My friend, Cpt.Hancock has been writing a diary of his time in Afghanistan.
“CPT Miller looked downcast. CPT Hancock knew that look. It was the same look of disillusionment he himself had when he was new in theatre and determined to change the world—only to discover that the world did not necessarily want to change. “Hey choose your battles carefully. This is not our country and you will need these guys to succeed.”
This is a real war, fought by real Americans. It should always be thought of everyday by everyone of us.
Classification: UNCLASSIFIED
PSY CO
Location: Kandahar Airfield (KAF), Afghanistan
Relative Time Zone: +11.5 Hrs 30 SEP2011
Capt.Hancock, Exclusive to the California Political News and Views, 10/30/11
(All BOLD) Disclaimer: This story is inspired by some actual events. In all cases incidents, characters and timelines have been changed for dramatic purposes. Many events and interpersonal exchanges are fictitious. Characters may be composites, or entirely fictitious. No classified information was used in the creation of the story, it is unclassified.
0300
“RRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhh ROCKET ATTACK, ROCKET ATTACK, ROCKET ATTACK”
“Down!” yelled Captain (CPT) Hancock
“Down!” yelled Chief Warrant Officer (CW)
<pregnant pause>
“Major (MAJ) Pick, get down Sir!” shouted CPT Hancock.
“He flew out on leave last night” Quipped Chief.
“Oh.”
<waiting for BOOM… waiting for BOOM… waiting for BOOM… still no BOOOM…>
“Everybody out! To the bunker! You know the drill!” exclaimed CPT Hancock
Lights flashed on all over the building as soldier after soldier grabbed a pair of boots and a weapon. Moments later they broke out into the cool night air and made a beeline for the nearest bunker. A stream of soldiers from the female barracks joined up with the men as they crowded into the small bunker near their housing unit.
Some soldiers lit cigarettes, and struck up small talk, others primed their weapons, still others tried to get accountability. Everyone was exhausted from a long night with little sleep. Many of the more experienced soldiers had remembered to bring their earplugs. Some of the blasts were loud enough to damage one’s hearing.
The PSYOP soldiers stood on edge, adrenalin pumping for the next 30 minutes waiting for the rocket impacts which never fell.
“ALL CLEAR ALL CLEAR ALL CLEAR” came the characteristic British female voice on the loudspeaker.
“Crap another false alarm” intoned Corporal (CPL) Rightbank.
“Shit, the Taliban are bad enough this is the third false in 24 hours” replied CPL Doordy
“Yeah man.”
“I mean we get no sleep as it is… Are they trying to drive us fuckin crazy?”
“Too late” retorted CPL Rightbank. Both men laughed.
CPT Hancock sighed. The soldiers had a point, but as even as Force Protection Officer his hands were tied. The policy was the policy and safety came first. He checked his watch, the led read 0400. He knew he would not be able to get back to sleep. He knew what that meant and he dreaded it, but there was nothing for it.
CPT Hancock stood with his towel in front of the open shower stall. The bathroom was empty, save for himself. He had turned on every light available, but he still winced as he pulled the curtain aside. He turned the water dial, stepped inside, and pulled the curtain shut and then it happened.
Unbidden the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s horror classic “Psycho” popped into his mind. He saw the attractive female actress pull the shower curtain shut, as a man snuck into her hotel room. The young man had multiple personalities, and had become obsessed with his dead grandmother who used to run the hotel. He was wearing her dress, her wig, and carrying her butcher’s knife…
As the knife slashed down again and again on the female actress through the shower curtain CPT Hancock opened his eyes to look around. Soap poured in, stinging his eyes. “Crap” he exclaimed, pulling the shower curtain aside to look for any intruders. As always, he saw none, but cut the shower short nonetheless.
***************************************************
0300
“RRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhh ROCKET ATTACK, ROCKET ATTACK, ROCKET ATTACK”
<snore…>
<yawn> The PSYOPS Commander (CDR) in the NATO barracks opened one eye. Crap another rocket attack. He contemplated grabbing his boots and a weapon and heading to the nearest bunker. He lazily turned his head to see what his roommate was doing. His roommate, another Major, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Bleary eyed, the CDR stumbled into the hall to use the latrine. Apparently the other senior officers, awakened by the siren, had the same idea. He waited in line to use the urinal, and watched the other leaders file back into their rooms and go back to sleep. His business complete, he went back to bed himself.
***************************************************
CPT Hancock walked into the Commander’s office. His heart was racing, the soldiers called this place “the bad room” and there was a reason for it. Wedged in between three monitors and stacks of paperwork sat the boss. He looked surprisingly refreshed for the evening that they had just had.
“CPT Hancock reporting as ordered Sir”
The CDR motioned for the CPT to take a seat while he clicked the mouse a few more times. CPT Hancock took a seat while the Commander continued his “work” on Facebook. Several minutes passed.
“MAJ Pick”, the CDR began “has gone on leave.”
“Yes Sir” CPT Hancock replied.
“So I need you to take over his duties while he is gone.”
“Understood Sir.” CPT Hancock typically worked a 16 hour day with no breaks completing his responsibilities, and MAJ Pick put in almost as many hours on his duties. “If I may ask Sir, Who will take my responsibilities while I fill in for MAJ Pick?”
The CDR fixed CPT Hancock with a cold stare as his face began to flush. “No one, CPT Hancock, you need to do MAJ Pick’s job in addition to your own.”
“But Sir, there are only 24 hours in a day I don’t see how—“
“SHUT UP Captain! That is not my problem! I need you to execute!” snarled the CDR.
An uneasy silence filled the room. Finally CPT Hancock spoke “Sir who is designated to train me how to—“
The CDR silenced the Captain with another look, as his fury began to mount. He did not like soldiers who pointed out important details that threatened his delusions. He felt that as the Commander, whatever he said was so, even if the laws of the universe had to re-work themselves to accommodate his ego. “No one will train you CPT Hancock. We are in the run phase, not the crawl or walk phase at this point. You need to step into MAJ Pick’s job right now and do it at least as well as he did. In fact better. There are several major projects pending that have a zero tolerance for failure. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes Sir” replied CPT Hancock.
“The Product Development Detachment (PDD) is broken. MAJ Pick does not threaten his soldiers on a daily basis, nor take their rank and pay enough to keep them in line. I need you to go over there and clean house. MAJ Pick misses every suspense he is given, and he produces sub-par product. He also has never established a printed battle rhythm that is in Microsoft Outlook, nor set up the focus groups I ordered months ago. I need you to fix all of that, plus handle all of the PDD high priority projects, plus handle all your regular responsibilities, plus be available to support all of my personal projects. You are going to need to work harder. Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir”
“Good. And remember on every tasking the standard is perfect. Everything you do will be error free and suitable for presentation to the Commanding General. I expect the same perfection from every soldier in the PDD—“
“But Sir” CPT Hancock replied flustered, “I am not a perfect person how am I going to—“
“SHUT-UP! SHUT-UP! SHUT-UP!” came the Commander’s explosive reply. “There is a MAJOR talking to you CAPTAIN. You are in receive mode only. Do you understand CAPTAIN?”
“Yes Sir”
The CDR glared at CPT Hancock. “As I said, the standard is PERFECT, and absolutely nothing else will suffice. You WILL meet the standard. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes Sir”
“Good” continued the CDR “Now get out of my office I have important work to do.”
CPT Hancock strode out of the room as the CDR grabbed the remote to turn on the football game.
***************************************************
CPT Hancock extended his hand to CPT Miller [alias for his protection]. The retired Army Ranger turned PSYOP officer grasped his hand firmly in response. CPT Miller was part of a PSYOP detachment heading to Regional Command SouthWest [RC(SW)] near Helmand Province. The would be supporting the Marine Corps in an area that was just as dangerous as Kandahar.
“How was your flight?” inquired CPT Hancock.
“Good, good” replied CPT Miller. “Ever flown in an Osprey before?”
“No never. Heard that they are not the safest plane since they require both engines to fly.”
CPT Miller flashed a smile. “They have their moments, but it seems safe enough.”
“So how does that transition from vertical to horizontal work exactly?”
“It’s pretty cool” CPT Miller replied jovially, “You take off like a helicopter, and once you hit about 200 feet the propellers slide forward. You are in freefall for a couple of seconds before the props kick in and then you shoot forward like a roller coaster. Fun ride!”
“Yeah” replied CPT Hancock sarcastically.
“Anyway, thank you for agreeing to train me and my boys.”
“No Problem” CPT Hancock replied “I know you have no PSYOP Company (CO) to fall in on out there for replacement training. Many of the problems we have here in RC(S) are similar to those that you will experience in RC(SW).”
“Indeed” CPT Miller retorted, “so what do you have to show me out here at the parade ground?”
Now it was CPT Hancock’s turn to smile. “Things are a little different here than they were in Iraq. We are also at a point in the war where we do not hand out PSYOP product directly anymore.”
“We don’t?” CPT Miller sounded incredulous. “Who puts out our products then?”
CPT Hancock’s smile broadened. He pointed his finger out on to the parade ground where a group of Afghan National Security Forces (ANSF) had assembled to drill. “They do.”
“Do they actually put out the product? I mean and make reports and everything?”
“Not exactly” came CPT Hancock’s measured response, “but how much they will do for you depends largely on how well you get to know them—and what you do for them. I suggest you take this opportunity to meet some of them.”
All around them the ANSF soldiers from the 205th Kandak lined up for march and review in their smart new uniforms paid for by U.S. taxpayers. CPT Hancock directed CPT Miller’s gaze to the motor pool off to their left which was lined with row after row of brand new pickup trucks with light bars on top. “We paid for those too.”
“Impressive.” CPT Miller walked up closer to the ANSF soldiers who were performing order arms to get a better look. The group was all male, but he spied several young soldiers wearing heavy makeup and sporting earrings. Intrigued he pointed them out to CPT Hancock. “What’s with those guys?”
CPT Hancock tactfully tried to change the subject.
Undeterred, CPT Miller droned on “I mean they look like girls—and they are out of uniform. Is that allowed? Who are they?”
CPT Hancock inhaled slowly. “They are chai boys.”
CPT Miller looked puzzled. “Chai Boys?”
CPT Hancock stopped and turned to CPT Miller. He had not wanted to go there, but CPT Miller apparently would not be put off. “Afghan Kandaks are stationed far from home and their wives. To deal with this they dress handsome young Afghan men as women and the unit ritually rapes them while they are out in the field. They also use them to search female suspects which is more culturally acceptable here than to use the more macho looking male types.”
CPT Miller was momentarily speechless. “You mean they use them as Gay fuck buddies and the military actually encourages this?! That’s crazy!”
“Yeah” replied CPT Hancock, “but that’s the way it is.”
“Isn’t that a human rights violation?! Why doesn’t anyone do anything about that?!” CPT Miller was turning red in the face.
“What is a human rights violation in many parts of the world, is simply a right of passage here in Afghanistan. It is culturally accepted, indeed it is expected, so no one will do anything. It does not matter what outsiders say, this is Afghanistan, and it is the way things have been and will be for the foreseeable future.”
CPT Miller looked downcast. CPT Hancock knew that look. It was the same look of disillusionment he himself had when he was new in theatre and determined to change the world—only to discover that the world did not necessarily want to change. “Hey choose your battles carefully. This is not our country and you will need these guys to succeed.”
CPT Miller nodded.
CPT Hancock sighed. “I once asked some of the soldiers why they rape boys instead of girls. The Afghan soldiers looked at me like I was stupid. I thought it must have something to do with unwanted pregnancy. Finally one of the soldiers spoke for the group and said that since Afghan women wear the hijab, you cannot tell which of them is good looking. That’s why they have sex with the boys instead.”
CPT Miller stifled a laugh in spite of himself. He had only been on the ground a few days and was already becoming as crazy as the rest of the unit.
*************************************************
“Dreeeee Dreeeee Dreeeee” said Dharman as he gently herded his sheep along the trail. The desert region of Kandahar was dusty and rocky, full of uneven ground. Good paths were few and far between—almost as rare as water. Dharman’s family had worked these parts for generations and were intimately familiar with the land. Only the nomadic kucchi attempted to eek a living out of this inhospitable region with which his family had established a working relationship.
As he rounded the bend, heading for the only source of water in the area, he spied a small tent with several armed men. As Dharman made to pass, the rough looking men stepped onto the path and motioned him to halt.
Dharman stopped as directed and proceeded to greet them men, which he had planned to do as he passed. “Mornings greetings, and blessing of Allah, peace”
“Greeting in Allah’s name” replied the men. “We are doing his work here, and you should turn back.”
“But I must herd my sheep. I cannot turn back”
“Herd them somewhere else” the men replied angrily. “You do not want to go down that path, you should turn back.”
“But I must go down that path” Dharman continued. “That path leads to the Wadi. My sheep are thirsty and there is no other water for many miles.”
“We have planted mines at the Wadi”, the armed men stated matter-of-factly. “You do not want to go there. You have been warned”
Dharmen edged his sheep around the armed men as carefully as possible. He thought to himself that there must be something happening up ahead that the bandits did not want him to see. After all, even the Taliban were not stupid enough to booby-trap their own water supply.
A few miles later he approached the Wadi with his sheep intact. As was the custom, his animals walked into the shallow water and began to drink. A moment later there was a tremendous *POP* sound followed by an unusual sucking noise. As the shepherd stared at his flock he watched sheep after sheep, seemingly at random, explode into white tufts of fur like so many kernels of popcorn.
The shepherd cried out in dismay and quickly backed his sheep away from the Wadi. He trudged back to confront the armed men with his remaining sheep in tow. He found the Taliban cooking over a fire in front of their tent. Fearlessly he marched up to their leader. “There are mines at the Wadi! You blew up my sheep!”
The leader glanced up with disinterest. “Yes we planted mines at the Wadi, we told you not to go.”
The shepherd turned red as he spoke “The Americans do not drink from the Wadi! No one comes out here except you guys, me, and the sheep! Why would you plant mines at this Wadi you Dumb Ass! Are you fucking crazy!” The shepherd was livid as he continued to castigate the Taliban.
Unable to refute the shepherd’s words, and increasingly angry, the Taliban proceeded to beat the man severely, finally driving him off.
***************************************************
The Afghan Border Patrol (ABP) officer approached the vehicle as it pulled into the checkpoint. The Spin Buldock crossing from Pakistan to Afghanistan was busy, and lucrative. It was customary to accept a small bribe in goods or cash from each vehicle. The Officer approached the beat up sedan with a cigarette in one hand, and his ak-47 in the other.
The occupants of the vehicle came into view—a lone male driving 4 women. Great, he thought to himself, they would have very little to offer him. Waste of his time. He stopped the vehicle casually and motioned for the driver to roll down his window. The driver complied and they struck up a conversation in Pastu. No bribe was offered, so the officer had the driver step out of the car for a personal search. That would teach him.
While the male driver was being searched, the officer noticed one of the females in the car was exceptionally well endowed. He tried to strike up a conversation playing the role of the “machismo” tough cop. He tried many of his best lines, but got nowhere with the ladies. This had never happened to him before. Perhaps they did not understand. He ordered the group to get out of the car.
As he did so, one of the “women” whipped a machine gun out which had been hidden under “her” burka and leveled it at the officer. The gun went off and the young officer slumped to the ground. The insurgents who had painted their faces and dressed as women in order to avoid being searched burst forth from the vehicle, drew weapons from their braziers, and proceeded to level the checkpoint. The Afghan police officers eventually subdued the attackers, but not before six of their number were killed and over a dozen civilians were wounded.
***************************************************
Captain Hancock scanned the items on the wall as he sat waiting. One could tell a lot about another person from the artifacts that they possess. Large portrait of Mount Reiner with the top shrouded in the clouds, Yosemite Valley in another, the hot springs of Yellow Stone Park—this man was an Ansel Adams fan. He eyes glanced across a large crucifix, and what appeared to be a hastily arranged collage on colored paper that had been created with too much glue. The man must have children.
A few minutes later the Chaplain walked into the room. “Captain… Uh Hancock is it?”
“Yes Sir”
“We don’t get too many officers in here” the Chaplain mused “Thank you for visiting”
“Your welcome Sir” CPT Hancock replied softly.
“What unit are you from Captain?”
“The 307th PSYOP CO Sir” CPT Hancock looked as tired as he felt.
“307th PSYOP… 307th PSYOP” the Chaplain fingered his lower lip and mumbled aloud “Why is that familiar to me… Well in any case, shall we pray?”
“Yes Sir.”
The Chaplain closed his eyes and raised his hands “Lord we thank you for your grace and unending love. We thank you for the bounty you place before us each and every day. We thank you for this time and place, and the opportunity to make a difference for your people. Our cup veritably overflows with your blessing and we thank you. Lord we know that despite these great blessings we also experience trials. All trials are part of your divine plan, and we know that as you are a loving God you have a loving plan. Yet we are small compared to you and we cannot always see the ultimate results of your plan, but we know that you use us to your purpose. Lord today I ask for your special blessing upon CPT Hancock and his soldiers who are deployed here in harm’s way. Lift them up, strengthen then, and shelter them from harm. In Christ’s blessed name we pray these things—amen.”
CPT Hancock continued praying a minute longer before breaking his reverie.
The Chaplain waited patiently until he finished. “So Captain… What bring you in today?”
CPT Hancock looked up. He had not slept in several days and lines marked his face. He looked at least ten years older than when he had arrived in Afghanistan. With an uncharacteristic, shaky, voice he began “Father… Father I’ve come to see you because… well… I think I am beginning to lose my mind.”
