If you want to read the story from the beginning, click here. (https://wp.me/p2b25R-fw)

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Winter 2014

A day after I returned from Fairfax, I received an order informing me that my Platoon will be deployed to Khost, the northeastern province of Afghanistan. I barely have time to get vaccinated and gather the belongings to pack. It has been almost two years since I was commissioned as a second lieutenant. I have since been promoted to first lieutenant.

After a long flight from Stuttgart on a C-17 aircraft, we land at the Kandahar International Airport. Logan is with me. The first thing I notice is how hot and dusty it is. An experience similar to landing in Florida from cold Fairfax. I squint at the bright sun and haze. If I were back home in Virginia in the middle of summer, I would be wearing shorts and flip-flops. Here we wear a uniform, body armor, and a helmet.

Captain Bowen, who will be our Company leader, meets us. He instructs us to be ready to fly to Khost. We have an hour to grab a bite to eat at the large dining tent. My adrenaline is running high. I realize this is the real thing, not a training camp. All the years of training and the deployment practices we’ve undergone were just for this occasion.

We board a military Chinook helicopter and take off for our destination. It is a big helicopter, almost the size of a city bus. During the flight, I look down and see the mountain peaks and valleys we learned about during our briefings at Stuttgart. I can imagine the dangerous terrain we will encounter while fighting the enemy.

Upon reaching Khost, Captain Bowen introduces us to the local officers at the command outpost. The command outpost is a compound surrounded by mud walls. There are tents with cots as sleeping quarters for soldiers. Other shelters hold medical and pharmacy supplies. A separate tent has a few computers with internet access and a large TV with a DVD player.

We are assigned a tent where we leave our duffel bags and follow the officer to a makeshift conference room with a projector, a small screen, and a flip chart with detailed drawings of a map.

The officer asks us to take our seats. He doesn’t waste any time starting his brief.

“You, along with a platoon of about forty soldiers arriving in the next day or so, will replace the departing platoon that has completed their six-month assignment. President Obama,” he continues, “has stated that the American troops are to act in a training, assisting, and advisory capacity.

“I cannot stress enough the fact that the Taliban are the largest single group with the sole aim of fighting the Afghan Government and any foreign troops that work with them. It’s not going to be easy, but I know you will not disappoint our government. When you are out there on the streets, you will be the only judge of the situation, and you will decide the proper action.”

I feel inspired and ready to go to work. The next day, I meet Lt. Andrew, the platoon leader I am to relieve. There is no time to waste. We go to work immediately. I follow him wherever he goes, mostly observing and asking questions. There is a lot to absorb—the neighborhoods, local politics, people’s behavior, and their perception of Americans.

As we traverse a busy neighborhood, I hear a loud noise close to us. I look around and see Lt. Andrew slumping to his right, holding his right shoulder with his left arm. Blood oozes out of his arm. A stray bullet has hit him. Does this have to happen on my first day? I say to myself. I radioed for immediate help. The medics arrive and place a tourniquet on his arm to stop the bleeding. I look for the shooter, but he has disappeared among the locals. We return to the base camp. Luckily, Lt. Andrew is going to be okay. I get a dose of the unpredictable, dangerous, and fickle life of combat. My heart is beating so fast I can almost feel it. I put my palm on my chest. I am not sure what is to come in the days ahead when I am the leader.

Our task is to patrol the streets looking out for suspicious activities. Two days later, my Platoon is ready. I am responsible for forty-three soldiers, including members of the Afghan National Army (ANA) who make up two squads. Their lives and well-being rest on my shoulders.

On my first day as a Platoon Leader, I face the Army bureaucracy. I learn that I can have only one Humvee, a refurbished one, because of a shortage of mechanics to get other vehicles ready. I am given vans instead. I have to make sure my soldiers know how to shoot from vans.

The maps provided of the city and the neighborhoods appear new and glossy, but are hard to read. They are aerial photographs. Everything is black and grey, and most of the annotations are not legible. I am lucky that Firash, the interpreter, is there to guide us, as he is local and knows the city. There are two other interpreters. We have instructions to keep the American presence unpredictable. I plan not to go to the same places at the same time of the day or night. The daytime tours are not that difficult, but at night we wear night-vision goggles. Still, the streets are like a maze, monstrous to maneuver.

As we patrol the streets, young boys follow us expecting sweets and chocolates. I warn my soldiers not to trust these urchins, as they may be decoys to inform the Taliban about our whereabouts, and some of them may also be capable of planting bombs under the bridges we will be crossing. Soon I start getting a sense of the people. If they are friendly and talkative, it means they like the Americans, but if they avoid looking at us and are not responsive, they either hate us or they are afraid of the Taliban, who may be lurking nearby.

I find it difficult to distinguish between the good people and the terrorists. Almost everyone carries guns, mostly assault-type AK-47s, not just the Taliban. Local politics is different than the politics of the national leaders. Everyone looks the same. We studied the basic Pashto language, but with the local accents, it isn’t clear whether they were speaking Pashto or Arabic.

******

Firash speaks good English.

“You Pakistani?” he asks me, noticing my brown skin. I guess he asks this because of the proximity of Afghanistan to Pakistan.

“No, my parents are from India,” I reply.

“Oh. Shah Rukh Khan, you know?”

I am familiar with the name of the famous Bollywood actor. I’ve seen his name when the credits of the films Dad watches roll. This is interesting, I think to myself. I must mention this to Dad the next time I talk to him.

“I’m not surprised,” Dad says when I tell him during my call to him the next day. According to ancient Hindu history, the Indian Maurya Dynasty ruled parts of Afghanistan. Before the Arabs invaded and conquered Afghanistan, it was a multi-religious society. They practiced Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism, among other religions. My grandfather told me that, at one time, the great emperor Ashoka spread his empire from India to Kandahar and actively spread Buddhism there. I believe some edicts carved in stone still exist unless the terrorists have destroyed them.”

“Amazing,” I say. “Then why do the Taliban and al-Qaeda act like the bad boys?”

“I don’t know, Beta. Every religion has some bad apples, and they go out of hand sometimes.”

When I arrived at this post, I thought I was going to be out of touch with the rest of the world for a long time. I had no idea when and how I would be able to contact Mom, Dad, and Lily. But the Army has thought of everything. In addition to the internet in the “office” tents, there is a satellite phone. A chopper brings in mail and parcels every day, even packages from Amazon. At the end of the first week, I find that Mom has sent a care package with Indian snacks similar to the ones she had made for the Diwali function at our home. Mom has included a note: “I don’t know what kind of food they give you there. I thought you would enjoy this. There is enough if you want to share with your friends.” I am so grateful to Mom. The MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) that the Army provides us are awful. Sometimes the crackers are stale, and the cheese has a rotten smell. Everyone hates them 

There is a small package from Lily. It is a book, a paperback edition of The Song of God, Bhagavad Gita, translated into English. “Compliments from my father,” the note says. “He thinks you may find some sane advice to tide you over just like it did for Oppenheimer.” In the end, Lily has a personal message, “Be careful and stay safe. I love you.”

I am curious about Lakshmi and Akaash. I want to know what’s going on in their lives, but Mom is silent on that topic.

******

This is not a conventional war. There is no plan of attack. Our actions and reactions depend on the actions of the enemy, whether it happens day or night. If a rocket-propelled grenade strikes close to our post, everything turns into chaos. One could be taking a nap and be dead the next minute. Some soldiers sleep in their uniforms to be ready at a moment’s notice.

Lack of water and bathing facilities makes it hard to take daily showers. Many don’t shower for days or weeks. Some restrooms and bathrooms are unisex, making it uncomfortable for some in my Platoon.

Despite the sophisticated American equipment, the enemy is elusive. The surrounding mountains and valleys make it difficult to locate where the Taliban is hiding. I hear from someone one day that they know our location by watching the birds hovering over our camp looking for food scraps. Many times, they hide among the locals, making it impossible to shoot at them lest we kill innocent people.

******

One day, a shepherd comes to our base. We don’t understand what he is saying, but he’s pointing in a direction and seems to be asking us to follow him. I take a chance and gather a few soldiers from my platoon, and we follow him. He takes us to a place where a grenade has been set up for launching. We dismantle it in time. There are no Taliban members visible in the vicinity. Maybe they had plans to launch it remotely.

We are not always so lucky. One time, we follow two boys who are supposed to take us to a location of the Taliban hideout. It is too late for us to realize that it is a setup. The enemy starts shooting at us from as close as one hundred feet. We jump and hide behind the mud walls and retaliate. The scene is brutal and chaotic. Several of my soldiers get hit, some seriously. I radioed for help and asked for a Medevac helicopter.

They cannot come because of the active shooting in progress on the ground. I am not sure if that is the real reason or if their higher officers have ordered them not to go for fear of potential casualties that may affect their promotion.

When they do come half an hour later, it is too late for some of the soldiers. I hold my head in my hands. I am ready to cry. I think of the families of these brave men. I know some of them have wives and young children. I have heard them talk about how they are missing their children’s birthdays or school activities. If only we were more careful. But there was no way to know that we were being set up. I think of what will happen if I die. How will mom, dad, Krishna, and Lakshmi take it?

*****

Sometimes there is a lull in the fighting. On one such occasion, I plan a birthday party for Logan. I did not know the exact day, but I knew that it was that month. My platoon is relaxing, making time to take a shower and change into civilian clothes, and hoping the Taliban are quiet for a while, so they won’t have to jump back into a fight. I request Firash to get lamb kabobs for everyone and a cake from a local bakery. We watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on DVD. Everyone has a good time for a change. 

*****

One day, I am walking in the local bazaar with a few members of my platoon. It’s a busy place. The Afghans want American soldiers to spend dollars. They have set up stalls to sell local clothes, carpets, jewelry, and even American knick-knacks. Some vendors have their wares spread on the ground. Women in dark burkas, a long gown covering a person’s head to toe with only two openings for eyes, stare at us. I am not sure if a member of the Taliban is hiding under the Burka. Others are suspicious. I stop at one store and buy two scarves, one for Lily and one for Mom. I also buy an Afghan cap for dad. We leave after a couple of hours of patrol without any incident.

*******

The Provincial Reconstruction Team concept was introduced by the United States to help the Afghan Government rebuild roads, schools, and wells that were devastated by the war. Khost is considered to be a model for this experiment. The team is to be a coalition of military, diplomats, and contractors. But the continuing menace of the Taliban and the systemic corruption within the Afghan National Police mar these efforts. Afghan President Hamid Karzai believes that the local police will take care of the security, but the truth is that these very police are the ones who steal material and equipment, sometimes forcefully, from the building sites. The American military presence is required to enforce security.

It was a Monday afternoon when I received a radio message that my platoon was to report to the Abdul Habib High School to foil the Taliban’s effort to destroy the newly rebuilt school. The Taliban are against educating people. They hate the elites of society, the doctors, professors, and teachers. Naturally, they are against building a school.

There is little time for me to get everyone together. I instruct one squad to stay at the school to lock it down. Two teams of the Afghan National Army follow me to stage a roadblock half a mile away.

The area has a cluster of houses with mud walls and narrow roads, some lined with trees. We wait for an hour, and nothing happens. I think of taking a walk down the road to inspect and see if there is any activity. I hear a “pop” and narrowly escape a bullet passing by me. The Taliban have arrived. I rush back to join my group, taking position behind mud walls.

I give an order to fire warning shots. Very soon, we see a horde of Taliban members coming toward us with guns. Surprisingly, they are in their native garb with turbans, not military uniforms. The Afghan squads with me take one look at the enemy approaching us and, without warning, turn their vehicles back and run away. I ask Firash to shout in Pashtun to order them to come back. It is too late. They are gone, except for Waheed, one of the squad leaders. Waheed believes in the efforts of the Americans and wants to help. The others are more interested in staying alive than in saving a school. All of a sudden, I find myself shorthanded. I radio the squad stationed at the school to join me.

The Taliban are a strange but smart group. When we start firing at them, they disperse and vanish into surrounding buildings like cockroaches into crevices. We wait. An hour goes by. I am sure the Taliban are in hiding close by. I decide to divide our group into twos and threes to slowly walk up the streets while staying close to the houses to take shelter should we face an attack. Waheed knows the neighborhood, so he is way ahead of me. Logan and two other soldiers are on the other side.

Waheed walks towards a Taliban, aiming his gun at him. I hear a shot. The Taliban has run away, and Waheed is lunging to touch his ankle. He has been hit. He is on the ground. I wave my hand to instruct others to get behind the nearest house or a wall. More shots come towards us, luckily not hitting anyone. We are outnumbered. I send a radio message for airborne assistance. I am not sure when, if ever, they will come.

I cannot leave Waheed on the road. I ask Logan to go up the flat roof of the closest house and cover me. When there is a lull in the shooting, Firash and I crawl on the road towards Waheed. I need Firash to talk with Waheed in the native language.

As we get closer, I see Waheed’s left leg is soaked in blood. I apply a tourniquet above his knee, and we hold him by the armpits and drag him behind a house. I catch sight of a Taliban soldier coming towards us, about to raise his gun to fire at us. I am sure the three of us are about to die. I hear a shot fired, but it is not from the Taliban. It is from our platoon sergeant, Morley. He aimed at the Taliban and shot him in the chest. We make it safe to a place between two mud houses.

“How are you? Are you in pain?” Firash asks Waheed.

Waheed grimaces and points to his knee. 

“Does it hurt there?”

Waheed nods his head.

“Tell him he is going to be okay,” I say.

I radio for a medevac helicopter, but they cannot come immediately. I give water to Waheed. We wait.

I notice the planes from the airborne unit flying above. They radio back to me to say that they cannot act from above or drop bombs, because locals are living in the neighborhood where the Taliban have positioned themselves.

We have to be careful not to hit innocent people; they relay back.

An hour goes by. I am worried about Waheed. He is shaking all over. Firash covers him with a blanket.

“I borrowed it from a house across the street,” he says.

The medevac copter lands and carries Waheed to a medical center in Kabul.

I am back to review the action. I see Logan climbing down from the roof on a rickety ladder.

“Not much use going up there,” he says. “Trees block the view.”

We continue the battle. The same cat-and-mouse game continues.

I see an explosion and smoke thirty feet ahead of us. The Taliban have thrown a hand grenade. I vaguely see a few of them coming in and out of a hut-like structure. I order my men to cover me as I crawl forward. Bullets are coming towards me and from behind me. One of the bullets shot by a Taliban grazes my right shoulder and tears the sleeve of my uniform. I notice three Taliban soldiers approaching me. I aim and shoot at one of them. He falls to the ground, dead. The other two disappear into a hut.

I continue to proceed cautiously ahead, aiming at the Taliban forces. I hear a shot coming from somewhere. I hear a loud bang near my left eye and a sting on my left temple as if a giant bee just flew across my face. The impact of the bullet has broken the chin strap of my helmet. My left eye is getting blurry, but I ignore it and push ahead, waving my men to follow me. As I wipe my eye with my sleeve, I realize that the wet stuff on my uniform is blood.

“You are bleeding, sir.” I hear someone say.

It is Horace, my platoon Sergeant. The rest of my men have reached me.

“I’ll be okay,” I say.

“No, sir. Let’s get behind the next mud wall and let me take a look.”

Horace has been in combat before. When we find a mud enclosure, he takes a look at my face.

“You are damn lucky, sir. You were hit with a bullet. A few centimeters to the left, and it would have blown your brains to pieces.”

“Looks like someone was looking after me to be so lucky.”

“You can say that again.”

Horace wraps a temporary bandage over my left eye and forehead. This is the man I had reservations about because he was from the south and much older than me. He has turned out to be a professional Army man.

“When we are back at our compound, you should have it checked to make sure there is no lasting damage to your eyes or hearing,” Horace adds.

“I’ll do that, but first, let’s get back into the action. We have a mission to accomplish.”

We forge ahead. It is getting dark. Luckily, we have no more casualties on our side. I see we have managed to hit some of the Taliban soldiers. Finally, after eight hours, the enemy vanishes to wherever they came from. We wait for another hour to make sure before returning to our base.

The Army doesn’t waste any time.

“We are sending you to Kabul to have a thorough check-up.”

******

The doctor at the Army medical unit makes me undergo tests for vision and hearing.

“You were damn lucky, Lieutenant. If the bullet had hit you just a bit to your left, it would have blown your eyes and brains to smithereens.”

“So, I am told. I guess luck has a big role in the war.”

“The stitches will come off in a week. You may see a scar for a long time, but it will fade.”

“That’s a small price to pay.”

“Arjun, how are you?” asks Lily when I call her on the satellite phone from the hospital. I sense concern in her voice.

“I’m okay.”

“I saw the report on TV about the high school where you were. I was so worried. Were you involved?”

“Yes. My platoon had a battle with the Taliban.”

“Any injuries?”

“We had one person injured. Waheed, the Afghan squad leader, got hit on his leg. We managed to send him to a hospital facility in Kabul.”

I purposely don’t tell her about the hit I received, and that I am calling from a hospital. Why worry her more than necessary? She’s going to find out anyway from the scar on my face when we meet.

“How long did the fighting go on?”

“Eight hours more or less.”

“Eight hours. I can’t imagine what you must have gone through. You need to see a psychologist when you are back.”

“I’ll be okay. I thought of you all the time. What if I had died?”

“Well, you didn’t, and we should thank God for that.”

“I guess you’re right. I love you. Can’t wait for the day to see you when all this is over.”

“I love you, too. I’ll miss you every minute of the day until then. Keep calling when you can.”

“I will, I promise.”

I call mom and dad next. Dad has seen the report on TV. Apparently, the story didn’t mention my getting hit. They are glad to hear my voice and to know that I am safe.