The War In The Shadows
On Afghanistan's wild border, in search of a quicksilver enemy
"Kill and destroy." Despite the tea and pleasantries, the soldiers remain on high alert as they take their leave from Lakan. Task Force 1-501st suffered its first casualty since Vietnam after just such a scene two weeks earlier. Spc. Paul Riley was shot in the left hip in an attack that announced the start of the Taliban-al Qaeda's own spring offensive. The theater commander, who came to pin a Purple Heart on Riley, told the troops: "We've got a plan for them. That's about all I can say now." The operations officer of the 1-501st was less coy. "Our plan is to kill and destroy the al Qaeda and Taliban remnants," he said. Without tips from local Afghans, however, they stand little chance of finding them in this land of soaring mountains and high-walled mud compounds.
The Americans' search is complicated by the studied evasiveness of many Afghans. Capt. Brent Morrow understands why. Twenty-five years of war have bred a survival mentality and a culture of switching sides. "They fear retribution," he says, "from the Taliban and al Qaeda."
Next stop is a madrasah. Two hostile mullahs exchange words with Captain Morrow outside its gates. Shots from AK-47s echo off the mountain walls, and the soldiers set off to investigate. Two hot and rocky mountain ridges later, the soldiers discover the source: a wedding party's celebratory firing into the air. It's a time-honored Afghan custom, festive but also jitters-inducing.
The convoy rolls on, led by a humvee whose titanium armor is designed to deflect explosions caused by land mines and improvised explosive devices. At Harounkhel, a fortresslike village hewn from stone, Morrow and the platoon are welcomed by an English teacher, a man once imprisoned by the Taliban. An informant who passed along some useful information is given a satellite dish and a radio, a big deal in a country where communications are a challenge, to say the least. That night, the soldiers build "Ranger's graves" as the sun sets, piling stones 18 inches high to protect them from the cone-shaped spray of shrapnel, should grenades be lobbed into their wadi.
The platoon is roused at daybreak for the final jolting leg of the patrol. Its destination: the border town of Babrak Tana. The village's mud-front porches are packed with Pakistani goods and open-air beds rented to travelers. The soldiers copy the call registry of one resident's Thuraya satellite phone while the Pashtun tribesmen known as cuchi reel off a litany of complaints. The oldest man says: "For two years you Americans have come and written down a lot, but you never bring us anything." Morrow isn't taking any guff. "You say al Qaeda and Taliban are not here, but we know they come through here. We know there are cuchi who take money to hide them and their rockets and to fire the rockets from these mountains." Then he makes his pitch: "We understand you are afraid, but to make this area more secure you must take some risks. Tell us when they are here, and we will do our best to help you." He gives his phone number to an English-speaking teacher and leaves sacks of precious school supplies as a parting gift.
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