Ghost Wars

Wars pile upon wars in Afghanistan. The old ones linger on, making the new ones even more complicated. While on an operation here, we were tipped off that an old Soviet scout vehicle lay buried in a nearby cave. Back in the day, the mujahedeen had stolen the vehicle and hid it there. The Soviets, suspecting where it was, bombed the hillside above the cave and collapsed the cave roof. The locals claimed that the vehicle was still in there, perfectly preserved, along with the remains of six mujahedeen martyrs also buried in the landslide.

Recovering the vehicle excited the Afghan soldiers with whom I work. War trophies are important to them, especially ones that might help establish their links to the glorious mujahedeen. The soldiers set to work with a purpose, and received plenty of help from us. After two-and-a-half days we extracted the hulk shown in the picture. Ruined beyond transport or repair, and useless as a trophy, we had to blow it in place and then remove the parts. We couldn’t leave it where it lay, even in bits and pieces. The locals would sell the scrap in Pakistan for good money, and I suspect the soldiers wanted to do the same. One officer pointed to a piece of machined metal, from the transmission or drivetrain, and said it would be worth $100 US in Pakistan. But there were other, more sinister reasons why we had to remove the scrap. The officer explained that almost every bit of it could and would be recycled into bombs and weapons meant to hurt us.

And we didn’t find any mujahedeen remains, either.

TIC

TIC stands for “Troops in Contact.” That means good guys vs. bad guys, on the ground, shooting at each other. The good guys are US and Afghan troops. The bad guys are the insurgents and their foreign-fighter friends. The troublemakers don’t like TICs, because they almost always come out on the short end of a “direct fire engagement.”  If small arms fire doesn’t get them, then artillery and helicopters will.  Instead, the insurgents fight using indirect means–rocket and mortar attacks, IEDs, suicide bombers.

On patrol with Afghan forces near a TIC site.

Mail Call

We retrieve our mail from a nearby camp about once a week.  When the convoy bringing it back to our FOB is about ten minutes out, the convoy commander alerts our operations center to gather all available personnel to help download the trucks and trailers full of packages.  These days, letter mail is rare; most mail comes in the white “Priority Mail” cartons you buy at the post office.  When the convoy arrives, we stack the mail in piles organized by section and unit.  It is a happy, democratic time.  Everyone pitches in, and we are all eager to see who got what.  Lots of packages–especially those containing food–are opened publicly and the contents distributed quickly.  Others we bundle back to our rooms to see what friends and family have sent us.  “To Any Soldier” deliveries fill the void for those who otherwise have received nothing.  Mail-induced euphoria lasts for a couple of hours, and then it’s back to the routine.