Prelude
Humanity crossed into the twenty-first century dragging all the ancient baggage it had carried into every other one in the past. Mankind’s propensity for dissent and hatred has not changed. So long as our will to be right exists, there will ever exist a willingness for some to do violence upon those we see as wrong, evil, or just plain different. It’s the story of Cain and Able on a global stage. No matter the manner of the conflict; nationalistic, economic, religious, geographic, or racial issues have all been blamed for why we choose to murder our fellow man on both a small and a large scale. Regardless of the many enlightened detractors of the failure of war to solve our problems and disputes, it continues to be a very popular solution. For better or worse, termination of the opposition does tend to put our problems into at least a different perspective. The catch is that killing usually perpetuates more killing. The solution generally creates as many problems as it solves. The larger the scale of slaughter, the more we strip away our humanity and reveal the dark, and sinister, nature that man tries so hard to pretend doesn’t exist. We may fight for a righteous cause, for a noble end, and in defense of the weak, but, in the end, we find ourselves with a generation of men that are simply very good at killing.
Afghanistan 2005
“Get your goddamn head down, Wallace!” the corporal said, as he jerked the young private down below the hesco barrier. As he did, a second sniper round cracked overhead.
“See that, you dumb sonofabitch?” The twenty-two year old Wallace had his first taste of hostile fire. The only thing going through his mind was that the corporal may have thought he was stupid for not taking cover after the first round was fired. He realized then and there that being scared was ok, but being stupid definitely was not.
“This outpost takes fire every day, so you’d better get used to it. The hescos are lined up between us and that tall razorback ridge to the east.” He jabbed a thumb in the general direction. “They hike up the slope from the other side, pick up an AK or an old enfield from a lil ole cache and just lay down and wait for a good target. Most of the time they don’t hit nothing. Every now and then they get lucky.”
“Are we sending out patrols, or maybe a drone, to find him?” Wallace asked.
The seasoned corp grinned with just a touch of humor.
“That ridge is bout a half-days walk from here, boy. Don’t get drones this far out very often, either. That dude will either be smart and lay low for the rest of the day, or Smitty’ll take him out with the Barrett when he gets a bead on him-if he’s dumb enough to fire a couple more times. There’s a hamlet less than fifty meters from the top of the ridge, so we can’t fire arty, or even mortars, unless we have to. We is the good guys, after all. Ya know?” The sarcastic grin belied the mans sincerity.
William Lee Wallace sat with his back to the hesco and looked around at what would be his new home for the next year. Outpost Shelby was a dusty, tan and brown pimple on Hill 729. With six bunkers, a small helo pad, and a company of 125 infantrymen, it looked depressingly unimpressive. The bunkers appeared to be reinforced holes in the ground (they were), and the surrounding hills loomed over them in every direction. He didn’t have to be a tactical genius to realize that they could get shot at from justabout any direction. Thankfully, Hill 729 wasn’t an easy mole hill to climb either. An assault on their position would require a fairly large number of dedicated men, not afraid to die for their cause. The fields of fire were clear to the base of the hill, which was good. That also meant the enemy could observe the patrols leaving and returning from Shelby too, however. Not so good.
A single fifty-caliber ‘boom’ caused Wallace to jump. It came from the bunker to his right.
“That’d be Smitty. Maybe he got his number six. Hey! You get him?” he shouted.
“Not sure yet, Geek. Why don’t you have the new guy stand up and take a look?”
“Fuck you!” Wallace immediately answered, bringing a sincere smile to the corporal.
“Come on, man. Lets get you squared away. You just might have some sense after all”
Over the next ten months Wallace learned a lot. The small lessons were just as important as the big ones. How much water to take on patrol. How to tell the difference between close and simply near rounds incoming by the sound of its passing. He could tell what was firing and from which direction just by the sound of it, too. He learned how hard terrain was on the human body, and was amazed at the endurance he was capable of as he walked the trails and slopes of every ridge in the surrounding ranges. He knew how to find cover when fired upon, and discovered what it took to raise up in the midst of it to return that fire. Hot, running water is a gift from God. Not to have a clean, working weapon is an unforgivable sin. Body armor is both your best friend, and your worst enemy. The important lessons, the big ones, were more about people and their nature. Different cultures have different values. Corruption is not always looked down upon, if you’re the one who is corrupt. People hate you sometimes, regardless of your motives. Sometimes people will smile at you, nod in agreement, and later try to kill you. Being paranoid is essential in combat, because they ARE out to get you. Naiveté is not an endearing trait in a combat zone. The Corp’s job is to kill people and break things, never mind what the politicians and generals say.
After ten months at Outpost Shelby, Wallace had been shot at more times than he could remember. The occurrences that stood out were the seven times when one of his own were killed. Twenty three other times he could recall who was wounded, and how. Two very distinct recollections were of his own initiation into the Purple Heart Club. The mortar fragment in his right calf barely rated a bandage, but the AK round that took off his right earlobe. It’d sound funny later, but not just yet. Wallace learned how bad strategies cannot be fixed tactically. Safe havens for the enemy, less than two days walk from the border, was stupid. Not having enough translators with the combat units was stupid. Having the army act as benefactors for local economies doesn’t work. You cannot change tribal hatred and religious zeal by being rational and nice. That’s how you lose an earlobe.
It was a hot day in mid-July and the heat was oppressive, to say the least. Wallace had his own squad and was tasked with escorting the Captain, and a few contractors, to a small hamlet over on West Wall ridge. The town basically sprouted out of the mountains bare cliffs to the west of Shelby, hence the ridges nickname. You had to leave the vehicles about 150 meters from the hamlet, because that’s basically where the road disappeared. They almost never had any problems with the place, mainly because it was even more isolated than most populated areas in the valley. There were only about 300 people, all told. They made a living cutting down the huge cypress trees, dragging them down hill, by hand, and transporting them via river to buyers on the black market downstream. The mission, as he was briefed, was to take the Captain and his civilian group, up the hill, where the contractors would negotiate with the tribal elders for a legitimate contract to buy their raw lumber. The civilians had gotten permission from the government to circumvent the “ban” on cypress sales for the expressed purpose of “gaining local trust” in the new government. The elders’ position was that the ban had actually been good for their hamlet, since few people came up their way to enforce it and that kept the asking price way up. Besides, they ignored the ban anyway.
The convoy set out with two gun trucks and a humvee, just enough for two squads and the command group, and made the road trip in less than twenty minutes. The road ended at a tiny bend in the road that was barely wider than a goat trail. They dismounted and left Corporal Geek and his squad to guard the vehicles, while Wallace took the Captain up the trail with his squad. With rocky slopes to their left and a 45 degree climb to their right, they chugged slowly up to the hamlet. Thirty minutes later, they huffed into the village. The young private positioned his men, as they walked, with short, terse words and a quick gesture of his hand. They already knew the routine by heart. No one in the squad had been in-country less than six months, and they knew their jobs intimately. A small group of elders emerged from an adobe and brick hut to meet them. Wallace held up a clenched fist and the squad stopped, on the alert, eyes out.
The Captain shook the old mullah’s hand and gave him a lame-sounding Allah-akbar greeting. The old man nodded slightly and led the four men into his home to talk and have tea. The ancient mountain-folk had all the time in the world, and dearly loved wasting copious amounts of time talking and sipping tea. Wallace waited outside with his squad in a perimeter around the mullah’s home, watching and scanning for danger. There were a few villagers here and there, rubber-neckers checking out the infidels. A couple of kids bugged a private for candy or any other goodies, but, generally, the Afghans simply ignored the Americans and went about their business as usual. Wallace scanned the village, but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Then the Captain unstrapped his helmet and took it off, grinning.
“Private, have your men take their helmets and shades off.” He said, still smiling.
“Sir….what?” Wallace didn’t understand such an obviously stupid order.
“I learned in Iraq that when we patrolled we would go without headgear, or shades, when we wanted to express our peaceful intent. You know, hearts and minds and all that. Worked pretty good, too. They learned to trust us when they could related better to us. Hard to look a man in his eyes when he’s wearing shades and Kevlar.” He explained.
“Sir, I…”
“Just do it, Private.” The Captain said. “Sir.” Was all the response needed. He passed the word and the squad reluctantly bared their heads and took off their shades. The Afghanis smiled and pointed at them approvingly. The old mullah ushered the captain and contractors into the hut for tea and small talk to begin their negotiations.
“Willy, what the fuck?” A young private named Bose asked after the officer left.
“We’re winning their hearts and minds, bubba.” A sarcastic grin followed.
“I’d rather keep my damn head unventilated, man. Fuck their hearts and minds.”
“I hear ya. Me too.”
To be continued…..
Rolling Stones 