Sharana

I flew to Sharana a little apprehensively, not because I had any reservations about anything in particular, but the exhaustion of this place is setting in, the enemy activity is heating up, and in ten days, something is bound to happen that is worth a certain level of anxiety.

For the first 9 days, it was pretty mellow. I did some simple stories, met some fascinating people, and had chow and a shower every day (which is more than can be said for a lot of places around here.) Some of the guys built a porch swing in their smoke deck, and it became 'my spot' in the evenings, so much so that one of them drew a box and wrote "Press Only, Press Box" on it. Some of the simplest things here make my day...

The UAV platoon almost granted me a pass to Forget-Im-in-the-Army-land for an afternoon, but not quite. After completing my photos and interviews, a glistening haggi-motorcylce was beckoning to me. (ok, dingy and battered is more accurate, but to me, it looked positively captivating...) They said I could ride, and after refreshing my memory on gears and clutches and brakes (oh my), I puttered around the UAV tent smiling like a 2 year old on his first trike. I then made a fool of myself on Rock Band, or whatever that dumb game is. We drove back from the flight line and the burn pile, bits of leftovers from crashed planes, and tents reminded me that I am indeed still in Afghanistan. The raging dust storm that greeted me as I stepped out of the humvee provided ample confirmation.

I went on a day mission with the PRT to escort some Embassy and Washington DC 'VIPs' to the Governors compound. I was supposed to interview 'Grandma Guhl,' the Afghan Director of Women's Affairs, which I was thoroughly excited about. To my dismay, the VIPs were so rude, high-maintenance, and chaotic that my interview fell to the wayside, along with any shred of pride I had for the US in general that day. I was... embarrassed, to say the least. This small group of 'respected' officials showed up late, unprepared, forgot sensitive items... then proceeded to talk to the local nationals in the most condescending, patronizing tones. It made me sick. The lead speaker at one point said, over-emphasizing each syllable as though speaking to children, 'The enemy is using terror as a tactic. A tactic. Do you understand?' By this time, I was so aggravated, it took everything I had not to stand up and scream at her. Of course these people understand, they live it every day. THEY get blown up, and lose their children, and receive death threats and night letters... while SHE sat there in her designer jeans with a coach purse on the table (that could feed their whole family for a year) unashamedly. Fine, you want to spend your money on that stuff, great, but dont set it on the table while you mock the Elders of a war-torn country with your silly little questions. Argh! I could go on, and on, about several of the comments made, but I will spare you my rant. The last straw was on the way out, when they demanded we produce a female bathroom out of the Afghanistan dirt, and threw an adult 'VIP' version of a hissy fit upon discovering that their option was... 'behind that dirt pile over there.' No, actually, I lied... the very last straw... was when they boarded their bird out and never said Thank You to one single Soldier.. the same Soldiers that had escorted and protected them, and put up with their I-Am-God bullshit.

As we loaded up for my last Sharana mission for an overnighter that was supposed to be simple: check out some schools, a dam, talk to some sub-governors... the Soldier next to me informed me that he was bad luck. I smiled, and told the truck that I was amazing luck, so they had nothing to worry about.
Twenty minutes out, and we were standing beside a hunk of metal that used to be a civilian SUV, running a group of prisoners through our profile system. The Afghan Army had done a superb job at securing the site and policing up the suspects, and had them piled into the back of one of their vehicles. The men, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, glared at me as I took mug-shots of them, and their proud faces showed no sign of remorse.
We arrived in a village to meet with the assistant police chief, and the security (Illinois National Guard) element asked if I would like a PSD (personal security detachment) to walk me through the bazaar while the leaders met with the chief. Um, yes please, I'll take a bazaar and locals over a KLE any day.
We wandered slowly, looking at each of the shops and buying bread and cookies. An old shoe maker sat in the shade hammering tiny nails into the sole of a shiny shoe. Steam rose from the blacksmith's shop where they hammered red-hot iron, and scowled at us. Men on donkey-pulled carts passed, looking curiously at my big camera. And the children stared shyly, some of them flirting and giggling. We reached the end of the strip and made our way back to the convoy, and a few of the shops closed their doors and shut down business as we passed.... hm. Suspicious? I think so...
We loaded up and headed to a school to conduct an assessment. We were eating Afghan cookies and joking and laughing over the radios as we drove through the twisting alleyways between the qalats (mud-houses.)
Ping... ping...ping... is that... gunfire?!!
'SHOOT HIM, SHOOT HIS ASS...' our PL screams into the radio, and I look out the window and see... mayhem. Bullets are bouncing off of our MRAP, and the one behind us... the gunners are already unloading on little Afghan men running across the rooftops. I think 'Wow, a real ambush, we're getting shot,' as a puff of smoke comes through the crack 2 inches from where Im sitting, where a bullet just hit. So the firefight goes on, maybe for 2 minutes, but it felt like 10 or 15... The firing eventually stops, and in the pause, the PL tries to maneuver (flank) around the back of the qalats to get these guys as they flee. We round the corner, and spot a man with an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) crouched by the edge of a qalat. Thunk... (I actually like the noise it makes when it comes out of the tube, because then you know its coming....) it hits about 15 meters behind our truck... 'GODAMMIT, SHOOT THAT MOTh...' The .50cals etch holes in the sides of the qalat as the rounds chase him, and Ambush Part 2 ensues.
'Uh, we got a guy hit back here, Doc's working on him,' crackles over the radio. That was the point that it stopped being fun. Another truck radios in 'our gunner is knocked out, but I think he's ok.' The PL tells the convoy to get out, to get away from this maze where we are surrounded. We turn around, and shortly the gunfire stops.
As we are driving, Soldier's breathing heavily into the radio and buzzing off adrenaline, someone says 'hey, thats a body over there.' YAY!! We are pretty sure that we got a few of them, but seeing a body provides evidence of a job well done, so we go to check it out. Half-way there, the gunner says 'Oh, my god... thats a kid.' My heart sinks, time freezes, and Im a little nauseous.
I told people, before I ever came over here, that I am ok with war. That I think I can handle dead people and shooting, as long as its not a kid. But lord, please dont let it be a kid.
We pull up next to him, and I know better, but I look anyway. I stare. He's laying on his belly crumpled under a tree, his sandals by his head. He's about 6 or 7. I stare some more. I think of my son who is about to turn 6, and I think of the little boy's mother. And I am horrified more so than I can remember being.
*insert side-note here* Due to security/intelligence/regulations, I dont know what I can or can not share about the rest of this story. I will say that we did not shoot this little boy. I looked at him myself, the site, and the angle that the rounds went into the tree, and I can say with confidence, that we did not shoot him (honestly, in my UNofficial opinion, I think he fell out of the tree during the firefight.) Our leadership did hold a town meeting to answer questions and apologize for the circumstance. The rest of the day/evening was a mess that I wont get into, and upon returning the next morning (to conduct the Shura) we had a short ambush, yet again. I have many thoughts and opinions, none of which need to be shared here.

Overnight, we staged the MRAPs on the edge of a newly-built AfCop, nothing but a ring of concertina wire between us and the outskirts of an Afghan village. I climbed under the MRAP to smoke a cigarette, leaning against the tire, then curled up on a cot and fell asleep... the stars twinkling merrily, so contrasting to the war raging beneath them. I didnt hear any of the mortars or illumination rounds our guys shot off throughout the night, and woke up to the PL peering at me in the wee hours of the morning. 'Mornin sunshine...' The Islam call to prayer reminded me where I was, (and how ridiculously early it was) and I climbed back in the truck for another fun-filled day in paradise.

When we finally arrived back in Sharana, dirty and tired, the bad-luck Soldier looked very seriously at me and said 'One of us lied.'

**Our Soldier that got hit was shot in the forearm, and is doing fine, purple-heart and all.