreter, as I was physically pushing them back by their chests.
It
was right about then that the ammo started cooking off. Rifle and
belted machine gun ammo started going off like firecrackers, and not too
long after, the grenades and RPG rounds. We moved back behind the wall
to the compound just waiting and watching. While they were all concerned
that they all just lost their gear, clothing, and the few dollars and
possessions they had in life, there was nothing else to do but watch. We
couldn’t get close enough to try and extinguish the fire with water,
either.
Long story made short, they lost everything. Once the
fire burned out and we waited several hours for all the ammo to cook
off, we sprayed water over everything for good measure and started
surveying the damage. Within a day, we replaced all their uniforms,
weapons, ammo, and gear, and furnished them with a bit of extra cash.
Fortunately, no one was hurt.
We found every single rifle,
pistol, machine gun, and RPG launcher. Each once was burned, charred,
and partially melted. There was no salvaging any of them. We accounted
for everyone, loaded them onto a pallet, and into a helicopter bound for
Kandahar. Remember this point, because it’s important: we accounted for
everyone, and we, the Americans, loaded them into the helicopter.
Four Months Later…
I
had been rotated to another firebase, and then down to Kandahar
Airbase. The Afghan Infantry Company, whose barracks had burned down
four months ago, had also been rotated back to Kandahar Airbase.
One
day as I was taking care of some business on the Afghan base just
outside the airbase, I ran across the company quite by accident. I had
not expected to see them there, and I did not know they had been rotated
back. After a quick greeting, one of the interpreters asked to speak to
me.
After the event with the fire and through combat missions
and patrols, this Afghan company had come to trust us quite a bit. More
than their other advisors, even.
They had been new on our
firebase when they set fire to their barracks, and there was tension
between us. The first several days they had tested the water with me and
my counterparts and had tried to see how far they could push us. They
had bad bad experiences with other advisors and Embedded Tactical
Trainers (ETT) in the past, and often felt neglected, abused, or simply
not cared about.
This fire became a fortuitous event. I had
gained their trust and they knew I had their backs since I did not let
them — or make them — run into the fire to retrieve their weapons, and
we had replaced everything very quickly. We also did not blame nor
punish them. It was a stupid, silly accident. And on the bright side,
they got new stuff. Win, win, win.
So now, a few of them, along
with the interpreter, pulled me aside, and in hushed voices, asked for
my help. They knew that I would help them.
Be Corrupt or Get Your Hands Chopped Off
Afghan Army NCO watches the crowd of
during a MEDCAP
As an advisor to the ANA, I
experienced this corruption on the part of the Afghans on a regular
basis; often daily. Oftentimes, it was as much of a problem as the
Taliban and other anti-coalition forces. Officers often stole money,
resources, and supplies from the ranks of their subordinates and
enlisted soldiers. The money ended up in their pockets, and the supplies
often ended up in the black market. It was a trickle-down system of
corruption and an unwritten rule of officer politics. The thinking is,
someone from above is going to take from me, so I am going to take back
from those below.
In the U.S. Army, there is the saying that
“there is only one thief in the Army; everyone else is just trying to
keep up.” Now multiply that times 1,000 in a system bred on thousands of
years of corruption, and there you have it.
Corruption kills
morale and command culture. The average underpaid, under-trained, and
poorly equipped soldier, can’t afford any additional reasons not to
fight. When you take away their belief in the cause and the command, the
results are disastrous — as we are now seeing.
Now,
let’s talk about Captain Mohammed. Mohammed was one of the best Afghan
officers and soldiers I ever came across. Not because he was necessarily
a high-speed officer or tactician, or possessed mad soldier skills. He
didn’t even go out on many missions. It was because he was honest. He
was a good man and was good to his men. In fact, he never let us give
him money for his Infantry Company nor for his soldiers, their pay, nor
food. He did not want to be tempted nor accused that he ever
misappropriated funds. He was a devout Muslim, moderate, did not
sympathize with the Taliban, and had four kids. Suffice it to say, he
was not corrupt.
Back to the corruption that plagues and
devastates the ranks of the Afghan National Army leadership. Not only
did Captain Mohammed not take money from his men… he would not
contribute to the corruption and graft of his chain of command. He would
not send money up the chain, as was expected, either. In the
brilliance of their corruption, it was determined by his command that
once he got back to Kandahar, that he needed to be punished. They needed
an example. Or their money.
Remember all the burnt and destroyed
weapons from the fire? Now, the men from the infantry company told me
that according to their battalion S-4 (supply officer) and the battalion
commander, there was a “missing” AK-47. According to these fine and
upstanding Afghan Army officers, Captain Mohammed had stolen this
missing AK-47, and “must have sold it on the back market and taken the
money.” And unless he could produce this weapon, or the money, and give
it to them, they were going to arrest him, put him in jail, and cut his
hands off for stealing.
Only in Afghanistan.
‘If You Try to Arrest Him, You’ll Have to Go Through Me’
Once
I heard what was going on, I immediately went and found Captain
Mohammed. He was on his bunk, surrounded by a few more of his soldiers.
All of them looked quite concerned. He corroborated everything I had
just heard.
“I did not do this thing,” he said to me through the
interpreter. He held out his hands as if they were handcuffed in front
of him. “They will cut my hands off.”
“I know,” I said. And I was pissed. He didn’t have a lot of time.
Assad,
the interpreter, also kept pleading the captain’s case and tried to
convince me to help and do something. I assured him that I would.
Looking
back, I am kind of lucky that I did not get myself in trouble, as well.
I went straight to my commander, a tall, big ole Southern Boy from
Georgia. He was an Infantry major, and we were tight. I told him
everything. I also told him that I was the one who had accounted for
everything, not the ANA. We then went to our supply officer, another
major, who knew that P.O.S. Afghan supply officer. Once we told him the
story, he immediately went with us to talk to him.
As you can
imagine, the Afghan supply officer acted nonchalantly and as if we were
mistaken, on every level. There was no “misunderstanding,” and the story
was that they simply could not accept theft in the ranks. He was a fat,
smug, asshole. He dismissed me and my story and tried to only talk to
my officers. If memory serves correctly, I think the battalion XO was
there, as well. Yet, we could not get in to speak directly to the
battalion commander.
It’s important to note, at this point, that
even on Kandahar Airbase, I was always armed. Sure. But so was everyone
else. I, however, was always locked and loaded (kind of against policy).
I would spend time on the edge of the airbase and around lots of Afghan
contractors, would leave the perimeter of the airbase and go on the
streets to get to the Afghan base, and I was always with Afghan
soldiers. Plus, you just “never knew.”
So, I stepped up to the
desk of that a-hole supply officer, put my hands squarely on his desk,
making sure it was clear that I was armed even at that moment. I looked
him in the eye, and said, “if you try to arrest Captain Mohammed, you
will have to get through me first, and I will stop you.”
That was the best thing I could think of at that moment. But… it was direct and to the point.
My
officers both look surprised, and my commander put his hands on my
shoulders, and gently but forcefully pulled me back over by him.
“It’s ok, Sergeant Gladwell,” he said.
The
Afghan supply officer was clearly stunned and speechless. He got the
point. He said he would “look into it.” And then, we left. Conversation
over.
Taking Care of Business: Get Creative to Do the Right Thing
At
that point, no one had any idea what had happened to that shipment of
the burnt weapons. No one could figure out what had happened once they
had been turned in and cleared off the books. What also made the
situation difficult is that while we had a lot of operational and combat
authority over the Afghans, and they usually did what we wanted or
suggested, we had no formal military authority over them. And we
certainly could not interfere with internal Afghan proceedings like
this. But we needed to protect Captain Mohammed.
After the
conversation with the Afghan officers, I went back to Captain Mohammed
and his guys. I told them what had happened and assured them I would
help protect him. I gave them my local cell phone number. I left
instructions with his NCOs and the interpreters that if they arrested
him, or even tried to take him during the night, to let me know —
immediately. It would not have been the first time we almost threw down
with Afghan soldiers or Afghan police, and I was prepared to do so
again. Especially in order to do the right thing and protect a good man.
I
remembered that in our supply room, we had a broken AK-47 that had been
confiscated or found. It was sitting there for weeks. I went to one of
my captains, who was responsible for the books and our stuff, and I
decided to get creative. His first name was Steve, and we were also
buddies.
“Hey, Captain Steve. You know that broken AK-47 you have in your office… does it belong to anyone?”
“Umm…” He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not even sure where it came from.”
“Is it… on the books?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Can I have it?”
He laughed. “For real?”
“Roger. I am going to burn it.”
After a good chuckle, I filled him in on what was going on and gave him all the details.
“I
am going to burn it, and I am going to say that I found it — that it
was my mistake. Then I am going to drop it right on that asshole’s desk.
Personally.”
“Take it,” he said. And then the fun began.
A 50-gallon Burn Barrel and a Couple Gallons of Diesel Fuel
A
fire fueled by a propane burner, a ton of dry wood and blankets, and
popcorn rounds of 7.62 is really hot. I went to one of my good buddies, a
sergeant first class, who always went by the name of Fletch. Even his
wife called him Fletch.
Fletch was one of those guys who was good
with people and good at getting things done. He was the guy who knew
everyone, and could “make things appear.” Through wheeling and
dealing and trading up, and sweet-talking his way around, it always
worked for him. If you needed something, he knew where and how to get
it. He could turn a pencil into a tank. Or, at least, a Humvee.
In
fact, we once traded an old something or other (junk that I am not at
liberty to disclose), to get on our hands on a semi-broken down Ford
Ranger pickup truck, to then trade for a fully-functional Humvee… off
the books… Also a true story. Don’t ask, just believe.
I went to
Fletch with my problem, and he said “I got you, brother.” I handed him
the broken AK-47, and we drove back to our hooch. When we got back, he
pulled a diesel Jerry can from the back of his pickup and dumped a bunch
of garbage into the burn barrel. In went the AK-47 and a couple of
gallons of diesel fuel.
“We have to make it really hot. Look convincing,” he said.
Two
hours later, we had a perfectly destroyed, convincingly burnt,
semi-melted AK-47. We also poured water all over it, to add to the
authenticity — just as in the real fire. The next morning, once it had
sufficiently cooled, we drove over to the Afghan side of the airbase.
Fletch and I walked right into the supply officer’s office, dropped the
burnt AK-47 unceremoniously on his desk, and I told him, “found it.”
He
looked up at me, laughed nervously, and said something that I don’t
even remember. It was probably something quite stupid. He looked over at
the other guy in his office, and said something in Dari. I have no idea
who the other guys was, or what they said.
“Khoobas?” I asked, [“All good?” in Dari.] I glared at him.
“Khoobas,” he affirmed. “All good.”
We
went back to Captain Mohammed, and I relayed to him everything that had
happened and everything that we did. He got teary-eyed. He gave me a
hug and thanked me from his soul. Situation over. Problem resolved.
No one ever arrested Captain Mohammed. No one cut his hands off, either.
Corruption. And throwing rocks at a fire… Exercises in futility. Only in Afghanistan.
If you enjoyed this article, please consider supporting our Veteran Editorial by becoming a SOFREP subscriber. Click here to get 3 months of full ad-free access for only $1 $29.97.
No comments:
Post a Comment