You and your fear are fenced in together. Nowhere to run to (Photo: Loesche)

A week after our return to Germany I’m still pretty knackered. Our embed with the Apaches in the dusty country called Afghanistan just lingers there, hasn’t completely sunk in yet. It was a physical and mental challenge, bigger than I had anticipated.

For now, I have found refuge in the microcosm of the work office, where things are orderly and clean and predictable. This is the settling back into “normal” life, the Western world wants the Afghans so desperately to share with us.

I like being back in Germany where people stand for five minutes at the red lights at the pedestrian crossing even though there are no cars to be seen for miles. On the other hand, I hear, the army sends their soldiers to some Mediterranean resorts to decompress for a week. I could have lived through that, no question!

Dust

Kicking up dust. A convoy of MRAPs on the main road from Sar Howza to Urgun in Paktika Province

I still have a cough that comes and goes, which I refer to as my Afghan dust lung. The fine dust is certainly a big challenge, especially for your respiratory system – and all technical equipment. The headquarters team looking after the computer work stations in Sar Howza had their little air spray cans they used to clean the keyboards and fans with.

I spent most of the three weeks with sinusitis and couldn’t sleep for a few nights because of a extremely bad cough. I knew I should have gone to the medic earlier, when one of the private contractors, an electrician living in the next compartment, came knocking with some cough tablets. He probably got woken up by me coughing my loungs out.

Conditioning

I think it’s also down to the challenge of the body having to constantly adapt to the air conditioning. All tents, barracks and vehicles are cooled down – which certainly makes it easier to bear the heat in general, but is very hard on the body as it has to switch from hot to cold all the time.

From what I was told, many soldiers get ill after they arrive in theatre because of those conditions. What certainly didn’t help things was the burning pit right by the perimeter that on a regular basis emitted toxic fumes that clouded the camp.

Altitude

One thing I hadn’t anticipated at all were the effects of altitude, which turn a stroll up the hill into a marathon up the K2 like experience. The area of Sar Howza doesn’t really look like a challenge because it’s more hills than high peaks but the whole plateau is very high up. The air is thin.

It’s utopian to think you could get used to the conditions in less than three weeks. It probably takes more than half a year until your blood produces the needed amount of white blood cells. Next time, if there is one, I would certainly make sure my level of physical fitness is much higher.

Danger

Kicking up dust big time. A Blackhawk helicopter has landed in the COP delivering the brigadecommander Colonel Edward T. Bohnemann

The second major challenge is keeping an even keel mentally. Although I felt pretty safe in the combat outpost behind hescos and riding in the MRAPs behind mine resitant steel, there still was a nagging feeling of danger that I couldn’t escape. There could be a mortar or rocket attack, you could run into an ambush or you could get blown up by an IED.

Thankfully, during the time we visited we had no major incidents. One of the MRAPs of first platoon in the other COP Mata Khan ran onto an IED but nobody was hurt. Only after we had left, two soldiers of the same platoon got hurt in such an incident and were flown back to Germany.

We were very happy we didn’t get into a fire fight – although that’s what many journalists actually want. But the subtle pressure of some uncalculated threat was constantly with us. Along these lines, I think the non imminent threat can be more nerve racking than a threat right before you. It wears you down.

Nowhere to run

And there was nowhere to run, you couldn’t just move around on your own outside the wire. Your and your fear were fenced in together. Somebody in the know explained to me the other day that a perceived threat causes high adrenalin levels, which could be brought down by movement and physical activity, but on an embed in a COP you can’t just go for a long walk to clear your system.

This is probably the reason why the gym in Sar Howza was in the evenings constantly packed with soldiers working out to the sound of Rammstein (all US soldiers no matter where they’re from or what they listen to otherwise seem to have a few Rammstein tunes on their iPod: Next time I will do a survey of the favourite Rammstein titles).

The three weeks as an embedded reporter with the US Army were an unforgettable adventure, even without a major incidents. But it was much more of an exhausting challenge than I though it would be.

A so called MRAP standing just outside Sar Howza on the day we visited the former girls school. I like this one, because it has a somewhat deceptive feel of tranquility to it (Photo: Heimken)

Afghanistan must be one of the most challenged countries in the world, at least the parts we got to see. This is by no means the fault of the general populace, but there are powers hard at work keeping this country down – they’re not just foreigners.

As Staff Sergeant Meredith of Apache Company 2-28 said, there are many men in powerful positions, who are not interested in educating their subjects out of fear they might start to want a piece of the pie.

War as a way of life

The role the Westerners are playing in Afghanistan, I’m not sure of. In some cases they might be helping the population, but at the same time the presence of this mighty war machinery is a welcome reason for some to keep fighting.

There are many men for who war has become a way of life and income. The infidel on Afghanistan’s soil is the best excuse for waging war.

The population is sitting on the fence, like onlookers, trying to establish, who will in the long run gain the upper hand. Whoever this will turn out to be, they will follow. Captain Perkins, a wise military man, said that this behaviour, or state of mind, has throughout history prevailed with people in wars.

He brought up the American War of Independence (1775–1783), when in America there was a majority of undecided onlookers, waiting to see, which side was winning.

It’s getting worse

The general impression I got from talking to aid workers, interpreters, locals and soldiers was that the situation in Afghanistan is worsening. Zee the taxi driver, who yesterday drove us to the airport, said he would try to leave.

So far, there is no peace and stability in Afghanistan, as the killing of former President Rabbani on Wednesday has proven graphically. The International Security and Assistance Force can – for whatever reason – not provide for what they intend to do.

On October 7 the war will enter its 11^th year. And I’m with international analysts, the secret service chief Nick Mohammed I spoke to in Mata Khan and Mullah Tuti in Shatowry: There will be no peace in this country as long as the situation in Pakistan is not resolved.

Why should the Taliban and insurgent networks even think of peace and reconciliation, as long as they’re supported in a safe haven across the border?!

Outskirts of Kabul (Photo: Heimken)

We are finally out of the country. After 21 days. I’m sitting at the gate in Dubai typing this. It’s politically not correct to say, but when I was flying in to this filthy rich country shortly after 11.00 a.m. and I could see the well paved roads, the traffic, the high rises, I was just very glad to be back in “civilisation”.

We knew we could have trouble getting from the military terminal in Kabul first to the military main gate, which is a few kilometres down the runway, and then after passing through the security check point manned by the Belgian paras, getting onwards travel to Kabul International, the civillian part of the airport.

Getting out

The first taxi I had called the previous evening, the KBR which runs inner base shuttles of course didn’t turn up at 5.30. I called the PAO’s mobile and Staff Sergeant Carmony answered half asleep. He promised to call KBR for us.

At  5.45 we were on our way to the main gate. I called our next taxi, gladly the guy from Safe Trip Kabul, I had talked to the evening before, answered straight away. He was already waiting. We walked the couple of hundred meters past the Belgian soldiers manning the check points.

Socalled "Hinds" just took off from the airfiled as we left the military main gate. They're russian built helicopters (Photo: ISAF)

Two ancient soviet built attack helicopters, the ones you know from Rambo III, just started flying low over the airport.

Zee picked us up in a red car and a green T-shirt. He said business was low these days and the situation in Kabul was getting worse. He told us about  the deadly attack on the former Afghan president Burhanuddin Rabbani, who was bombed to death by insurgents who hid explosives in a turban yesterday evening.

From a roundabout onwards there was a traffic jam. Axel and I had to get out the car, were patted down. Got back in the car. Drove to the next check point, were patted down. Our luggage was screened. We got back in the car drove to the terminal. Said our goodbyes to Zee and paid him.

From then onwards our passports were checked three more times. We went through security twice more and stood in three different queues for another hour at least. We got on board of the Safi Air plane ten minutes after it was supposed to fly. This time the A230 was aircraft was in pretty good shape. After half an hour we were high up in the sky over Kabul.

We got on out Emirates flight from Dubai to Frankfurt. After three weeks of deprivation the cute stewardesses pampering me and smiling all along was rewarding experience. Emirates have a real good choice of music and playlists available.

I had a whole middle row of the middle isle for myself. Watched a movie, listened to Bill Withers, Lauren Hill and the Chili Peppers, typed away on a story about our encounter with the Mullah… Had a little to eat, slept a bit. I read a little in the XXL I bought at the PX in Bagram with 2Pac on the cover.

Not a worry in the world. We had gotten out alive.

Finally, the full V.I.P. treatment on our way back through Sharana (Photo: Loesche)

Meanwhile, Axel and I are back in Kabul. We arrived here yesterday at the military part of the airport. We are scheduled to fly on tomorrow in the morning to Dubai. The further we get from our embed, the more we wind down. Now, that we have some time to gather our thoughts, we slowly realise how exhausting this journey really was.

Three weeks were plenty.

We left the COP Sar Howza late on Saturday after we had the encounter with the mullah and mujahedeen Tuti. We were driven to the 172nd’s headquarters by MRAP convoy to Sharana and got there at around 22.00. The brigade’s PAO Major Buccino was waiting for us. He showed us our rooms. I was lucky to get room V.I.P. 2 this time. (About time. Buccino had been promising us the whole V.I.P. treatment since we first got here!).

In the news

I wrote a news piece for the agency about the mujahedeen getting involved in the peace process. Axel prepared three photos to go with it. We were both really knackered and slept in the next morning. Buccino had us signed up for a C-130 flight on Sunday afternoon.

We rode in his SUV to the terminal building, which in Sharana looks like a wooden saloon and stopped by at Green Beans Coffee, a franchise business that specialises on military bases. Once we got to the air field there were plenty of contractors and soldiers put down their names down for the flight. The roll call was at 16.55, we wouldn’t leave until 19.30. I suspected we wouldn’t make it because of the many passengers with higher priority.

The Game

Before the lights were turned off. The floor of the C-130 taking us from Sharana to Bagram (Photo: Loesche)

The most interesting thing about military air travel is that it’s so different from civilian air travel. First you don’t pay. The downside is that you – especially as a journalist – can get kicked off at any time, or the whole flight is just canceled or delayed. It’s a nerve racking game. There’s only one rule that counts: You know you made the flight when you are well in the air – even then you can just hope the plane won’t turn round.

Well, we made the flight … after standing lined up in two lines on the airfield for half an hour while the C-130 was being relived of it’s cargo it had flown in from wherever it had come from. The specialty about this flight was that we flew in complete darkness. The lights were switched off before the start and didn’t come on until after touch down in Bagram. (Axel was actually signaled to switch off his iPod because of the light from the display).

The glow of lightening

The only light source were the back ends of the night vision goggles of the two crewmen standing at the rear doors looking out the tiny round windows, probably on the look out for enemy on the ground. You could also see the faint glow of the emergency exits on the roof and the glowing of clock’s hands on our fellow passengers wrists.

It was the bumpiest flight so far. I was singing songs I learned when I was with the German paras doing my national service ten years back. At some point the few round windows in the hull lit up. Not to far away there must have been a thunderstorm. The noise of the aircraft was so loud that you surely couldn’t make out any thunder.

25 Minutes later we landed safely in Bagram. Axel an I shoved our luggage into the 24-hour holding area and made our way to the DEFAC. We had only had breakfast late in the morning. We were relieved to have made the first part of our air travel.

Hotel California

Bagram airfield before we left for Kabul. The white plane is unmarked. It wasn't a UN plane (Photo: Loesche)

Whilst we were eating chocolate ice cream sitting outside the DEFAC I told Axel that I wasn’t in favour of sleeping at “Warrior” again. On our first visit I saw a sign for a hotel on Disney Boulevard, the main road in Bagram. And, if I remembered correctly I had heard Major Buccino say something along the lines of: “Don’t all journalists stay at Hotel Such-and-Such in Bagram?” – after we had told him the story about our adventurous stay at “Camp Warrior” on our way out.

We walked for twenty minutes and were about to give up, after we had passed the Polish compound and the Egyptian field hospital, then finally we read the sign “Media Support Centre” and under it: “Hotel California”. We knocked on the door of a smallish wooden hut. We stepped inside and were greeted by a sergeant who said he had been expecting us.

At first, I though he was playing the “I’lI-pretend-I-now-what’s-going-on-even-if-I-don’t”-game. Then he showed us our names written on a white board and told us our flight for tomorrow had been booked. We were astonished. Another incident of following some instinct that leads you straight to your goal. We hadn’t known the media were so well catered for here.

Afghanistan from above

The pilot of the two propeller STOL flight took a sharp right turn and steep dive into Kabul airport. STOL stands for Short Take-Off and Landing - nuff said! (Photo: Loesche)

We slept in our own room with a bunk bed – a major improvement to the huge and crowded tent in “Camp Warrior”. It seemed befitting that the sergeant drove us all the way to the terminal the next morning. Where we were listed for a so called STOL flight (a regular scheduled flight) to Kabul.

At 13.30 we boarded a small two propeller air force plane with regular passenger seats and plenty of foot room. We clung to the windows for all of the 15 minute flight to Kabul, made some photos. It was the first flight that we could actually see where we were flying. We got billeted and put into a tent at KAIA. One step closer to home!

Bad ideas make for good photos! On the pick up next to the Afghan police gunner (Photo: Heimken)

Our embed with Alpha Company 2-28 in Sar Howza ended with a highlight. On Friday afternoon we found ourselves riding a green Afghan police Ford pickup truck with one of the most respected – and probably feared – mujahedeen of Eastern Afghanistan.

In the early afternoon a convoy of MRAPs left the base in Sar Howza heading down the main road to Orgun. I for the first time was riding in the armoured lorry the soldier’s call a LMTV. It’s more spacious and you have a much better sight out the windows than sitting in an MRAP. The downside is: you have much less protection against IEDs or RPGs.

Our mission was to deliver a metal dam gate to a remote village to the southeast of Sar Howza called Shatowry, not that far from Paktika’s biggest city Orgun. The unit that had been manning the COP Sar Howza before 2-28 took over in July got into a heavy fire fight with insurgents when they attempted to do the same in June.

Welcome to Shangri-La

An elder walks through an orchard in the village of Shatowry, home of mullah Tuti. We actually were given some apples. They were tasty (Photo: Heimken)

The village we delivered the gate to was more like a spread out hamlet along a river carrying only little water at this time of the year. The guys and I in the lorry drove up all the way along a winding path not built for the huge machines to a square building with loudspeakers on top, which turned out to be a mosque.

This little village seemed like a green refuge on the slope of the mountains hidden away from the dusty road to Orgun. This place was a bit like I imagine Shangri-La, the mysterious place from the novel of the same title, would be like. There was a certain calm about it. It seemed untouched by the war. The men and boys that gathered around us were very welcoming.

At that point just one MRAP and our lorry were parked in front of the mosque. The other soldiers had dismounted down by the river. We were being escorted by a translator and cultural adviser we had picked up from the brigade headquarters in Sharana the previous day.

Meet the Mullah

We hadn’t been parking up there for long when a relatively old man with a long beard, a turban and sunglasses came walking up the road towards where we were waiting. From his aura it was immediately clear that this was the man Captain Perkins had referred to as the big don nobody messes with – Mullah Tuti.

This man who is closing in on eighty and already has had a quadruple bypass made his name in the 1980s fighting the Russians. He is accredited with having captured a whole Russian convoy of Tanks and armoured vehicles.

Once earning his respect as a military commander, he still is one of the most respected religious and moral authorities in this region today. He has been approached by the head of the Taliban Mullah Omar and he has been invited by the Afghan President Hamid Karzai – both seeking his support.

Take a ride

Mullah Tuti up at the dam above Shatowry with Captain Perkins in the background (Photo: Heimken)

This rather short man is the guy you want to have on your side if you want to get anything done in this region. Apart from delivering the flood gate, this mission was to garner the Mullah’s support for the peace process with the Taliban.

If somebody can give instant weight to a peace shura where all the elders of the region meet then it is this man. So, after Captain Perkins and the Mullah had a chat in front of the mosque and the villagers had taken the metal flood gate from the back of the lorry the Mullah invited us to go and see the dam, higher up in the mountains.

Some sort of strange euphoria was in the air. In a minutes time Axel and me were sitting on in the back of the Afghan police pickup truck. I was holding on to specialist and army photographer Jacob Cohrs, racing up the hill on a seriously treacherous stretch mountain path.

With us in the open truck bed we had two deputies of the Mullah, one agricultural adviser and a young Afghan police officer standing up clinging on to a heavy Russian built machine gun mounted on the roof of the truck. The cultural adviser, Captain Perkins and the Mullah had taken their seats in the front cabin alongside the driver and two police officers.

Stupid idea

We were literally clinging on to each other for our lives. The police driver was heading up the narrow washed out slope like a berserker to the sound of tires losing their grip on the steep dusty slope filled with potholes. I was sitting on the side of the truck.

At some point the vehicle was bouncing so violently I thought I was going to fly over board. It was a good thing I had my helmet and body armour on. If I went flying off the truck I would break some bones but probably wouldn’t be fatally injured.

After we had gotten hold of the situation and what we were doing a second worry popped up in our minds. Axel asked me: “Do you think what we are doing here is a good idea?”. I gave it a brief moments thought:

We were somewhere in the remotest region of Eastern Afghanistan. We had jumped onto a pickup truck with one of the most feared Mullahs of the region and were driving at break neck speed up a steep mountain trail to an unknown destination …

“I’m not quite sure”, I answered back to Axel. I was contemplating how big a chance we had of winning a fire fight against determined Taliban. If I counted correctly, we had the firepower of two M4 assault rifles and Perkins pistol.

The Afghan police surely had their AK-47 rifles and the big ass machine gun. But would they be willing to defend these infidels against the Taliban with their lives? We had no means of communicating with the convoy and soldiers we left behind in the village.

Protected guests

Mullah Tuti standing on the dam above the village of Shatowry (Photo: Heimken)

This seemed to be a very stupid thing to do. Then I thought: “We are with the single most respected guy in this area, even the most rogue of Taliban respected, or rather feared. No Talib would be bold enough to try and harm the guests of this man.

We got to the stone dam a couple of hundred feet uphill in the mountains above the village surrounded by a beautiful mountain landscape. We inspected the 30 by 5 meters structure for which the flood gate had been constructed. Down below, only a trickle of water was flowing downstream.

Standing on the dam the Mullah was telling anecdotes to Captain Perkins and the cultural adviser. Axel and I were so taken by the whole experience we shot the occasional photo but seemed like in trance breathing the thin mountain air  – just hoping we would get back to the village unharmed.

After 15 minutes we made our way back to the pickup truck. The Mullah was joking that he had at his disposal some bounty that surely was worth a few million dollars – laughing all the way to the truck. Racing down hill the driver switched on his blue light.

An MRAP roling through the river bed in the village of Shatowry. I always wonder whether the litle boys get exited by the huge vehicles like I used to when I saw a fire engine or tank when I was a boy (Phot: Heimken)

Tea at the mosque

The Mullah invited us to the mosque for a glass of tea and a chat. He and his men went in to the two room building with high ceilings and red carpets. We took off our body armour and helmets and sat down on the floor in the first room, while in the adjacent room the Mullah and his men were praying.

A short while later, they came over and to my surprise the Mullah sat down right between me and the Captain. The cultural adviser sat down in front of us and started explaining that the Axel and I had come from Germany and we would like to ask him some questions.

I fingered the side pockets of my trousers. To my dismay I realised I had lost my voice recorder somewhere along the way. I got my notebook out and started off by thanking the Mullah for having us as his guests today.

Abraham and Reagan

Axel was told that actually nobody was allowed to take photos, but he could take one or two. Axel winds me up calling me Peter Scholl-Latour (Photo: Heimken)

The Mullah replied, he hadn’t even slaughtered a goat for us yet. And he went on to explain that the Pashtunwali, the Pashtun social code, commanded him to respect his guests. And also, Abraham had set the example for Muslims to treat their guests well and share.

I said: “Thanks anyway”. I dared to ask the first question and wanted to know whether he would come to the shura to be held the next day in Sar Howza. “Okay. Even if I don’t have a car, I will walk”, he answered jokingly.

You would imagine one of the fiercest former Mujahedeen in the country to be a grave and serious man. Instead this fellow sitting next to me was in high spirits cracking jokes all the time having a laugh with his guests.

He went on to tell us the story of how he as a military commander with one of the seven big mujahedeen organisations fighting the Russians was invited by former President Ronald Reagan to Washington in the 1980s. He said that one of them, Mohammed Yunus Khalis, was a very simple fellow.

The other fighters though of it as a bad idea and advised against it but Khalis actually went on to ask Reagan, who he thought of as an honourable man: “Why don’t you just become a Muslim?” The president replied: “You just keep your religion and I keep mine”.

The tee served was sweet. At one point the Mullah made a big old burp. One of the elders who had taken seats on the other side of the room spoke up. “You should definitely hold on to the man in your middle. He is the greatest of all Taliban”. The whole room cracked up in laughter.

No sleepover

The Mullah went on to tell more stories. One was about how the Taliban had taken prisoners and acted like “animals”.  And how he stepped in to free the 50 or so prisoners they had taken just before the holy month of Ramadan. Even the government of Afghanistan treated their prisoners with more respect the Mullah said, indicating contempt for both sides.

After half an hour our the talk slowed. The Mullah looked over to me and said something smiling. I found myself smiling back and nodding. The interpreter said: “The Mullah invites us for a meal for which he would have goats slaughtered and we could stay the night as his guests”. Would we accept?

Captain Perkins saved the day by diplomatically pointing out that there was still some urgent business for him to take care of back at the outpost. The Mullah accepted the excuse and we all rose to our feet. I had severe pins and needles having sat with crossed legs for the whole meeting.

How to sell agricultural lessons. Teachers at Mata Khan boys highschool (Photo: Heimken)

Today, we first drove to Sharana and then on to Mata Khan, a much smaller combat outpost than Sar Howsa. I had fun listening to Frank Sinatra, Black Sabbath and some country tunes on our way over via an iPod connected to the intercom.

Mata Khan is home to the 1^st Platoon of Captain Perkins Apache Company 2-28. The country side surrounding it is completely flat, unlike the Sar Howza region. Although it’s only about 15 to 20 kilometers away, the climate feels different too. It’s much warmer, at least 15 degrees Celsius more.

There’s much more arable land here. We drove past some really impressive castle like Qalats, big square compounds with high mud walls and small turrets on each corner. I guess they reflect the mentality of the people living in this region. Everybody who is wealthy enough protects their fortunes out of sight. Their home really is their castle here.

It might be a testament to the fact that there is no centralised authority, called the nation state that has vowed to protect private property and enforce sanctions against people who don’t respect that right. By now there are such institutions in place in Afghanistan, but they are young and not welcome by everyone. The province of Paktika is known for being stubbornly anti-government.

Hate the state

Even in mainstream US politics there are prominent political strands that hate the idea of a powerful centralised state and love the individual’s right to fend for himself. And, in the US you find gated communities of wealthy people who rather opt to protect their wealth by private security than to trust the state to do that for them.

I don’t have a clue what the people here really want (That’s the downside of being embedded, you don’t get to meet the common people a lot). Perhaps many of them would be very happy to have a functioning state that will protect their citizen’ rights. Perhaps they would love an independent judiciary along Western lines that doesn’t know any family, clan, or tribal affiliations.

Shortly after we got here to Mata Khan we visited a boy’s school right next to the compound. Here a Lieutenant Colonel of the reserve Air Force, who is an agricultural adviser based in Sharana, met with the police chief and the governor of Mata Khan district and representatives from the school, the headmaster and some teachers.

Fisherman’s Friend

The plan was to have agricultural classes set up to teach the teachers in giving classes on how to improve agricultural techniques in the area. The simple equation being, that if farmers here improved their yield, they would become more prosperous and less susceptible to the insurgency. Peace through prosperity.

The basic idea is sound. The Western led or financed reconstruction efforts have moved on from just setting up projects like the girls school we visited yesterday without really checking sustainability, to going out and asking what the locals want to be done and then teaching them to help themselves. They shall own their projects.

However, as we witnessed today the problem with this is that the locals are still more interested in having concrete infrastructure projects financed by the Westerners than having contractors teaching them intangible knowledge that doesn’t bear immediate gains.

The officials who had gathered in the boys school either didn’t quite grasp the concept of teaching a man to fish or they simply wanted fast and tangible aid. I have now often heard or read that Afghans after 30 years of war cherish the short term over the long term gain. It sounds simplistic but actually would be quite understandable, because in Afghanistan there still is no peace and security.

This might show in the Afghan’s thinking, especially in the run up to the pull out of foreign troops. If tomorrow isn’t promised you tend to get what you can lay your hands as long as you can. Why plant trees whose fruit might take decades to harvest.

I was wondering yesterday when I saw some unkempt trees that could have been olive plants, why they weren’t growing this fruit in this country. I’m not an agricultural expert, olive trees might just not grow in this climate – or they indeed take to long to carry fruit.

The deserted compound of a girls school in Sar Howza (Photo: Heimken)

After we went on patrol to the bazaar on the outskirts of Sar Howza on Monday, 3^rd Platoon took us out to what used to be a girls school today. We got the usual briefing by the mortar pit before leaving. The school is infamous for having Taliban graffiti sprawled over the inside.

Apart from being told to watch out for IEDs by the graveyard the guys were warned by Lieutenant Wood and Staff Sergeant Nuñez not to get pissed off if the kids started pelting them with rocks again.

If the Afghan police who were to join the parade started firing in the air to scare off the youngsters, then so be it. This was there country. The soldiers were told not to hand out any presents. It hadn’t worked out last time, added Wood.

The Graveyard

The armored vehicles climbed up the slope to Sar Howza and passed the graveyard that stretched on both sides of the road. It seemed a spooky place, but in a fascinating way – very different from our grave yards.

Some of the graves had tall masts next to them, some with fluttering flags. Stones lay on most graves and brush was growing through out the huge field. The whole atmosphere was strange. For the first time since we got here, the sky was overcast. It seemed that summer is beginning to loose its grip.

The local workers were making head way paving the street into the city. However, the asphalt ended just before the graveyard began. Captain Perkins said the insurgency starts where the paved road ends.

Red Adobe

War graffiti drawn by children on the walls of the school compiled by Axel

Soon after, we passed the typical red adobe buildings the typical wooden ladders leading up to the roofs. At the end of the streets we dismounted. Together with the Afghan police we made our way through alley ways towards the school.

At one point a bunch of kids ran off into an open gate leading into one of the bigger Qalats, compounds, once Axel started taking photos. His long lenses could be mistaken for gun barrels. They seemed genuinely scared.

Some of the kids were dressed in amazing colors. It seemed as if some wealthier families were living here on the outskirts. But you can’t really tell, because all is hidden behind the red adobe walls of the compounds.

Problem Area

One of the classrooms

The school lay right at the edge of town, a steep and rocky ridge rising up behind it. Because there were caves in the ridge some of the soldiers went up to check them for any traces of the insurgency. “This is a problem area”, Staff Sergeant Nuñez let me know.

Next to one on the caves they found a firing position made of rocks. The strangest thing about this war is that the enemy is almost like a ghost. This cliff on the edge of town is where the low intensity insurgency begins. Behind it lies Talibanland, an area so remote and inaccessible, that the soldiers would only seriously venture into it by helicopter.

To choose such a site for a girls school seemed pretty thoughtless – with the benefit of hindsight. The school was built in 2008 by the local Provincial Reconstruction Team. It operated for two months, before it was shut down.

The inside of the school was indeed sprawled with graffiti. Most of the ones I picked out for the interpreter to translate, he said were poems. Anything that could be removed had been taken away. Windows and doors had all been removed. It almost seemed as ghostly a place as the graveyard.

It would be interesting to find out if it really were the hard line Taliban who closed the school down. Perhaps the ultra conservative ways of the people of this town stood in the way of this project too.

Once again nothing much happened on this patrol – we didn’t get pelted with rocks – but there is a strange feel of enigma to this country. To a Westerner it seems unreal. To grasp it’s reality it probably would take more than dismounting from our armored spacecrafts and just dipping into the world outside the gated community of the cop.

Mortars

A mortar round exploding on target on the mountain ridge

In the afternoon we drove back out with three MRAPs and did some military stuff closer to home. This time we just drove a few hundred meters off road to secure the target area for a Mortar rehearsal.

They were shooting live mortar ammo half way up the mountain ridge in some kilometers distance to the west of the COP. The 120 and 81 grenades were close on target and sent out detonations echoing through the whole area.

We just sat in the desert near a wadi on some rocks chatted and watched.

We only got sketchy information about one service member being killed in Paktika late on Saturday. I haven’t been able to confirm any such news on the internet after it came back on this morning.

Mortars

Saturday night fireworks, bring ya ear plugs! (Photo: Heimken)

On Saturday night we were standing right next to the mortar pit when they were firing illumination rounds out of their 120 Millimeter tube, lighting up the three Kilometre corridor between the base and the town of Sar Howsa. They shot at least ten rounds into the night sky – for show of force more than anything.

The assistant gunner steps to the mortar. The NCO tells him to “hang it” and the gunner will place the round into the tubes opening. After he’s commanded to fire, he simply lets the round drop into the tube. Where the rounds initial charge explodes and the grenade is violently propelled into sky. The loud explosion makes the area the pit tremble.

The illumination rounds break into half over the destined area. The part with the phosphorus substance glides to the ground on a parachute. They changed the direction of fire slightly once. Axel took some awesome pictures of the live firin exercise.

Ceremony

Have a patch, son! (Foto: Heimken)

The 10^th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks on Sunday didn’t cause too much of a stir. But for symbolism’s sake Captain Perkins held a so called Patch Ceremony on the parking space. The soldiers of Apache Company have now been in theater for more than 30 days and those who didn’t have a patch already were given the brigades insignia to stick onto their right upper arm.

Perkins set the ceremony on this day, so the soldiers would be reminded of why they were fighting this war. I asked Perkins whether the combat outpost had been put under higher alert. To which he responded, that they had parked MRAP-vehicles as additional barricades in front of the entrance.

But, he added, the Taliban had actually distanced themselves from the deeds of what they perceive as a foreign organisation, the al Quaida, ten years ago.

Bazaar

3rd platoon on shopping tour in Sar Howza bazaar (Foto: Heimken)

For the first time we ventured out with one of the platoons into a built up area. Staff Sergeant Neal Nuñez let us join the soldiers of 3^rd platoon on their patrol into Sar Howsa bazaar, which is actually located on the outskirts of the town.

We drove the three kilometers in a convoy of MRAPs. We dismounted at the entrance to the town and walked up to what is considered a police station. The building looks like a bombed out garage for trucks. Part of the roof has collapsed. In one corner a man was pulling freshly baked Naan from an oven stacking it on top.

We picked up three police officers and walked some hundred meters to the bazaar, which is made up of flat mud buildings housing little shops and businesses. Garbage was all over the place, some well trodden into the ground. A little stream of filthy water trickled across the street.

The shopkeepers didn’t seem very welcoming but neither were they hostile towards the soldiers and civilians visiting their market place. A guy from human resources interviewed a carpenter who stood in front of his workshop putting the finishing touches on an impressive gate. He was making a good living he said. His shop smelled of pine tree from Kunar province.

Presence

Another trader selling fruit and vegetables was pretty dodgy when answering questions about whether he had knowledge of outsiders in this area. After a while he just answered that the local populous wouldn’t turn in any aliens, they feared retribution from the Taliban. After it started to rain the bazaar quickly deserted, the shopkeepers pulled down their shutters.

We spent two hours up there. Nuñez was adamant that it’s always worth going up there. If they didn’t show up, the people would start feeling neglected. In this war just being present can be more useful than using force.

Specialist Gloria from Michigan looking out towards One Tree Hill near the village of Gulridin (Foto: Loesche)

Today, we went out on a mission for the first time since we got here. Lieutenant Chad Christian, 24, from Alabama took us with him in his MRAP to see for ourselves what Captain Perkins and his two platoons had accomplished on a previous five day mission.

A convoy of MRAPs and some Afghan National Police vehicles drove down the asphalted street to Gulridin where a check point by the street and two observation posts high above up in the hills had been set up.

Half way we stopped.

Suddenly the gunner in the turret fired a volley of shots from his machine gun. Empty cartridges tumbled into the air conditioned armoured truck. Shots were going off in front and behind us. The Police had dismounted from their pickup trucks and shot their AKs.

It was a test firing exercise, shortly before we reached the end of the asphalted road. Perkins told me yesterday: “The insurgency starts where the asphalted road ends”. Todsay’s mission was to further fortify the check point to be manned by the ANP – to build a shelter for the police.

While some of the guys started unloading building materials from the cargo truck Axel and I followed Lieutenant Christian up the hill. On the way, we met Staff Sergeant Neal Nuñez, 33, from Los Angeles of 3^rd platoon 2-28.

One Tree Hill

He had a whole case of energy drinks. We grabbed some cans, Nuñez explained where we could find the mortar team securing the area from one of the opposite hills. We started first down through a dry wadi and then up the hill to where the soldiers had set up their position to secure the works.

At this altitude (2500 metres) and carrying a vest and a helmed a minor hike turns into a major mountain climbing exercise. Completely out of breath and sweating we reached the mortar team who had trained their tube on an elevation dubbed “One Tree Hill” (no, not this one).

Staff Sergeant Arias and Private First Class Gloria at an elevation of 2528 meters in the district of Sar Howza

We stayed long enough to catch our breath and then made our way further up the hill, where we were greeted by Staff Sergeant Marciel Arias, 29, from California and Private First Class Carlos Gloria, 26, from Michigan.

The 360 degrees view from the top was breath taking. Axel and I stayed up there chatting to the soldiers for three hours. They explained to us the complex relation ship between a platoon Lieutenant and his non commissioned officers.

Basically all platoon sergeants by definition are more experienced than their officer counter part who never the less outrank them. A good platoon lieutenant will always heed his sergeants advice. Sergeants can make or break lieutenants.

Check point

At 4.00 p.m. we went back down the hill because we heard that down below they were now stopping cars together with the ANP and doing iris scans and taking finger prints with the HIDE-System. When we got there, they just stopped a red Mitsubishi pickup truck with four guys in it.

They seemed understandably less than elated to have to go through with the procedure, especially because the machine wasn’t working properly, not recognising the iris. Slowly a queue of lorries and cars was forming.

One pair of guys who had a the whole car full of loose grapes seemed outright scared by the soldiers and the police. At the end, the procedure seemed useless as the ANP, who were in charge, waved through many cars and lorries or just searched them sporadically.

Cars with women were a no go. Anybody smuggling goods or weapons would be well advised to take a female passenger with them.

The Kuchis

The most interesting and intriguing people of all are the Kuchis, Pashtun nomads. They travel with colorful tractors pulling carts, full with elderly passengers, women and children, stuffed with goods of all kinds, dogs and goats.

All women hid their faces with scarves from us some of the very young children seemed frightened. At least five of such vehicles past the check point. The police stopped none of them, because of the women on the open trailers.

It was a truly astonishing and intriguing sight. I would like to know much more about these people, who seem like from another planet, whose rights are guaranteed by the central government in Kabul.

I had first heard about the Kuchis from an analyst from Human Terrain System I interviewed two days ago in the COP. The nomads stand accused of smuggling weapons for the Taliban, which they apparently hide among their herds of camels and goats.

We saw one of those flocks from the peak where we had stayed. Some of the Kuchis, who live in tents, must shepherd the herds and others then follow in their tractors and carts.

Combat Medic Badge

In the evening we witnessed how the platoon’s medic was awarded the Combat Medic Badge for saving three Afghan police’s lives at the end of Juli, after their pick-up truck was shredded by a roadside bomb.

We passed the truck on the ANP’s compound on our way into the base twice today, where it sits as a reminder that this still is a war, in which people are killed and maimed. I was totally knackered after nine hours outside in the mountains.

Dinner at the police chief"s compound (Photo: Heimken)

“I’m so full, I can’t breathe when sitting down“. That was my commentary after our first adventure outside the wire.

I had just finished my last blog entry when Axel turned up behind me at the computer booth with a piece of news: He had talked to Captain Perkins and we were invited to join him and two of his lieutenants for a meal with the local police chief in an hours time!

The problem was that we only just had dinner. Two man size burritos with loads of meat and sauce and rice. My first thought was that I couldn’t possibly go have a meal with Afghan dignitaries with the imminent danger of throwing up.

I went back to our hut and lay down to digest the burritos and prepare for some goats meat.

At 7.00 p.m. we met the by the TOC. Axel said Lieutenant Martin had tried to bottle out of the soiree, but Perkins had then directly ordered him to tag along. We picked up the interpreter from his shack and walked with headlamps lighting the way through the concertina wire out to the pretty banged up and run down police building.

We walked in took of our boots off and walked into the little dining room.

The police chief had two visitors himself, from Orgun to the South West from here. Two pretty wild looking guys, who held some sort of official positions in that city. A little TV set was running in one corner in the other stood an AK-47 assault rifle. We all took a seat on the cushions on the floor along the walls.

A guy with a silver pot and a water can came in we washed our hands one after the other.

One of the chief’s deputies came in with a plastic table cloth with Naan bread in it that was spread out in front of us. Then they served rice with raisins, self made French fries and bits of goats meat. Each of us got a can of 7 Up to go with it.

We started eating with our fingers trying our best not to loose half the pay load of rice between tray and mouth, trying hard for it to somehow look natural. Through the interpreter Perkins and the chief started firing off one compliment after the other.

We started feeling like one big family.

The police chief was adamant he would like to invite his friends over for dinner every night if he could. To top things Perkins invited the police chief and his men for a big BBQ with flares in some days time.

Our engagement ended after an hour and some glasses of heavily sugared green tea, served with extremely hard nuts. Our first intercultural encounter was a lot of fun actually.